As they approached Dustwharf, the mountain town came into view, clinging to the rocky slopes.

  Damon reached into his mailbag, rummaging for something to snack on. His fingers brushed something soft. And fuzzy. Suddenly, anxiety prickled through him, a sense of unease washing over his earlier hunger.

  He froze, heart pounding in his chest, uncertain and apprehensive about what he was about to discover.

  “What the?!”

  He yanked his arm out like he'd been bitten, eyes wide. Sivares looked over, worried, as Damon carefully peeked into the bag.

  Curled between letters was a tiny ball of sand-colored fur with white patches. Two huge eyes blinked up, terrified.

  Damon’s voice was flat. “Sivares… we have a stowaway.”

  The dragon craned her neck to peek over his shoulder. “Oh stars…”

  The mouse shrank into the bag, gripping a letter. Damon sighed. “We’ll have to turn back. Drop this one at Honeiwood.”

  “Nooo!” the mouse squeaked, popping up from the bag. “I escaped from there! I’m not going back!”

  Damon blinked. “Okay… why don’t you want to go back home?”

  The mouse puffed up. "They never let us leave. Always say it's too dangerous. 'For our own good.'"

  Sivares called over her shoulder, “It is dangerous.”

  "I don’t care! I want to see the world! I’d rather face monsters and sky pirates than another mana lecture!"

  There was a pause, tension lingering in the air as all three considered what had just been said.

  “…Eighth?” Damon asked.

  The mouse flopped back dramatically into the bag. “I counted.”

  Damon sighed. “We're almost to Dustwharf. After we land, we'll talk.”

  Keys peeked out. “Okay… but I'm not going back.”

  Damon raised a brow. “We’ll see.”

  The mouse stuck out a paw. “Name’s Keys, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

  Damon blinked, then shook her tiny paw. “Nice to meet you, Keys.”

  Sivares just groaned from the front. “Great. We’ve got a stowaway with spunk.”

  As they made their approach to Dustwharf, Damon narrowed his eyes, unease prickling at him. “That’s… weird.”

  Keys poked her head out of the mailbag. “What is?”

  “No alarms. No shouting. No terrified villagers running around.”

  They landed on one of the rocky outcroppings near the edge of town. Damon tensed, unease crawling up his spine as he sensed the unnatural stillness. No welcoming party. No guards. No crowd. Just silence.

  Damon slid off Sivares and scanned the area. “Delivery!” he called out. “We’ve got a delivery from Wenverer!”

  Sivares sniffed the air, concern sharpening her gaze. “I still smell people. They’re hiding. We should be careful.”

  “Right,” Damon muttered, nerves evident in his voice. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “We don’t mean any harm!”

  Clang. Clang.

  The sound echoed in the quiet, metal striking stone, as a figure stepped out from the shadows.

  He looked like a man of dull bronze, joints creaking with every step. He carried a plain, dangerous pike.

  Sivares shifted her stance uneasily, wings half-tensed. “That’s not rune-forged… just steel. But it could still do damage.”

  Before she could stop him, Damon was already walking forward, hands raised, determination set in his features despite the danger.

  The metal man only came up to his chest, but he didn’t flinch, exuding confidence and intimidation. He stepped forward with purpose, pike held steady.

  “Hello,” Damon said. “We're not here to fight. Just delivering mail.”

  From inside the bag, Keys let out a panicked squeak. “You’re talking to a metal soldier! Are you insane?!”

  “A’ight, lad… you’ve got some stones, don’t ya?” the metal man spoke at last, voice gravelly behind the helm.

  Damon blinked, considering. “Honestly? Not sure. I’m just the mail guy.”

  The figure let out a low chuckle and removed his faceplate. Underneath, his face was rough, bearded, scarred, and missing an eye.

  Damon stepped forward and offered a hand. “Nice to meet you. Name’s Damon. That’s Sivares,” he added, nodding back toward the dragon, who gave an awkward wave.

  The dwarf looked him up and down before finally taking his hand. “Boarif. Son of Doraif.”

  The handshake nearly crushed Damon’s fingers. He gritted his teeth and forced himself not to show pain, determined to appear unfazed, pride flickering in his strained expression.

  Boarif smirked. “Heh. At least you’ve got grip strength, mailman.”

  “You should see me with a package,” Damon grunted through clenched teeth.

  “Not many o’ you tall folk don’t faint when a spoon drops off the table,” Boarif grunted with a smirk. He jerked his head. “Come on, mailman. Walk and talk.”

  Damon followed, waving for Sivares to come along.

  “So, you're really a mail carrier?” Boarif asked, glancing back.

  “Yup. Got some from Homblom for here, and a package from Blain. Said it’s for his family.”

  “Little Blain, huh? How’s the boy doin’?”

  Damon grinned. “Well, he sweats a lot.”

  Boarif barked out a laugh. “Aye, he always did! Like someone cast a humidifier on him at birth.”

  “And he’s been working on building a proper saddle for Sivares,” Damon added, thumbing toward the dragon.

  “Hrrr-hrrr-hrrr!” Boarif chuckled low in his chest. “Tell that boy he’s got ambition. Saddling a dragon, eh? Just make sure he doesn’t bolt it on with a forge hammer.”

  Keys poked her head out of the mailbag, one eye wide and her mouth hanging open in awe and disbelief. “How did you do that?” she squeaked.

  Damon shrugged. “I dunno. Just… knew he wasn’t gonna hurt us, so I talked to him.”

  Boarif snorted. “Hah! Little mouse’s got spunk, that’s for sure.”

  By now, people were starting to peek out from behind doors and windows. Both humans and dwarves stepped out carefully.

  “So,” Damon asked, “why were you the only one who came out first?”

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Boarif pointed at his armor. “Me? I’m the only one with steam-plate armor thick enough to walk through a bonfire and still keep my beard. If someone had to get burned, it might as well be the mayor. And if I got roasted, at least I’d miss the upcoming tax reviews.”

  He turned to head back toward the town… and stopped when Damon pulled a letter from the satchel.

  “Actually,” Damon said, “I think I have those tax forms right here. Marked for the mayor.”

  In the distance, Boarif let out a long, defeated sigh.

  “…Well. There goes my vacation.”

  Damon handed Boarif the thick packet, who grunted and flipped through a few pages.

  “Well, I guess two years of backlog does pile up,” he muttered. “Figures.”

  “No one really came to check in all that time?” Damon asked, eyebrows raised.

  Boarif shook his head. “Nah. We’re too small, too outta the way. Most Griffin riders don’t bother flying this deep into the range. Dustwharf's not exactly on the royal tour list.”

  He tucked the packet under his arm and added with a small grin, “But we get by just fine. Plenty of land to grow, good folks, and the place is mostly quiet.”

  Sivares raised a brow. “Until we showed up.”

  Boarif chuckled quietly. “Aye. Well… there’s quiet, and then there’s boring. I won’t complain about a little excitement now and then, as long as you don’t set the bakery on fire.”

  "I'm tellin’ ya," someone in the gathering crowd shouted, "this is the most excitin’ thing to happen all year!"

  Another voice chimed in, "What about when Old Jim stubbed his toe? That was somethin’."

  Boarif chuckled. "Aye, see? If Jim stubbin’ his toe is the talk of the town, maybe a dragon droppin’ by will finally put some life back in these old bones."

  Keys peeked out from Damon’s mailbag, wide-eyed. "You don’t look that old."

  "Not by dwarf standards, lass," Boarif said, stroking his thick red beard. "Just turned 300 last year."

  "Three… hundred?!" Keys squeaked, nearly falling out of the bag.

  Boarif grinned. "Aye. Just hit middle age. Still got plenty of fire in me, especially now that there’s a dragon around." He glanced at Damon with a sly smile. "So ye deliver more than just letters, lad?"

  "Aye," Damon nodded. "We do parcels too. Place your order, and we’ll haul it. Payment’s always upfront though."

  "Right, right…" Boarif muttered, already digging through a cluttered crate. "Now let’s see what we need…”

  "You think you’ll have to go to Oldar," he said, slapping a worn piece of parchment down on the table.

  "Wait, what?" Damon blinked. "The Dwarven capital? Won’t they just… y’know, shoot us down?"

  Boarif waved a hand. "Nah, you’ve got that fancy flag of yours. As long as you’re not bringing fire or brimstone, they’ll let you through the gates. Maybe they’ll even let you in if you smile the right way."

  He started scribbling something down with a stubby piece of charcoal. “Right then. Pickaxes, shovels, rope… Ah, and some of that human black powder.”

  "Black what?" Keys poked her head up, blinking.

  "Black powder, lass," Boarif said cheerfully. "A very explosive compound. Stuff a pouch of it into a rockslide, and it'll blow a path wide enough to roll a cart through. It’s how we dwarves make roads when the mountains don’t agree."

  Keys slowly ducked back down into the bag, eyes wide, her face frozen with a mix of amazement and apprehension.

  "You’re ordering bombs… from the mailman… on a fire-breathing dragon."

  Boarif chuckled. "Aye, and it’s still faster than waitin’ on the crown to send help."

  “So… Oldar,” Damon muttered, adjusting the mailbag as they walked. “Never been. Is it true it’s inside an active volcano?”

  “Aye,” Boarif said with pride. “The city is carved right into the lava vents. It’s the best place in the world for forging. Just watch out for the gas, and wear something light. It’s always a pleasant 120 degrees.”

  “Right. Think I’ll stick to the human-friendly part of the city,” Damon said dryly. “Pretty sure we melt at anything over ninety.”

  “Suit yerself. You tall folk get fussy over a little heat,” Boarif snorted.

  “So when do you need this shipment delivered?” Damon asked.

  “No rush. As long as it gets here before winter, that’ll do.”Damon did some quick mental math. “Let’s see… Next is the town of Baubles, then we’re due back in Homblom. With Sivares flying, that’s two days. We rest a week after that, then head to Oldar for three more days. From Oldar to here, another four, not counting breaks…”…”

  He looked up. “Let's say three weeks, tops.”

  Boarif gave a satisfied grunt. “Three weeks? That’s no time at all. Beats the usual two to three years it takes the Crown to move a shipment.”

  When they reached his home, Boarif patted the thick metal door. “We don’t have a real postmaster here since the town is too small. But I’ll make sure it gets where it needs to go.”

  Boarif rummaged in one of his pouches and pulled out a small leather bag. “Here ya go,” he said, handing it to Damon.

  It was light, hardly heavier than two coins.

  “That should cover it.”

  Damon opened the pouch, then blinked.

  Inside were two silver coins, gleaming in the afternoon light.

  “Wait… This is too much,” Damon said, stunned. “Silver? That’s.”

  Boarif waved him off. “One’s for the supplies I ordered. The other’s hazard pay.”

  “Hazard pay… for the black powder I’m hauling on the back of a fire-breathing dragon?” Damon raised a brow.

  “Aye,” Boarif grinned. “Figured that part was worth a silver.”

  Damon turned the coin in his hand, watching it catch the sunlight. “…This is worth more than three years of my family’s farm back home.” He just clapped him on the shoulder. “Then you’re in the right business, lad. Mail might just be your golden ticket.”

  “So, you stayin’ for supper?” Boarif asked, grinning. “My wife’s a mean cook, emphasis on mean!”

  CLANG!

  A mug whizzed through the air and smacked the wall behind him.

  Boarif didn’t flinch. “Love ya, Emafis!” he shouted back over his shoulder.

  Damon chuckled. “We probably should be heading out soon. Gotta get Keys home.”

  “I told you,” Keys piped up, poking her head out from the flap, “I’m not going back!”

  “Come on,” Damon sighed. “You stowed away. You’re technically postage due.”

  “But I can be useful!” she said quickly. “I was top of my class in spellwork. I even beat a cat wizard in a duel once, and he was huge!”

  Sivares raised a brow. “A giant cat wizard?”

  “He had stripes!” Keys insisted.

  Damon and Sivares exchanged a look.

  “…Fine,” Damon muttered. “But if anyone asks, we’re transporting a magically volatile package. It’s very loud and easily offended.”

  Keys beamed. “Deal!”

  Boarif raised a brow. “She’s a firecracker, that one.”

  Damon sighed. “Yeah… a very loud one.”

  Sivares just rumbled with amusement from behind them, her tail swaying lazily.

  “Well,” Damon said, stretching, “looks like we are staying for dinner.”

  The front door swung open, and a stout dwarf woman with flour on her hands stepped out. She took one look at Sivares and scowled.

  “Oy, lad, you feeding this one? She’s all scales and bones!”

  Sivares blinked. “I’ve been eating more lately than before!”

  Emafis snorted. “And none of it’s putting proper meat on you. Sit down, I’m fixing you something that sticks.”

  As she marched back into the house, Damon leaned over to Sivares and whispered with a grin,

  “She kinda reminds me of my mom.”

  Sivares smirked. "Minus the terror.”

  //////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

  As the trio approached the outpost fort nestled at the mountain pass, Talvan raised a hand to signal their stop. The walls were old stone, patched in places with timber and moss, but the gate still stood tall and guarded. Two soldiers eyed them warily from behind iron-tipped pikes.

  Revy stepped forward and, with a practiced motion, pulled out a wax-sealed scroll bearing the sigil of the Flame Breakers. The moment the seal caught the light, the tension in the guards’ shoulders eased.

  “State your business,” one of them called, though his voice lacked the earlier edge.

  “Travel and report,” Talvan replied, gesturing to the trio. “We’re tracking a potential threat. Requesting brief rest and resupply.”

  The guard glanced at the seal again, then nodded. “You’re clear. Welcome to Fort Thayden. Don’t cause trouble, and the mess hall’s to the right past the stables.”

  With a creak and groan of iron and wood, the gates opened just wide enough for them to pass. As they stepped through, the fort's cool shadow wrapped around them, the smell of metal and stew thick in the air.

  They made their way through the winding stone halls of the fort until they reached the command room. Inside stood a broad-shouldered man with a steel-grey beard and the tired eyes of someone who’d seen too many years of mountain fog and false alarms.

  “Sir Homgren?” Talvan asked.

  The man looked up from a worn map. “Flame Breakers, huh? You’re here about the dragon.”

  Talvan nodded. “So, you’ve seen it?”

  Homgren gave a grunt. “Yeah. Two days ago. Flew right over us.”

  Revy stepped forward. “Did it… Do anything? Attack? Circle back?”

  Homgren shook his head. “No. Just passed by. We did try to shoot at it with the cannon, but it stayed just out of range. Didn’t even look our way. Just… flew on.”

  Leryea frowned. “Strange. That’s not what we expected.”

  Homgren crossed his arms. “Not what I expected either. Figured if a dragon came near, there’d be fire and screaming. Instead, we just got a shadow on the wall and a breeze that rattled the windows.”

  Revy narrowed her eyes. “No destruction again. Talvan, this still doesn’t make sense. The fort attacked it… and it just ignored you?”

  “Yeah,” Talvan agreed, arms crossed. “Dragons don’t do that. Not the stories we’ve heard.”

  Homgren muttered under his breath, voice low and uneasy. “This fort’s fought dragons before. Real ones. We’ve still got the scorch marks on the eastern wall from the last time.” He nodded toward one of the stone maps on the wall. “They never just fly by. Never ignore cannon fire.”

  The room fell quiet for a beat.

  Revy crossed her arms. “Something’s off.”

  Leryea added, voice quieter, “Or maybe we’ve got the wrong idea about this dragon.”

  “So what are you saying?” Talvan asked, eyes narrowing at Leryea.

  She shifted her weight, then said slowly, “It’s non-hostile. The first one in over twenty years. It’s clearly older than that, so the real question is… what was it doing all that time?”

  Talvan stayed quiet, waiting.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted, “but if I had to guess… hiding. Lying low, maybe even asleep. But now? It’s up, moving around, and, according to reports, delivering mail like some sort of courier.”

  Revy raised an eyebrow. “You think someone found it?”

  Leryea nodded. “More than that, I think someone’s controlling it.”

  Revy pulled out a folded flyer from her satchel, the same one they'd grabbed back in Homblom. It showed the stylized image of a dragon clutching a mailbag, with the bold words: "Scale & Mail – You sign it, we fly it!"

  She held it up. “Okay, but if someone is controlling the dragon… why use it to deliver mail? Why not, I don’t know, turn it into a weapon?”

  Talvan frowned. “I don’t know… maybe it’s a cover?”

  Leryea crossed her arms. “If it’s a cover, it’s the weirdest one I’ve ever seen. But maybe that’s the point.”

  Revy sighed. “If we can just find it again, maybe we can figure out what’s going on. Because seriously, what does a dragon want with a mail route?”