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“That’s the idea. And I’ve moved the stand up for you, so you shouldn’t have to crouch over the microphone.”

I appreciated that more than she probably realized. At work, a poorly positioned tool could ruin your whole day. I wasn’t about to argue with the woman who knew the equipment.

She handed me several pages. The top sheet introduced Drake Cinderhide as a cursed dragon-shifter bound to a petrified tree. Underneath were paragraphs covered in pencil marks, some words circled, others separated by little diagonal strokes.

“Is all that for me?” I asked.

“The marks are suggestions for phrasing and pauses. Don’t worry about following every one. We’ll start with a short, straightforward exchange to see how your voice records, then try something with more emotion. Bridget’s reviewer will join us remotely for the trial.”

She woke the laptop and positioned it where I could see the camera. So this wasn’t a private humiliation after all. “There’s an audience, then?”

“A very small professional audience,” Peyton assured me. “And we all want you to succeed.”

She said it plainly, without the teasing I’d expected. I found myself hoping I wouldn’t disappoint her.

Peyton settled at the computer, put on her headphones, and checked the microphone level while I stood where she directed me. She raised the pop filter slightly and showed me how to keep my head at a consistent distance without planting myself like a fence post. When I shifted my weight, she explained that the mic would pick up the rustle of my shirt if I moved too much.

“I’m used to talking over running equipment,” I told her. “This feels like the opposite problem.”

“Exactly. The mic can hear you even when you’re quiet. You don’t have to force it. And don’t try to make your voice sound rougher or deeper. That’s one of the reasons we liked you in the first place.”

Her eyes met mine as she said it. I thought about the eleven seconds she’d taken beside the logging road, then decided I didn’t need to make her apologize a third time.

On the laptop, a woman from Folio introduced herself as the audition reviewer and explained that she’d be listening to a short test and giving feedback before deciding whether my performance was suitable. Oliver joined long enough to confirm the trial authorization had been received. They sounded sensible, which helped; I was already standing in a borrowed bedroom about to impersonate a fictional dragon, and I didn’t need anybody adding unnecessary ceremony.

Peyton clicked on the test recording and gave me a nod.

I read the first paragraph with the care of a man defusing something. Every word came out clear, and every sentence sounded as though I’d been asked to announce the rules at a lumberjack competition.

When I finished, Peyton stopped the take. She didn’t laugh, which was decent of her, because I wanted to.

“Your articulation is excellent,” she said. “But Drake isn’t addressing a crowd. He’s talking to Isadora, who knows him well enough to tell when he’s being difficult. Try thinking about what he wants from her rather than making every word sound important.”

“What does he want from her?”

She consulted the page. “At this point? For her to stop trying to fix his curse without his help. He doesn’t like being treated as a helpless tree.”

“I can understand that. Although if somebody had turned me into lumber, I might be grateful for the assistance.”

Peyton smiled and pointed me back to the marked paragraph. This time I let the sentences fall the way I’d say them to somebody standing in front of me. She recorded a second version, asked me to leave a little more space after a question, and had me try a different line to see whether I could manage a change in mood.

The work was harder than it looked. I had to keep track of the page, breathe without blowing air into the mic, and put feeling into words I’d never say in my life. But Peyton knew exactly when to stop me and when to let me finish. If I got something wrong, she explained the problem in language I understood. She didn’t try to impress me with a lot of technical terms, and she didn’t act as though I was slow because I’d never done it before.

After the third short passage, Peyton offered me her headphones. Once I’d put them on, she played part of the take. I recognized my voice but not quite the way I used it. It sounded closer, warmer, as if I were speaking to one person instead of addressing a group of men across a clearing.

“That’s a little unsettling,” I admitted.

I handed the headphones back.

“Most people feel that way hearing themselves back,” she said. “You’ll get used to it.”

After listening to the takes, the reviewer unmuted her microphone. She told me the natural delivery was strong, and the pacing issues were the kind Peyton could help me correct. Folio was satisfied I could handle the assigned work, provided I remained available for coaching and pickups. She sounded more relieved than surprised; with a Sunday deadline, I doubted anybody wanted to start interviewing new dragons that evening.

Oliver came back on the call and walked through the final single-book agreement. I checked that the pseudonym and separate written publicity approval were still in place, along with the fee, rights, deadline, and defined recording duties. There was no requirement to pose for photographs, attend an event, or put my name on advertising. I chose to use a pseudonym for the finished credits, with the precise credit to be settled through the agreed paperwork. When everything matched what we’d discussed, I signed electronically. Oliver confirmed the agreement was active, and Peyton saved the audition material separately so it wouldn’t be confused with the takes we could now record for the book.

“Congratulations,” she said after the call ended. “You’re officially Drake Cinderhide. Professionally speaking.”

“Does this come with wings, or do I need to provide my own?”