Page 49 of Forged Flight

“She’s like a puppy,” Micah says.

Maple sneezes.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Hopefully I can train her like one. Keeping a dragon hidden in a second-story flat sounds like a challenge.”

As if to prove my point, Maple suddenly flaps her prosthetics and leaps into the air.

Her small body rockets toward the rafters, her wings beating frantically until she collides with the iron lantern dangling from the ceiling.

Clang.

The lamp swings violently, the metal chain rattling against the wood.

“Maple!”

She pauses midair, her head snapping toward me with an innocent blink.

I point a stern finger at her. “Don’t break anything. And don’t set anything on fire.”

Micah leans back against the wall, his smile softening. “I think she’s already decided she likes it here.”

I mutter a quiet protest as Maple glides back down to the floorboards.

She hits the ground with a clumsy tumble, but picks herself up with a determined shake. Within seconds, her snout is back to the floor as she resumes her exploration of the kitchen.

I step across the living room and snatch a few pages of yesterday’s news from the coffee table, spreading them across the corner furthest from the rug.

Maple stops her wandering to watch me curiously.

I crouch beside the paper and tap it twice. “This is where you go potty. Do you understand?”

The dragon tilts her head to the left.

“Here,” I repeat, pointing at the newspaper again. “Not my rug. Not my bed.”

She tilts her head to the right.

I let out a heavy sigh and reach out to scratch the scales between her horns. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Behind me, Micah lets out a low, warm laugh.

I glance back, but he’s not looking at me. He’s standing by the front window, his gaze fixed on the darkening street below.

Through the glass, the preparations for tomorrow’s ball are unfolding. The seamstress down the street has a line stretching out the door, women clutching extravagant gowns in need of last-minute alterations.

Above the rooftops, the moons are faintly visible through the clouds, their pale surfaces tinted a soft shade of amber. Tomorrow, they’ll be a vibrant orange.

I rise and walk toward Micah, my steps heavy on the floorboards. “Are you alright?”

He remains silent for a beat, his breath fogging the windowpane.

I place a hand on his shoulder, the contact grounded and firm.

He finally turns to me, a faint, melancholic smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’m fine.”

I study his face, recognizing the longing lingering in his eyes.

He isn’t fine.