Page 27 of Forged Flight

Judging by the way his eyes drop briefly to my mouth, I’m fairly certain he’s battling the same temptation.

A piercing, impatient bleat echoes from the backyard enclosure.

We both jump.

Micah blinks, letting out a sheepish, awkward laugh as he drags a hand through his black curls.

“Maple.” He gives a small shake of his head. “She wants dinner.”

Another demanding screech rattles through the window.

I chuckle, grateful for the distraction even as a part of me mourns the lost moment.

“I suppose I should leave you to your patient.”

Micah nods, though the flush still tints his cheeks.

“Thank you for the tea,” I say, placing my empty cup on the table.

“My pleasure.”

I hesitate at the threshold, glancing back at him one last time. “I’ll get started on the next set of prosthetics tomorrow. I think replacing the steel frame with aluminum will make it much lighter for her.”

Micah’s face brightens with that genuine, blinding smile. “Thank you, Lucan. Truly.”

I offer a small, respectful nod. “Good night, Doc.”

“Good night.”

I step out into the cool evening air, hearing the quiet click of the latch behind me.

The walk home is quiet and peaceful, the village settling in for the night. The shops of Thistle Grove have long since closed, and the twin moons cast silver pools of light across the cobblestone streets, guiding my way home.

The autumn air is chilly, but my forearm still feels warm, the ghost of Micah’s touch lingering against my skin.

I agreed to help a dragon learn to fly, but somehow, I’m the one who feels like I’m soaring.

Chapter Seven: Micah

Losing a patient never gets easier.

Even when the logical part of my brain tells me I did everything I could—that I tried my hardest, that I gave them the best care I possibly could—there’s still a voice in the back of my mind whispering that I could’ve done more. That their death is entirely my fault. That I simply wasn’t smart enough, wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t good enough.

When a fae stumbled into my clinic with blood covering her clothes, cradling a fire ferret that had been attacked by some kind of wild animal, Elowen and I immediately rushed it into the surgery room. It was in critical condition, and we needed to act fast.

One of its legs had been almost completely severed, while claw marks and deep teeth wounds tore through its fur, exposing the flesh beneath. Blood soaked through our gauze faster than we could replace it. I could feel its breathing growing weaker beneath my hands as Elowen and I desperately worked to control the bleeding.

But it wasn’t enough.

Its body went still.

And despite everything we’d done, I felt it take its final breath beneath my blood-soaked, gloved hands.

Even now, sitting at the bar in the tavern trying to numb my sadness with mead, I can still hear its pained cries echoing in my skull.

“You want another, Doc?” asks the bartender, Clarette.

She’s a fellow human—one of the few who live in Thistle Grove. She’s seen me at my lowest over the years, but she never judges me. Instead, she simply looks at me with quiet understanding, a soft expression in her blue eyes. The low tavern light catches her pale skin, casting it in warm orange shadows.