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I still remember studying the famous griffon colony from Alder Ridge in veterinary school. Nearly every chick hatched over a three-year span had malformed wings. Investigators eventually traced the cause to a nearby farmer who’d been using banned alchemical pesticides on his crops. The griffons hunted rodents that fed in those fields, and the toxins accumulated in their bodies. Their offspring paid the price.

It became one of the most cited environmental toxicology cases in modern magical veterinary medicine.

But Maple doesn’t fit that pattern. She seems to be the only dragon with the condition.

I tap the end of my pencil against the notebook.

Perhaps it was nothing more than a spontaneous genetic mutation. A case of random bad luck.

My gaze drifts back to Maple just as she barrels headfirst into a pile of leaves. They explode into the air around her in a shower of rustling gold and amber. A second later, she pops back out with a leaf perched crookedly between her horns and several more clinging to her muddy scales.

“You little rascal,” I say with a tired sigh. “You’re definitely going to need a bath.”

Maple sets her target on Lucan the moment he walks into the enclosure. She barrels across the pasture, oversized paws pounding through the grass before skidding to a clumsy stop right in front of him. Her tail whips back and forth with such enthusiasm that her entire hindquarters sway along with it.

Lucan barely has time to laugh before she presses her snout into his palm and gives his enormous hand a long, slobbery lick.

“Hello to you too,” he says warmly, scratching beneath her chin with one thick finger.

Maple melts instantly. Her eyes drift half closed as she leans harder into the affection, letting out a pleased rumble that vibrates through her chest.

For someone built like a mountain, Lucan possesses an astonishing gentleness. Those hands could shape steel beneath a hammer without breaking a sweat, yet they stroke Maple’s scales with remarkable care, mindful of every tiny spine along her neck.

She trusts him immediately.

And for some reason, so do I.

Lucan smiles as Maple nudges his hand again, demanding more scratches. “I think she remembers me.”

I laugh. “I think she’s hoping you brought treats.”

His expression turns apologetic as he rubs the top of her head. “Sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart. I’ll bring some next time.”

Apparently, I’m more hopeless than I thought. Because the moment that pet name leaves his lips, my stomach does an embarrassing little flip.

Lucan withdraws his hand and kneels in the grass. He slips his rucksack from his shoulder, carefully unfastens the buckles, and reaches inside.

When he lifts out the prototype, my breath catches.

The frame is forged from polished steel so fine it almost looks silver in the afternoon light. Leather membranes stretch between each support. Every rivet sits perfectly flush. Every joint is smooth. Every buckle has been carefully positioned where it can be adjusted as Maple grows.

It’s beautiful.

I lift one wing with reverent hands, surprised by how light it feels.

“The balance…” I murmur, turning it over. “You hollowed the supports?”

He nods. “Just like the bones in a real wing. It keeps the strength while reducing the weight.”

“Wow,” I say, eyes widening. “And these joints…”

“They pivot independently.” He points to each hinge. “If we discover she needs more range of motion, I can modify them.”

I run my fingertips along the leather seam. The stitching is impossibly even.

My chest swells with admiration.

“Lucan…” I look up from the wing, unable to hide my smile. “The craftsmanship is extraordinary.”