The First Flight Above the Orchard

Twelve days of crisp mountain sunshine and dry cold followed. The small beast, whom Alba had christened Chispa for his endearing habit of sneezing azure sparks upon waking, had established himself as the undisputed monarch of the kitchen. He nested in a timber crate lined with flannel by the hearth, devoured bowls of minced mutton suet, and trotted beside Alba through the animal pens with comical, regal dignity.

Dorian had not failed to cross the footbridge a single evening. He arrived at five sharp, just as mountain crests blushed rose in the sunset, toolbox in grip to calibrate the tension of the larch splint. Yet gradually, his visits had ceased to be mere carpentry calls: he hauled seasoned birch cordwood for Alba's kitchen stove, secured rattling latches upon the owl aviaries, and lingered for bowls of the hearty bean-and-plum stew she simmered in the black pot.

"The bone callus has knit without a flaw." Dorian proclaimed one bright winter afternoon, removing the larch laths with practiced grace. "The membrane shows perfect suppleness with zero residual heat. Today is his flight trial, Alba."

They stepped into the orchard, where melted drifts revealed islands of emerald moss and rich loam. Chispa bounded across the grass in excited hops, flexing both wings in an arc of scales that flashed like polished copper in the midday glare.

"Do not launch him toward the cliffline." Alba cautioned, biting her lip in an anxious blend of pride and maternal worry. "If he panics, he could strike the stone coping of the well."

Dorian knelt before the reptile. He cupped his wide palms beneath the creature’s breastbone and raised him gently to shoulder height.

"Heed me, rascal," Dorian murmured, fixing his dark gaze upon the amber pupils with that gravity he reserved only for essential truths. "The valley thermal ascends from the river bend. Spread your flight sails, trust the wood that mended you, and do not look upon the mud."

With a firm, coordinated heave of his forearms, he launched Chispa into the brisk updraft brushing the bare apple boughs.

The drake dipped two feet in free fall, let out a sharp cry of panic, and beat his wings with frantic desperation. For an agonizing heartbeat it seemed he would tumble into the briar hedge, but suddenly his flight membranes caught the warm pocket of air rising from the sun-drenched slope.

A triumphant bugling trill echoed across the orchard. Chispa carved an immaculate circle above the bare crowns, banking with an aerial grace that left Alba with hands pressed tight to her collar and eyes glistening with tears. Winter sunlight filtered through the translucent copper membranes of his wings, casting a dancing shadow across the snow.

Completing his second pass, the small dragon banked to land, but misjudged his approach glide and tumbled downward directly toward Dorian.

Dorian threw open his arms, stepped back to dig his boot heels into the sod, and caught the plummeting drake squarely against his chest. The momentum knocked him flat into a dry haystack beside the barn wall. Chispa, ecstatically victorious, began bathing the joiner’s beard with his warm velvet tongue while discharging a fountain of blue sparks that showered harmlessly across the heavy wool.

Alba rushed toward them in alarm, but halted dead in her tracks at the sound echoing from Dorian’s throat.

The joiner was laughing. Not a shy chuckle or a snort: a full laugh that rang across the whole orchard, the first in three winters. He rolled in the hay holding the dragon up with one hand while wiping his eyes with the other.

"Look at him, Alba!" Dorian shouted, looking up at her. "He flies like a royal falcon! Not even the imperial cavalry had a beast this brave!"

Alba knelt beside him in the hay. She looked at Dorian's face, the scar softened by joy, and realised how close they were.

"Sometimes the hardest courage does not lie in wielding a sword, but in daring to heal what you believed was lost. Look upon yourself now, Dorian."

Dorian stopped laughing and looked into her eyes. In the stillness of the snowy orchard, his hand left the dragon's back and slowly found Alba's fingers.

"You spoke true, Alba," he whispered, his thumb resting gently over the pulse point of her wrist. "I was terrified of allowing my heart to feel again after the bitter campaigns. But beside you, staying in the dark is impossible."

Neither of them saw the rider. From the top of the king's road, a man in the blue coat of the quartermaster's office had reined in his horse to watch the flight. When Chispa landed, he turned and spurred toward Burgos.