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Chapter One: Micah

If this griffin fledgling bites me one more time, I’m going to stab it with a sedative.

The little menace won’t stop squirming. Its wings beat frantically, sending a flurry of downy feathers swirling through the exam room. Sharp talons scrape against my chest as I hold it still long enough to inspect one of its front feet.

Just as I suspected, the culprit is a fyreberry thorn buried deep in the soft pad beneath its talon.

I reach for the forceps on the stainless‑steel counter and grip the thorn between the metal tips. The fledgling lets out a warning chirp, wriggling even harder.

“I know,” I murmur. “This part’s going to suck.”

With one quick tug, I pull the thorn free. The barb comes out slick with blood, its brown tip stained crimson.

The griffin shrieks. The sound is so piercing it rattles around inside my skull. After six years working at the Thistle Grove Veterinary Clinic, you’d think I’d have gotten used to it.

I haven’t.

“It’s okay, buddy,” I say, gently scratching the feathers behind its ears. “All better now.”

The fledgling leans into the touch, the tension slowly melting from its tiny body.

After flushing the puncture wound and applying a thin layer of antibiotic salve, I carefully settle it back into its transport crate.

It blinks up at me with enormous golden eyes, its pupils still blown wide from the adrenaline. Its feathers remain slightly puffed, but the frantic thrashing has stopped, replaced by slow, steady breaths.

“You’re welcome,” I say with a smile, lifting the crate by its handle.

I carry it through the narrow stone corridors to the front reception room.

There, the griffin’s owner paces anxiously across the tiled floor, chewing on her fingernail. Morning sunlight filters through the clinic’s stained-glass windows, scattering ribbons of sapphire, emerald, and ruby across the alabaster walls and the hem of her black dress.

The moment she sees me, she hurries over.

“Oh, Doctor!” She nearly throws herself at the crate, slipping her fingers through the bars to stroke the griffin’s feathered neck. “Is Klysha alright?”

Right. Klysha. The Elvish word for bravery.

Not exactly fitting for such a skittish creature, but I digress.

“He’s going to be just fine,” I reassure her, placing the crate gently into her waiting hands. “A fyreberry thorn had worked its way into the pad of his front talon. I removed it, cleaned the wound, and applied some ointment.”

Her chest heaves with an audible sigh of relief. “Oh, thank the stars!” She fixes the fledgling with an exasperated look. “I told you to stay out of those fyreberry bushes, Klysha. Didn’t I?”

The griffin blinks innocently.

I suppress a smile as I straighten my white coat. “I’d recommend picking up a pair of forceps and a small magnifying glass if you don’t already have them. Griffin fledglings are endlessly curious, and fyreberry thorns have a habit of hiding between the pads of their feet. If he starts limping again, that’s the first place I’d check.”

“I will.” She nods earnestly. “Thank you, Dr. Wolfhart. Truly.”

“My pleasure.”

I hold the front door open as she carries Klysha outside.

A crisp autumn breeze slips into the clinic, carrying the scent of rain-soaked earth, woodsmoke, and fallen leaves. The cobblestone streets of Thistle Grove bustle with shoppers wandering from one cozy storefront to the next. The Pumpkin Moons Festival is only three weeks away, which means the harvest market is in full swing. Pumpkins line every doorstep, lampposts draped in garlands of orange leaves.

As I’m about to head back inside, my gaze drifts across the street to the blacksmith’s shop.

Through the wide front windows, I catch sight of its owner—Lucan Bloodstone.