A Dragon for Every Hearth

The first bowl hit the stone floor before I had finished closing the sanctuary door behind me.

A second followed from somewhere deeper in the dragon house, then a chorus of chirps, wingbeats, and irritated little growls rose from the rafters. An orange Copperback planted both front feet on the rim of his empty dish and shoved it toward me with enough force to make the metal scrape across the floor.

“I see it,” I told him as I set down my bag. “The entire village buried my aunt yesterday. You’ll survive breakfast being late by twelve minutes.”

He stared at me, unconvinced.

The room was warmer than the chilly Autumn morning outside, thick with straw, warm stone, dragon thyme, and the smoky sweetness that clung to any building housing too many hearth dragons. Sunlight caught on copper scales, blue wings, moss-green backs, and one pale Ashwhisker curled so tightly in his blanket that he resembled a dusty cushion.

I had expected the sanctuary to feel empty without Iris. Instead, it felt terribly full.

Her green apron still hung beside the feed room. My fingers closed around the worn fabric and found the little scorch mark near the hem from last winter. For a moment, I could see Iris standing there, laughing because one of the hatchlings had climbed her skirt again.

The Copperback struck his bowl once more.

“Fine.”

I tied the apron around my waist.

The feeding chart was pinned to the wall in Iris’s cramped handwriting.

Tumble - medicine with breakfast.

Pipkin - no apples, even if he acts starved.

Marjoram - half portion unless she has actually lost weight.

Bramble - will beg for more, just needs one portion

A brown Brambleback sat beside my ankle with his head bowed dramatically.

“You’ve been slandering Iris for years, haven’t you?”

He made a thin, tragic noise.

“I’m still not feeding you twice.”

By the time everyone had eaten, my braid was half loose and a Mosswing had settled into my skirt pocket. I had counted forty-three bowls, then counted again because the number felt absurd.

Iris always said she had twenty-something dragons.

Apparently, she had stopped updating me when the answer became far more than that.

The first grain bin scraped nearly empty beneath the scoop. The second was worse, and the third held barely enough dried feed to cover the bottom.

The delivery ledger showed an order due nine days earlier. Beside it, Iris had written delayed in narrow, impatient letters. Two unpaid feed invoices were tucked behind the page.

I carried the ledger into her office.

Her spectacles lay open across a book. A chipped green mug sat beside the inkpot. Dried lavender marked a page she would never finish.

I sat in her chair because standing suddenly felt harder than it should have.

Roofing estimates. Feed bills. Veterinary invoices. One from Rosemere stamped SECOND NOTICE in red.

Tumble’s specialist imaging had been recommended twice and never done. Petal’s allergy testing had been postponed. Clover’s joint treatment had been reduced to home care. Junie’s ear problem had been managed for months with the same old medication.

Iris had not stopped caring for them. She had kept adjusting diets, using steam and herbs, stretching medicine, and choosing whichever problem could least afford to wait.

“You should have told me.”

The elderly Ashwhisker shuffled into the office and rested his chin on my boot. His breathing was soft but faintly rough.

“She would have said I had enough to worry about.”

His whiskers twitched.

“I know. I can hear her too.”

The solicitor’s packet sat beneath the account books. I had left it unopened after the funeral because I had assumed it held a deed and a few instructions.

The first page gave me the cottage.

The second gave me the land.

The third gave me Finch Hearth Sanctuary, together with its operating license, debts, registered animals, and every other obligation attached to it.

I turned to the animal register.

Forty-three.

The Mosswing climbed from my pocket and put one tiny green foot on the page.

“This is not helping.”

A knock sounded at the front door before I could decide whether I wanted to cry or be sick.

The man on the step was tall, dark-haired, and rain-damp at the temples, with a leather veterinary case in one hand. A charcoal-black dragon sat on his shoulder, sleek and still, blue-violet light glowing faintly beneath the scales of his throat.

Blackflame.

“Miss Finch?”

His voice was low and precise.

“That depends. Are you here about one of those invoices?”

“No.”

“Then sure, that’s me.  How can I help you?”

Something almost like amusement touched his mouth. He offered his hand.

“Dr. Garrick Rook. Royal Hearth Guild.”

Of course he was.

I shook his hand, aware that mine still smelled faintly of dragon feed.

“I wasn’t expecting the Guild.”

“I was informed the ownership transfer was finalized this morning.”

“It was finalized about three minutes before you knocked.”

His gaze moved past me as an Emberbell shot across the corridor, chased by a furious Sunscale.

“Busy morning?”

“You have no idea.”

“I suspect I’m about to.”

I stepped aside.

The Blackflame stayed on his shoulder as Garrick followed me to Iris’s office. He noticed the invoices immediately but said nothing about them.

“I’ve been assigned to oversee the veterinary transition for Finch,” he said. “Resident assessments, treatment records, facility compliance, and corrective work before licensing review.”

I stopped beside the desk. “Licensing review?”

He opened the folder beneath his arm and handed me a cream envelope sealed with the Royal Hearth Guild crest.

The notice inside was short. Finch Hearth Sanctuary would undergo a full welfare and licensing inspection in thirty days.

Failure to meet current standards could result in suspension or revocation of operating authority.

I looked at Garrick.

“They can close it.”

“If the sanctuary cannot meet minimum requirements, yes.”

“And the dragons?”

“They would be transferred to licensed facilities with available capacity.”

“No.”

The word came out before I could soften it.

Garrick’s expression stayed steady. “I’m not saying that will happen.”

“You’re saying it can.”

“Yes.”

Beyond the office walls came the soft scrape of claws, a sleepy chirp, the rustle of wings settling overhead.

I lowered myself into Iris’s chair and looked at the bills, the register with forty-three names, and the Guild notice in my hand.

Something brushed my knee.

The Blackflame was standing beside my chair.

I had not heard him leave Garrick’s shoulder.

He put one front foot on my skirt, then the other, and climbed into my lap with the complete confidence of a creature who had never considered whether he was invited. I froze as he turned once, tucked his wings against his sides, and settled against my stomach.

Across the desk, Garrick had gone equally still.

I looked up. “I thought Blackflames were selective.”

“They are.”

“Is he always this friendly?”

“No.”

The dragon closed his eyes and pressed his head beneath my hand.

For the first time since Garrick arrived, his composure cracked.

He stared at Cinder, then at me.

“That has never happened before.”