Page 3
There are patients waiting.
The blacksmith can remain a fantasy for another day.
By the time I lock up the clinic, the afternoon has melted into dusk. Lanterns flicker to life along the cobblestone streets of Thistle Grove, their amber glow spilling across storefronts decorated with pumpkins, dried cornstalks, and autumn wreaths. The scent of cinnamon, chimney smoke, and damp earth hangs in the crisp mountain air.
I pull my wool cloak tighter around my shoulders.
My cottage sits at the foot of Mount Embercrest, where the town gives way to towering pines and winding mountain trails. It’s a longer walk than most people would tolerate, but I’ve always preferred the quiet.
The chirping of birds. The distant bleating of perytons somewhere high on the cliffs. The rhythmic sweep of dragon wings overhead.
Animals don’t ask questions.
They don’t gossip.
They don’t wonder why the town veterinarian is thirty-five years old and still hopelessly single.
A dry leaf skitters across the path as I crest a hill, the forest growing quieter with every step.
Crunch.
Frowning, I glance down to see a shard of crimson eggshell beneath my boot.
I crouch and pick it up, surprised to find it’s still warm.
My gaze lifts toward the mountaintop towering above me. Enormous dragon nests crowd the treetops and cling to the rocky cliffsides, their woven branches thicker than my arms. It’s hatching season for the dragons, but their nests are found at much higher altitudes. They shouldn’t be here.
Unless…
My stomach sinks.
I follow a trail of eggshell fragments through the fallen leaves, my pulse quickening with every step. The pieces lead me to a cluster of ferns at the base of a maple tree.
Holding my breath, I gently part the fronds.
Curled into itself is the tiniest ruby dragon I’ve ever seen. It can’t be more than a few hours old.
Its scales gleam like polished jasper beneath the fading sunlight, though their color is muted beneath a coating of dirt and crushed leaves. Tiny puffs of white mist escape its nostrils with each shivering breath.
It’s far too small. A ruby dragon hatchling should be nearly the size of a sheepdog, but this one could curl comfortably in my lap.
Slowly, I kneel beside it.
“Hey there…”
The hatchling lets out a weak, questioning chirp.
“It’s alright.”
I slide one hand beneath its chest, careful not to startle it. The moment I lift it, my heart sinks at the sight of its wings.
Or rather, what should’ve been its wings.
The membranes never fully formed, leaving behind two undersized, misshapen limbs tucked tightly against its body. I’ve seen the mutation before—in birds, griffins, even wyverns—but never in dragons.
Congenital wing hypoplasia.
A dragon born like this would never fly.
