Page 8 of Forged Flight

“Oh, yes.” He reaches into his pocket and extracts a handful of brown kibble.

Maple immediately perks up, happily distracted by the treats.

Taking the tape, I gently lift one malformed wing, careful to support its weight as I measure the distance between each joint. She doesn’t resist, far more interested in the food than anything I’m doing.

I measure the length of each bone, the width of the shoulder joint, the span of the remaining membrane. Every so often, I pause to scratch beneath her chin or behind one tiny horn, earning another happy thump of her tail before returning to my work.

When I finish and clip my tape back on my belt, I catch Micah watching me instead of the dragon eating food from his palm.

“What?”

He startles, as though he’d been caught staring again. “Oh. Sorry.” He clears his throat. “It’s just… you’re gentler than I expected.”

I glance down at Maple. She’s polished off the last of her meal and is already circling her blankets, searching for the perfect spot to nap.

“So I’ve been told.” I give her one last scratch beneath her chin before standing. “I’m not as scary as I look.”

Micah smiles softly. “No, you’re not.” He reaches down to rub Maple’s cheek, and her tail immediately resumes wagging. “You’re a lot like Maple.”

Something soft flutters to life in my chest.

I clear my throat, choosing to ignore the unfamiliar feeling as I climb out of the enclosure. Micah follows, securing the latch behind us with a metallic click.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. We simply stand there listening to Maple’s soft, contented rumbles as she burrows deeper into her nest of blankets.

“Well,” I say, scratching the back of my neck. “I’ll start sketching some designs tonight.”

Micah’s eyes brighten. “Really?”

“I make no promises.” I slip my hands into the pockets of my leather apron. “This is going to take a fair amount of trial and error.”

“I understand.”

“I’ll bring you the first prototype once I have something worth testing.”

A smile spreads across his face—warm and genuine enough that it catches me off guard. “Thank you, Lucan.”

I dip my head in a small nod. “Happy to help.”

Micah walks me back through the clinic and holds the front door open for me.

Outside, the late afternoon sun bathes the cobblestone street in warm amber light. My blacksmith shop stands directly across from us, a thin ribbon of smoke still curling from the chimney.

I pause on the front step. “I’ll see you soon.”

His smile lingers. “I’ll be here.”

As I turn and cross the street toward my blacksmith shop, I can feel him watching me again.

But this time, I don’t mind.

The wing design is a tangle of harsh lines, a mechanical monstrosity drawn together after a sleepless night with my sketchbook balanced on my knees. Graphite dust and curled shavings litter the page, smeared beneath the prints of my own fingertips. It’s rough and messy—but it’s my vision.

A steel framework that mirrors her skeletal structure. Thin leather stretched between each spar, light enough not to weigh the wings down. Straps fitted with metal clips hang from either side, designed to loop securely around the little dragon’s shoulders.

It isn’t my finest work, but it might be the most meaningful thing I’ve ever designed. Forging swords and weapons meant for violence doesn’t compare to giving a helpless little creature the chance to fly.

I can’t explain it, but that baby dragon has wiggled her way into my heart like a parasite. This is the first project I’ve taken on in years without expecting payment, the first I’ve done simply because I wanted to.