With Sivares still grounded, the trio traveled on foot toward the town of Baubel.

  As the rooftops came into view beyond the treeline, Damon glanced over. “You okay?”

  Sivares gave a slight flinch. “Yeah. Just a little jittery.”

  “Come on,” he said with a grin. “This isn’t our first delivery. Remember the one with fifty armed guards? This is just a farm town.”

  “Yeah, but back then I could still fly,” she muttered. “If something went wrong, I had an out. Now? I don’t know... stuck on the ground, I feel… exposed.”

  Damon’s expression softened. “Want me to handle it? You and Keys wait out here.”

  Sivares hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. That might be best.”

  Keys was still perched by her wing, gently working with slow pulses of glowing mana. The massage spell had helped a lot with the pain. Sivares could move more now, but flying was still out of the question.

  “Don’t worry,” Damon said, tugging his coat straight. “This should be quick.”

  And with that, he walked calmly into town, alone, while the two of them stayed hidden just beneath the trees.

  As Damon got closer to Baubel, he realized how small and quiet the town really was. The only guard at the entrance barely looked at him, not even straightening from his slouch against the fence post. The air felt sluggish, as if the whole town was just going through the motions.

  He passed a few people on the dirt road—heads down, footsteps slow, faces blank. No one greeted him. No one even looked up.

  Something was definitely off.

  Damon made his way to the postmaster’s office, expecting at least a half-hearted clerk or maybe an open window.

  Instead, the place looked like it hadn’t been touched in weeks. A thick layer of dust coated the desk and shelves. Cobwebs clung to the corners. The bell above the door gave a sad little plink when he stepped inside.

  “Hello?” Damon called out. “I’ve got a delivery here.”

  No answer.

  He stepped back outside, squinting in the dull light. Then a voice caught his attention.

  “You’re from the outside, aren’t you?”

  Damon turned.

  An elf stood a few paces away. His blond hair fell just past his shoulders, and his green eyes were sharp but tired. He wore simple, dusty town clothes, but his posture showed he was trained and used to moving through the wild.

  “Yeah,” Damon said slowly. “Just came in. Courier.”

  The elf gave a short nod. “Didn’t think anyone could still make it through Thornwood.”

  “I’ve had better hikes,” Damon said with a shrug. “You’re… not from here, are you?”

  “No. Name’s Vivlan. Scout, originally from Willowthorn—one of the elf cities out west.” He glanced around at the empty street. “Been stuck here ever since the landslide cut off the pass.”

  “Willowthorn,” Damon echoed. “Never been. Heard the trees there touch the clouds.”

  Vivlan gave a tired smile. “They do. And right now, I’d give anything to see them again.”

  “Well, Vivlan, nice to meet you. Name’s Damon,” he said, holding out a hand.

  Vivlan shook it, his grip firm, but not aggressive. “Likewise.”

  Damon glanced around at the eerily quiet town. “So… what’s with all this? No trade? No wagons? No one in or out?”

  Vivlan gave a small sigh. “Hasn’t been for a while. Not since Thornwood became… dangerous. You’re the first new face we’ve seen in weeks.”

  “Yeah? Just came from Dustwarf yesterday.” Damon leaned casually against a fencepost.

  Vivlan’s eyes snapped wide. “Dustwarf? That’s across the Great Stone Chasm. The only road’s been gone for years!”

  Damon just grinned, reached into his satchel, and pulled out a flyer. It was a little wrinkled but still colorful. He handed it over.

  Vivlan blinked at the cartoon image of a mail dragon mid-flight, proudly carrying a satchel. Above it, the logo read:

  "Scale & Mail – You Sign It, We Fly It!"

  “You… flew here?”

  “Yep,” Damon said, nodding. “Sivares, my partner, is waiting just outside the tree line. She was a little nervous about coming into town, what with how quiet everything looked.”

  Vivlan looked at the flyer again, then toward the distant edge of the trees. His expression shifted from surprise to something softer, maybe even hope.

  “You flew… over Thornwood,” he said slowly. “And made it through. That’s…” He exhaled, almost like he’d been holding his breath. “That’s something.”

  Vivlan glanced again at the flyer, then looked back at Damon. “Actually… maybe you can help us.”

  Damon raised a brow. “How?”

  “If you can wait a bit, I can write a letter or something for the scouts back in Willowthorn. Let them know I’m still alive. And maybe… just maybe… they’ll send someone. Supplies. Reinforcements. Anything.”

  Damon nodded. “Yeah. That sounds fair. I’ll make sure it gets where it needs to go.”

  Relief flickered across Vivlan’s face, subtle but real. “Thanks. It’s been hard keeping morale up around here. Everyone’s scared, supplies are running low, and with the road gone, we’ve felt… forgotten.”

  “Well,” Damon said with a half-smile, “lucky for you, the mail doesn’t stop, not even for landslides and creepy forests.”

  Vivlan chuckled under his breath. “Then you’re exactly the kind of person we’ve been waiting for.”

  “I still have to finish my delivery,” Damon said, tucking the flyer away.

  Vivlan nodded. “Ah, the postmaster. Yeah, old man Harnel. His house is just down the path by the well.” He gestured lazily. “With no mail coming or going, he’s not exactly swamped with work these days.”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Got it,” Damon said with a wave. “Thanks.”

  He followed the worn path until he reached a lopsided cottage, its shingles half-mossed over and the paint on the door long since peeled away. A crooked wooden sign still read Postmaster, though the letters were faded and barely legible.

  Damon knocked twice.

  Creeeeak.

  The door opened just enough to reveal an old man with wild gray hair and a long, threadbare robe. He blinked at Damon like he was looking at a ghost.

  “Yes?” he rasped, voice dusty from disuse. “What do you want?”

  “Mail,” Damon said simply, shifting the courier bag on his shoulder. “I’ve got deliveries for Baubel.”

  The old man squinted. “Mail? You’re… a runner?”

  “Name’s Damon,” he said, showing the emblem on his bag, clear as day. “Courier, certified. Been a while, huh?”

  The postmaster stared at the crest, eyes wide. “Two years. No mail in two years.”

  “Guess I’m breaking that streak,” Damon said with a small grin. “Got a few parcels and notices. Mind if I come in and drop them off?”

  The old man stepped aside slowly, like a man waking from a long dream. “Bless the skies… I thought the whole world forgot about us.”

  Damon walked inside, already reaching into his bag.

  As Harnel led Damon into the humble cottage, he gestured to a rickety wooden table.

  “Sorry, I can’t offer you any tea,” he said with a tired smile. “We’re down to water now. With the road closed… there’s been no trade. We’ve just been sitting here. Just… living. And truth be told, I don’t even know if I’ve got the coin to pay you.”

  Damon shrugged, lowering his delivery bag. “Boarif asked me to help reopen the trade routes. If that happens, it should help your town too. And then, if you really want to pay me, pay me then.”

  Harnel gave a soft chuckle. “That’s fair, lad.”

  Damon reached into the bag and carefully handed over a bundle of letters and small packages.

  As Harnel took them, his hands trembled. One of the envelopes had a faded wax seal. His fingers brushed the edge as if it might break apart.

  A single tear traced down his cheek.

  “That’s it… It’s not much,” he whispered. “But you gave an old man a piece of his purpose back. Even if it’s just for one delivery.”

  Damon smiled and reached into his coat again. “Oh, it’ll be more than just one.”

  He handed over a flyer. At the top, in bold letters:

  SCALE & MAIL: YOU SIGN IT, WE FLY IT!

  A dragon’s wings don’t care about landslides.

  “We deliver mail through the skies,” Damon said, a grin in his voice. “Dragonback courier service. With us, no roadblock or storm will stop a letter from reaching where it needs to go.”

  Harnel’s hands tightened around the paper. “By my word… I remember the days when dragons burned the world together. Never thought I’d live to see the day they flew mail.”

  Damon clapped him gently on the shoulder. “Well, buckle up, old timer. Because we’re just getting started.”

  Damon wasn’t paid right away. The postmaster, still emotional, had gently promised to gather what little coin he could and have it ready later—seven copper coins, nothing much, but it was the principle that mattered.

  As Damon stepped out of the house and dusted off his coat, Vivlan approached with something in hand.

  “Hey,” the elf said, holding out a sealed letter. “Got that note for Willowthorn.”

  Damon took it and raised a brow. It gave off a faint green glow. “It’s glowing?”

  “Yeah,” Vivlan nodded. “Marked it with a glyph. Any elf will know it came from one of us—and that it was willingly given. Should stop them from, y’know, opening fire the moment they see you.”

  “Good,” Damon said, tucking it carefully into his satchel. “Last thing I need is an arrow through my shoulder before I say hello.”

  Vivlan gave a small smirk. “Willowthorn’s about four days north of Homblom, just past the river. If you're headed back that way, it might be worth the detour.”

  Damon tapped his bag. “I already got a commission from Dustwarth to Oldar. If I swing through Willowthorn on my way, it'll add a couple of days of travel, but I’ll still be back before autumn. After that, we’re just doing local routes for a while.”

  Vivlan blinked. “Sounds like you’ve got this all figured out.”

  Damon laughed. “Nah. Just making it up as I go and trying not to screw it up too badly.”

  The elf smiled, but there was a tiredness in his eyes. “Well… thank you for coming. And I hope we’re still here by the time you get back.”

  Damon nodded. “You will be. That’s a promise.”

  As Damon left the town, the lone guard gave him a slight nod. The rest of Baubel remained silent behind him.

  The moment he stepped into the forest, his nose wrinkled at a strange smell. It was salty, with a sharp metallic undertone. Something was off.

  Picking up his pace, Damon pushed through the underbrush until he reached the clearing—and stopped short.

  Sivares was lounging comfortably, chewing on something that sizzled over a campfire. Smoke curled lazily in the air, carrying that same unfamiliar scent.

  “Oh, hey, Damon,” she said, waving a claw casually without looking up. “You’re back.”

  He stepped around her and froze. Dozens of spider corpses littered the area, burnt, sliced, and very, very dead.

  She smirked and held up a skewered leg. “You should try some. They’re surprisingly good—crunchy, kinda like grilled crab.”

  Damon blinked. “You okay?”

  Sivares gave a satisfied hum. “I’m fine. They tried to bite me, but my scales handled it. Didn’t even scratch.”

  "Cool, we're, Keys," Damon asks.

  A small voice piped up from behind her.

  “Right here!” Keys said, peeking out. “You should’ve seen her! They came out of the trees, and she just flattened them. Didn’t even flinch.”

  Sivares chuckled. “My mom used to bring these back for me, back when… well, before. Never thought I’d eat one again. Thank you for bringing me here. Really.”

  Damon scratched the back of his head, a little dazed. “Well… as long as you’re good, I’m happy. We’re done here, so we can head out soon.”

  “How’s your wing?” he added.

  Sivares gave a light stretch, but only made it halfway before she winced. “Better. Maybe tomorrow, with a bit more of Keys’ magic, I’ll be flying again.”

  “Come on, try one,” Sivares said, handing Damon a leg the size of his forearm, still slightly twitching. The smell hit him first—like rotten, salted meat that had been left out in the sun. He gave it a cautious sniff and gagged.

  Against his better judgment, he took a bite.

  It was exactly what it smelled like.

  Damon instantly recoiled, spitting it into the dirt. “Ugh! Gods, it tastes like someone soaked spoiled jerky in seawater and sadness!”

  Sivares just laughed and shrugged. “More for me, then.”

  The motion jolted her wing, making her shift her weight. Keys, still perched on her back, wobbled and nearly fell off.

  “Wah! Hey, careful!” Keys squeaked, grabbing hold of a scale to steady herself.

  “Oh, sorry, Keys,” Sivares said, not sounding sorry at all as she ripped another bite from one of the still-twitching legs. “But seriously, you don’t know what you’re missing.”

  Damon backed up, holding his stomach. “I know exactly what I’m missing. And I’ll stick to travel rations, thanks.”

  Damon gave her a tired smile, still wiping his tongue with a bit of cloth. “Just glad you’re okay, Sivares.”

  She paused mid-bite, the twitching spider leg halfway to her mouth. For a moment, the usual teasing glint in her eyes softened. “Yeah… thanks.”

  Keys, still balancing carefully on her back, looked between them and smirked. “Aww, are we having a moment? Should I give you two some space?”

  Sivares snorted and rolled her eyes. “Please. He’s not my type—he doesn’t smell like burnt metal and lightning.”

  Damon blinked. “What does that even mean?”

  Sivares just grinned widely and took another crunching bite. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  Keys giggled. Damon shook his head with a small laugh, and together, the three of them settled into a strange, oddly comforting calm. The danger had passed—for now. And though they were still far from done, for this one moment, they were safe, together, and weirdly enough… full.

  Even if one of them was full of spiders.

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

  As Talvan and the others were guided by the mage mice, each no taller than a hand but cloaked in fine robes woven with shimmering threads of pure mana, Leryea leaned close to Revy and whispered, “Can’t we take them? I mean… they’re mice. Little ones. What are they gonna do?”

  Revy didn’t even look at her. Her voice was low, tight. “No. Never underestimate them. They can bend mana in ways no one else can. Things even elven sages struggle with. These mice? They don’t use magic. They are magic.”

  As if to punctuate her warning, one of the mice turned his head slightly, one ear twitching. “We heard you,” he said, voice surprisingly deep for his size. “We’re used to it.”

  Leryea flinched. “Sorry…”

  “You will be… if you try anything stupid,” the mouse added, without turning back.

  “Great,” Talvan muttered under his breath. “Diplomacy’s going wonderfully.”

  Ahead, the lead mouse paused and gestured with a tiny staff toward a clearing nestled between ancient root-pillars. At the center stood a polished stone circle, humming faintly with embedded glyphs.

  “We’ve prepared a cleansing circle,” the mouse said. “You carry forest corruption on your boots. Before we allow you entry into Honiewood proper, you’ll need to be purified.”

  Revy blinked. “Corruption?”

  The mouse gave a solemn nod. “Thornwood taints the spirit as well as the skin. The deeper you walked, the more it clung. If left untreated, it festers.”

  Leryea looked down at her boots like they’d personally betrayed her. “We walked through that much evil?”

  “Y“You walked through enough,” the mouse said. “Now, into the circle. Please.”Talvan sighed and stepped forward first. “Let’s just do what they say.”

  Revy followed close behind. “Told you not to underestimate mice.”

  Leryea grumbled but stepped into the circle last. “Yeah, yeah… magic mice, haunted woods, next you’ll say spiders are delicious.”

  “Don’t tempt fate,” Talvan muttered. “We just got past the last nightmare.”