Page 4 of Forged Flight

I don’t need to inspect the nest to understand what happened. It was the runt—the weakest of the brood, given little chance of survival. When its stronger siblings hatched and took to the sky, it was left behind to fend for itself, helpless and alone.

While nature can be beautiful, it can also be merciless.

The hatchling presses its cold snout against my wrist, trembling so hard it teeth chatter.

“Oh, little one…”

I unfasten my cloak and carefully wrap the hatchling inside the thick wool. It lets out a helpless squeak before instinctively burrowing against my chest, searching for warmth.

“There now.”

Its trembling gradually subsides.

I cradle the tiny dragon close, shielding it from the wind. The dragon gives a sleepy little huff, curling deeper into the folds of my cloak.

No creature deserves to be neglected for something it couldn’t control.

With the hatchling nestled safely against my heart, I turn away from the forest and continue the climb toward my cottage

Chapter Two: Lucan

The veterinarian across the street won’t stop staring at me.

It’s weird.

He’s weird.

Every now and then, I’ll catch him peeking through the windows, a coffee mug raised to his lips as if pretending to drink. He’s about as subtle as a unicorn in a barn of horses.

I don’t understand why he doesn’t just introduce himself. It’s not like I’m scary.

Okay, in all fairness, I am a seven-foot-three half-giant with a permanent resting bitch face.

But regardless, staring is rude.

He makes it difficult to focus on my work. Every time I swing a hammer or drive a glowing blade against the anvil, I can feel his gaze from across the street, like he’s breathing down my neck.

As if summoned by my thoughts, movement catches my eye.

I glance across the street to see the veterinarian.

He’s standing in the front window of his clinic with a clipboard clutched to his chest, but he’s not reading anything on it. He’s just… staring. Again.

I stop hammering and meet his gaze.

His eyes widen in panic before he jerks backward, nearly dropping his mug. A heartbeat later, he reaches for the cord beside the window. The blinds snap shut like a guillotine.

With a sigh, I shake my head and turn back to the anvil. I’ve got better things to worry about than that strange veterinarian.

The sword glows a brilliant orange beneath the forge’s heat. I grip it with my tongs, set it on the anvil, and begin shaping the tip with measured strikes. Sparks dance around my boots as each blow coaxes the metal into place.

Knock, knock, knock.

I nearly drive the hammer into my thumb.

Setting the half-finished sword aside, I peel off my heavy leather gloves and wipe my hands on my apron. The forge crackles behind me as I weave between workbenches toward the front door.

I pull it open to find the veterinarian standing on my doorstep.