Don't take it personally, I told myself, but it still stung.

  “There it is,” Gerrit muttered, gesturing toward a squat stone building with a creaky sign above the door: Postmaster’s Office.

  I stepped up, opened the door, and heard the familiar chime of the bell overhead.

  Inside, it was quiet. Papers were neatly stacked on the desk, and the scent of old ink hung in the air. I walked over and gave the small bell on the counter a light tap.

  Ding-ding.

  “Postmaster Harrel?” I called. “Delivery complete, Fort Grunt signed off!”

  A man with a waxy mustache and the unmistakable smell of ink and old parchment peeked nervously from the side room.

  “Oh, Damon! Thank the stars,” he said, stepping out with a clipboard clutched to his chest. “We heard a dragon was sighted! I was hoping it would just fly over…”

  “That’s Sivares,” I said casually, brushing some dust off my jacket. “And starting this week, she’s my new partner.”

  I’m pretty sure I saw a single hair fall from his head.

  “You… can’t be serious.”

  “Completely,” I said as I stepped up to the board. “So, I’m looking to pick up any new deliveries. Something a little more… distant.”

  Harrel blinked at me. “You want more? After landing with a dragon?”

  “Yeah. Preferably somewhere far from a garrison. Don’t want any ‘shoot-on-sight’ misunderstandings.” I scanned the list and pointed. “How about this one, Wenverer. Port town on the far coast.”

  Harrel hesitated. “That’s usually a two-week run.”

  “Sure,” I said, glancing back through the window toward where Sivares was sunning herself. “But with her flying? A day and a half, maybe two if we poke around a bit. We could be back in four.”

  He just stared at me. “You know what? Fine. At least I won’t have to feed a horse this time.”

  He scribbled something on the form and handed it over. “Try not to terrify the entire port.”

  “No promises,” I said with a grin, tucking the packet into my courier bag.

  “Oh, and here—” I said, reaching into my satchel and pulling out a freshly printed flyer. It showed a cheerful cartoon dragon, definitely inspired by Sivares, grinning widely with a mailbag slung over one wing.

  "Scale & Mail – You sign it, we fly it!"

  I handed it to Harrel. “Can you make some copies and help spread these around?”

  He took it, eyeing the artwork as it might bite him. “A smiling dragon… huh.”

  “Branding,” I said with a shrug. “Friendly. Memorable. Slightly terrifying, maybe, but it grows on you.”

  He gave a dry snort. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  After I picked up my payment for the last job, along with more than forty letters and a few carefully wrapped packages, I stepped out of the postmaster’s office into the late morning sun.

  Walking down the empty street, I kept shifting around, trying to stretch my back. The makeshift rig on Sivares’s back had kept me from getting hurt, but it was about as comfortable as sitting on a sack of rocks with thorns. I needed a real saddle. One made for a dragon.

  I stopped outside a small shop with a worn wooden sign swinging overhead: “Blain’s Leatherworks.” The smell of tanned hide and oil seeped through the cracks in the door.

  I stepped inside. “Excuse me,” I called out.

  A gruff man behind the counter, late fifties, barrel-chested, and frowning as if it were a permanent expression, looked up. His nameplate read BLAIN in big block letters.

  Hey Blain, I need a saddle.

  “There’s a dragon near town,” he said without missing a beat. “And you’re in here asking for… what? A saddle for your horse? Planning to ride into the fire?”

  “Not a horse,” I said, trying to sound casual. “The saddle is for the dragon.”

  Blain blinked.

  Then blinked again.

  It was the kind of look you give someone who just asked if they could rent your bathtub for a swordfight.

  “You want…” he said slowly, pointing to me, then gesturing vaguely toward the sky, “…a saddle. For the dragon.”

  “Yes.”

  “For you.”

  “Yes.”

  “To ride.”

  “Yes.”

  He stared at me like I’d walked in already on fire and had no idea why it was a problem.

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “You want me to make a saddle,” he repeated, “for a fire-breathing lizard the size of a barn.”

  “She’s technically not breathing fire right now,” I offered helpfully. “Also, she’s very polite.”

  There was a long silence.

  “…I’m gonna need bigger stitching thread.”

  Blain grunted, rubbing the back of his neck. “You know this means I’ll have to meet your friend. For proper measurements.”

  A cold sweat was already forming on his neck.

  “I figured,” I muttered, forcing a smile. “Just... figured I’d give you a heads-up first.”

  Blain shot me a flat look.

  “She’s not going to eat you,” I added quickly. “Probably.”

  He didn’t look comforted.

  With a sigh, he grabbed a thick notepad and a charcoal pencil. “Fine. Let’s go measure your flying doom-lizard. If she sneezes fire on me, I swear I’m billing you double.”

  “Deal,” I said, already mentally bracing for the moment Sivares tried to act 'friendly' and accidentally terrified him anyway.

  “So… how much do you think it’ll cost?”

  That was it. If anything could get a hesitant craftsman moving, it was the promise of payment.

  Blain paused, his pencil hovering in the air. “Well... if you don’t burn down the town, heh heh…”

  I held up a hand. “No, seriously. It’s one of my rules: always pay for work. So how much?”

  He grunted, rubbing his jaw as the gears started turning in his head. “Well, if it’s for a dragon, and you want it to survive her scales... it’ll need to be high-grade bull leather at least. Factoring in the materials, labor, and the fact that I’ve never made one of these before...”

  He scribbled a number on a piece of paper and slid it toward me.

  I looked.

  My heart did a nosedive. Why did I even ask?

  “I... don’t have that much,” I admitted quietly.

  Blain didn’t answer right away. Just crossed his arms and looked at the number, as if it personally offended him.

  “Tell you what,” he said slowly. “I don’t do credit. But... maybe there’s another way. You want to fly mail, right?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ve got family out in Dustwharf. Real remote. Haven’t had reliable deliveries in years. You get something to them, personally, by dragon, and we’ll call it a deposit. Rest, you pay when you can.”

  I blinked. “You’d trust me with that?”

  “No,” he said bluntly. “But I trust the idea of a dragon with a mailbag. If that works, people will pay for it.”

  I glanced back at the flyer in my pocket.

  Scale and Mail. You sign it, we fly it.

  Sivares would be proud.

  Blain fidgeted with the measuring tape around his neck like it was a noose. “So... uh... where is she?”

  “Just outside the east field,” I said. “She’s waiting. I told her you were coming.”

  He gave me a look like I’d told him he had to arm wrestle a volcano. “And she agreed?”

  "Yeah. Kind of. She said, and I quote, ‘Fine, but if he stabs me, I’m flying away with him dangling by the ears,’" I recited, mimicking her dry, sardonic tone.

  “Comforting,” he muttered.

  The walkout was quiet. Too quiet. Every snap of a twig had Blain jumping.

  As we left the town, the noise of slamming shutters and murmured fear faded behind us.

  Sivares was still where I’d left her, lounging in the grass just beyond the treeline. Her wings were half-folded, tail twitching in slow, restless loops. A few guards lingered at a distance, very clearly pretending they weren’t watching her every breath.

  She turned her head as I approached, her gaze settling on me.

  “Wenverer,” I said with a grin. “Coastal town. Lots of open sky. And according to the map, fish markets.”

  That got her attention.

  Her eyes brightened, just for a second, then the tension returned. Her jaw tightened. Her claws flexed unconsciously against the grass.

  She wasn’t lounging. Not really.

  She was coiled. Holding still. Bracing.

  She was scared.

  I stepped a little closer. Her gaze flicked to me… then locked onto Blain behind me.

  “Is that him?” she asked quietly.

  I nodded. “Yeah. This is Blain. He’s the leatherworker, he’s here to make you a saddle.”

  Her pupils narrowed. The twitch in her tail stilled.

  She didn’t move.

  Didn’t growl.

  Didn’t run.

  But her breathing had gone shallow.

  Blain raised a hand like someone trying not to spook a very large, very jumpy cat. “H-Hello.”

  Sivares didn’t answer. She just watched him.

  Claws kneading the dirt. Wings tight.

  Blain stopped several paces short. “H-hi. Miss... dragon.”

  Sivares blinked at him, then looked away. “Do you have to get close?”

  Blain looked like he didn’t want to at all. “Only... if you’ll let me. I can measure from a distance if you hold still. I’ll be quick. Promise.”

  Both of them glanced at me at the exact same time.

  I tried not to smile.

  Sivares finally exhaled and lay back down. “No sudden movements,” she warned.

  Blain nodded quickly. “Right. No sudden... anything.”

  He took a cautious step forward, tools in hand. Sivares shrank back just slightly, almost imperceptibly, unless you knew her. Her wings twitched. Her gaze never left him.

  He noticed. “You’re scared of me,” he said quietly.

  Sivares blinked. “You’re a human. With tools. And stories about your kind killing mine.”

  Blain hesitated, then replied, just as softly, “I’m scared of you because you could turn me to ash with a sneeze.”

  There was a long pause.

  Then, uncertain and quiet, Sivares said, “Maybe we try not to scare each other.”

  Blain nodded. “Deal.”

  The measuring started off awkwardly. Every time he got too close, Sivares’ claws tensed, or her tail twitched. Every time she so much as breathed too loudly, Blain jumped.

  But little by little, the tension eased.

  He murmured dimensions under his breath. She stayed still. And somehow… it worked.

  When he finished, Blain stepped back and let out a long, relieved breath. “That’s it. I got what I need.”

  Sivares blinked at him. “You didn’t stab me.”

  “You didn’t eat me,” he said, almost smiling.

  He glanced at his notes. “Okay. You’re about fifteen feet from nose to base of tail. Tail’s another fifteen, give or take. Wingspan, forty feet tip to tip. That’s… going to need serious balancing straps.”

  “Use strong buckles,” Sivares murmured. “The last thing I want is Damon flying off mid-turn.”

  Blain paused mid-note. “Noted.”

  She tilted her head. “You were sweating.”

  “A lot,” he admitted.

  “I was, too,” she said quietly.

  They stood there for a moment, awkward but not unfriendly anymore.

  Then she asked, “Will the saddle be comfortable?”

  Blain looked her over, his fear replaced now by something more professional. “If it’s not, I’ll fix it. That’s a promise.”

  Sivares gave a slight nod. “Thank you... Blain.”

  He blinked. “You remembered my name.”

  “I try to remember the people who don’t hurt me,” she said.

  Blain gave a slight, shaky grin. “That’s fair.”

  “Give me about three days,” Blain added, wiping his brow as he packed up his tools. “Four, just to be safe.”

  I grinned and turned to Sivares. “Cool. We’ll be out for four anyway, got a new route.”

  I unrolled the map and pointed. “We’re heading here. A port town called Wenverer. Should be clear skies the whole way.”

  Sivares studied the map, then looked at me, her voice soft. “This is going to work out… isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” I said, patting her shoulder gently. “It really is.”

  Later, back in town…

  The sun dipped low over Homblom’s main square, casting long shadows over the cobbled streets. A breeze tugged at the notices on the public board near the well.

  Among the faded parchment and old postings, a fresh flyer had been nailed up.

  Scale & Mail

  You sign it, we fly it!

  Reliable. Honest. Dragon-powered delivery.

  Ask for Damon at your local post office.

  Right next to it, fluttering slightly in the wind, hung another flyer:

  Bright red ink.

  Bold letters.

  A sharp, confident silhouette of a man raising a spear over a dragon skull.

  JOIN THE FLAMEBREAKERS

  The Kingdom’s Finest

  Dragon Slayers Wanted

  Gold. Glory. Honor.

  “No more hiding. No more fear.”

  The two flyers hung side by side, swaying gently in the evening wind.

  Hope.

  And the storm is gathering to crush it.