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As I walk alone beneath the twin moons, I can’t help but think the harvest goddess might have had the right idea.
Because dating sucks.
And honestly? Carving a lover out of a pumpkin sounds a hell of a lot easier.
Chapter Four: Lucan
The steady roar of the furnace fills the workshop with a constant, comforting hum. Sparks burst into the air with every strike of my hammer, scattering like tiny fireflies. Beneath my tongs, a strip of glowing steel burns brilliant orange, hot enough to yield beneath each measured blow.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
The rhythm settles into my bones.
Heat washes over my skin despite the crisp autumn morning drifting through the open workshop doors. Sweat beads at my temples as I rotate one of Maple’s prosthetic wing braces across the anvil, studying the curve before bringing the hammer down again.
Years of practice have made every movement instinctive. With each careful strike, the steel bends a little closer to the shape I envisioned, the elegant framework gradually taking form beneath my hands.
Most people think blacksmithing is about strength, but in truth, it’s about patience. It’s knowing when to force the metal and when to let it guide you.
Forging a dragon’s prosthetic is certainly different from making swords or armor, but the principles are the same. Steel has a language of its own. You simply have to learn how to listen.
I lift the metal piece once more—then pause.
A shout cuts through the air.
Normally, I ignore whatever commotion is happening outside.
Thistle Grove has never been short on colorful disagreements. Someone’s goat escapes every other week. Fairies steal pies from windowsills. The occasional drunken dwarf insists the tavern cheated him at cards.
I’ve learned it’s usually easier to stay out of it.
But this time, the shouting is coming from across the street.
I set the prosthetic across the anvil and wipe my hands on a rag before crossing to the front window.
Outside, a crowd has begun gathering, with Micah standing in the middle.
His white doctor’s coat flutters around his knees as he points an accusing finger at a broad-shouldered orc nearly as tall as I am. The man’s thick green fist is wrapped around a small glass jar stuffed with dried purple herbs.
“I saw you steal it!” Micah shouts, his voice carrying across the square.
The orc shrugs, looking entirely unbothered. “So what?”
“They’re medicinal herbs!” Micah snaps. “They’re prescribed for sick animals—not for you to grind them up and get high!”
The orc smirks. “Sounds like you need to relax, Doc. Maybe you should try ’em sometime.”
“I will not relax!” Micah throws both hands into the air. “My patients depend on those herbs! You can’t steal them!”
The orc takes a deliberate step closer. “And how does a puny human like you plan on stopping me?”
Micah squares his shoulders. “I’m telling you to give them back.”
The orc laughs, his voice loud and rumbling, and fists the collar of Micah’s coat. He’s easily lifted off the ground, his feet dangling in the air as the orc snarls angrily in his face.
