Dragon delivery service CH 87 Delivery by Royal Seal

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Sivares circled once before descending into Homblom. Her wings beat steadily as she touched down in the wide street near the market square.

Emily looked around in confusion.

“…No one’s screaming,” she said. “No one’s running inside.”

Keys, perched comfortably between the two humans on Sivares’s back, swished her tail.
“They’re used to us now.”

She motioned around with one tiny paw. “And Sivares helped catch a group of smugglers a while back. People remember things like that.”

Sivares lowered herself so Damon and Emily could dismount.

“This is where we get most of our work,” Damon said, shifting the strap of his shoulder bag. “Deliveries, contracts, escort jobs.”

Keys hopped down and fixed her cloak.
“And today we turn in all the receipts.”

Damon nodded. “After that, we’re done with our route for the year.”

Emily looked down the calm street again, shops open, people walking normally, a child pointing at Sivares without fear.

“…So this is what it looks like,” she uttered softly, “when a dragon isn’t something to run from.”

Sivares folded her wings close to her sides.

“…I like this better.”

They walked down the streets together. Some of the town guards gave Sivares a wide berth so she wouldn’t step on them, but at least they weren’t diving for cover or pointing weapons at her anymore.

They moved aside.

“Oh, hello,” Damon said, lifting a hand in greeting as they passed one guard.

The man wavered, then gave an awkward wave back.

Soon they reached the post office.

Damon stopped at the door. “Come on. Time to meet our boss.”

The small bell above the door chimed as he walked inside. Emily and Keys followed, while Sivares waited outside, her head lowered near the window so she could still see them.

Behind the front desk sat Postmaster Harrel, a thin man holding a teacup in both hands as if it were the only thing keeping him steady.

He looked up.

And froze.

It was the expression of someone who had just seen a ghost.

His hairline seemed farther back than Damon remembered, probably from the last time he’d seen Sivares. Or maybe that was just his imagination.

“Ah… hello, Postmaster Harrel,” Damon said. “I’m finished with my deliveries.”

He reached into his bag for his ledger.

Harrel raised a hand. “Damon… before that.”

He turned and reached behind the desk, pulling out a single envelope.

It was red.

Thick.

And sealed with dark wax.

Stamped into the wax was the royal crest.

Damon stared.

Harrel swallowed.
“…This came for you.”

Harrel slid the letter across the desk toward Damon.

“I don’t know what you did,” he whispered softly, “but you’ve caught the king’s attention. That’s never a good thing. I’m honestly surprised they sent a message instead of an army.”

Damon stared down at the envelope.

It was clearly addressed to him.

And to Sivares.

Harrel glanced from the letter to Damon, then back again.
“I suggest you read that,” he said, voice faint, “before we continue with… anything else.”

Damon stepped out so Sivares could see the letter, too. He popped the seal with his thumb, the wax cracking as the letter opened, and unfolded it.

To Damon of Honeyblom, and to Sivares, Dragon of the Northern Peaks,

By the seal of the Crown, this message is delivered to you.

As High Moon draws near, the kingdom finds itself in need of trusted hands and steady wings. Word of your deeds has reached the capital, and your names have been set before the throne.

You are hereby summoned for a delivery of the utmost importance to the kingdom.

This charge is not given lightly, nor to common couriers. What you are asked to carry and where you are asked to go will be revealed upon your arrival.

You are to present yourselves at the capital without undue delay.

May your road be clear,
and your flight untroubled.

By order of His Majesty, Albrecht IV
Under the Seal of the Crown

They stood there for a moment with the letter open between Damon’s hands, the red wax seal cracked and flaked where his thumb had broken it. The parchment was thick and faintly scented, the kind only used for royal correspondence. The graceful writing curled across the page in careful strokes, every line precise and formal.

Keys leaned forward, tiny paws resting on Damon’s shoulder as she peered at the writing.

“…That’s definitely the king’s seal,” she said. “I remember it. Same crest as last time. Sun and crown, right there.”

Damon nodded quietly. “Yeah. Same mark.”
He didn’t sound nervous, just thoughtful.

Outside, Sivares shifted where she waited in the street, her long neck angled so one golden eye could peer through the open doorway. The late sunlight touched her scales, making them shine softly. She said nothing, but her tail curled once on the cobblestones.

“They don’t send letters like this unless it’s important,” Keys went on. “Last time we got dragged into court business, there were banners and trumpets and guards everywhere.”

Damon gave a small huff of a laugh. “And we almost got trampled by nobles in too much perfume.”

Keys shuddered. “I still can’t smell lavender without thinking about that hallway.”

Damon looked back toward the counter. “Hey, Harrel,” he called, lifting the letter slightly. “When’s the next High Moon?”

The postmaster startled, nearly spilling his tea. He set the cup down with a soft clink and turned toward the calendar crookedly nailed to the wall behind him. He rose from his stool and shuffled over, squinting as he straightened his spectacles.

“High Moon, High Moon…” he muttered, flipping a thick parchment page. “No, that’s planting cycle… and that’s storm week…”

He flipped again, frowning.
Then again.

“Ah. There.” He tapped the page with one finger. “About a month and a half from now. Just under six weeks.”

Keys let out a low whistle. “That’s not exactly urgent-urgent.”

Damon folded the letter carefully and slid it into his bag, tucking it between his receipts and a wrapped bundle of dried travel bread.

“So we’ve got time,” he said. “Which probably means this isn’t a summons to be arrested.”

Harrel eyed him uneasily. “Royal letters are rarely casual, Damon.”

Damon held his gaze evenly. “True. But they already know us.”

Harrel blinked. “You mean… because of last time?”

Damon nodded. “We stood in his court. Delivered for him. He saw Sivares and didn’t order her shot with ballistae. That’s something.”

Outside, Sivares lowered her head a little, her voice rumbling just loud enough to carry through the doorway.

“He did not look at me as prey,” she said. “He looked at me as a problem… but a thinking one.”

Keys nodded. “That’s royal-level respect.”

Harrel rubbed his temples. “I still can’t believe a dragon is part of my delivery roster.”

Damon loosened his bag strap. “Neither can I, most days.”

He glanced at the letter’s edge jutting out of his bag.
“The king didn’t need us for a parade this time,” he said. “He asked for a delivery.”

Sivares’s eye narrowed slightly. “Deliveries can still be dangerous.”

“True,” Damon said. “But at least this one’s official.”

Harrel hesitated, then sighed. “Well… if the Crown is calling on you again, I suppose that means you did something right the first time.”

Keys perked up. “See? We’re professionals now.”

They stepped back out into the sunlight. Town guards halted in their patrols, giving Sivares space, but none raised a weapon. A few townsfolk waved. One child tugged on her mother’s sleeve and pointed.

The letter felt heavier in Damon’s bag than its weight suggested.

Not with fear.

With meaning.

They had stood before the king once already, not as legends, not as soldiers, but as couriers who happened to arrive with a dragon.

And now he was calling on them again.

High Moon was coming.

And whatever waited for them this time…
it wasn’t for strangers.

Keys’ tail swished as she balanced on Damon’s shoulder, staring at the letter’s seal as if it might suddenly start talking.

“So… what now?” she asked. “We just… wait until High Moon?”

Damon shook his head slowly. “No. We don’t wait, but we don’t go to the king yet.”

Emily shifted her pack higher on her shoulder. “We still have work to do first.”

Sivares stood a little apart from them, wings folded close to her sides so she wouldn’t block the street. Even here, where people no longer screamed and ran from her, she still felt too large for the world around her.

“Oldar comes first,” Damon said. “For Aztharion.”

Emily nodded. “The dwarves there specialize in healing that might work for his wings.”

Emily folded her arms. “They’ll need Aztharion’s papers, too.”

Keys nodded. “So Oldar is for Aztharion’s wings.”

“Exactly,” Damon said.

Keys’ ears drooped a little. “And the elves are for the amber mouse.”

Damon’s hand moved to his bag again, fingers brushing the hard shape hidden inside.

They had gone to New Honeywood earlier that day. The magemice were scholars; if anyone knew what an amber mouse was supposed to be, it should have been them.

Instead, they had found fear.

The elders had stared at the amber shard as if it were a bomb waiting to go off.

An amber mouse, one of the elders whispered, as if a fairy tale had come to life.

From old stories, tales about mice sealed in living resin to preserve them through disasters and ages long past.

But none of the magemice alive today knew how to undo it.

“They could help him,” Emily murmured. “They just don’t know how to free him safely.”

Keys’ whiskers twitched. “The elders said the magic that sealed him isn’t the same as modern spells. It’s… layered. If you crack it wrong, it could stop his heart.”

“Or dissolve him completely,” Damon added.

Sivares lowered her head slightly. “They fear killing him by trying to save him.”

Emily nodded. “Which is why we need the elves. Their records go back far enough that they might remember how amber bindings were made to reverse it.”

Keys hugged her tail close. “So the elves are our best chance at freeing him.”

“Exactly,” Damon said.

Emily looked back toward the road leading out of town. “So our path is clear.”

She counted softly:

“Oldar — for Aztharion’s wings.”
“Willowthorn — for the amber mouse.”
“And then Avagron — for the king.”

Keys tilted her head. “And in that order?”

Damon paused, then turned back toward the post office.

“First things first,” he said. “I still need to file my delivery reports.”

Keys perked up. “And buy snacks.”

Damon sighed. “Yes. And snacks.”

Emily smiled. “Important preparations.”

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