Page 16 of Forged Flight

Then again, I’d been dragging home injured creatures for as long as either of us could remember. Baby griffins that had fallen from their nests. A frost fox with a broken leg. A lionbear cub that refused to leave my bedroom for nearly three weeks.

“That’s great, son.”

“What about you?” I ask, scratching the back of my neck. “How’s the weather in…?”

I trail off, already forgetting where he’s staying this time. My father is a traveling merchant, always moving from one place to another with a horse and carriage full of treasures.

He chuckles softly. “I’m in Langford right now.”

“Right.”

“It’s warm and sunny. The beaches are beautiful.”

I hum. “Sounds nice. It’s starting to get cold here.”

“Yes, autumn has arrived. So…” His voice takes on a suspiciously casual tone. “The Pumpkin Moons Festival is only a few weeks away.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, already knowing exactly where this conversation is headed.

“It is,” I say simply.

Dad clears his throat. “Are you planning on going to the ball?”

A weary sigh escapes me. “No, Dad. I don’t have a date.”

“But—“

“Don’t.” I laugh despite myself. “I don’t want to hear about your friend’s eligible son or your barber’s charming nephew. You don’t need to play matchmaker.”

A sheepish chuckle rumbles through the enchanted tablet. “I was only going to make a suggestion.”

“I know.” I smile, shaking my head even though he can’t see me. “But you know how busy I am with work. It’s… hard for me to date.”

“Alright, Micah.”

After we say our goodbyes, the crystal in the enchanted tablet dims until my father’s voice fades into silence. I slip it into my coat pocket and glance toward the kennel.

Maple has already finished her dinner and is sprawled across the floor, one stubby wing twitching in her sleep as though she’s soaring through the clouds. A thin ribbon of smoke curls from her nostrils with every slow, contented breath.

I can’t help smiling.

“Good night, Maple.”

She lets out a tiny chirrup in her sleep.

After making one last round through the clinic, I check every kennel latch, refill a few water bowls, and make sure each of my overnight patients is settled. I extinguish the lanterns one by one until the rooms fall into darkness, lit only by silvery moonlight spilling through the front windows.

I flip the sign in the window from OPEN to CLOSED and lock the front door behind me.

The crisp evening air greets me as I step outside.

Thistle Grove has already begun settling in for the night. Warm amber light glows behind cottage windows, laughter drifts from the tavern farther down the street, and somewhere nearby a fiddler plays a lively tune that echoes between the timber-framed buildings.

I tuck my hands into my coat pockets and begin the familiar walk home.

The streets grow quieter the farther I get from the town square. My boots crunch over fallen crimson and gold leaves scattered across the path, the scent of pine and chimney smoke lingering on the cool breeze.

My head tilts toward the sky.