See what I mean? No respect. First, they saddle me with routing calls and herding the dispatch floozies, and now—on my lunch break, mind you—I’m babysitting dragons. Dragons. On. My. Lunch. Break.

Life’s just unfair like that.

I managed a tactical dash to the HQ cafeteria, snagging a veggie wrap, a cup of joe, and—victory of victories—the last unclaimed copy of the Sliberberg Sentinel. Armed with my spoils, I trudged (well, flew slowly) toward the Unaccompanied Dragon Minors Room. Yes, that’s its actual name. Yes, it exists solely to keep the little fire hazards from wandering off.

The door was a full-sized, human-style thing, and opening it was like wrestling a vault. Inside, the room was painted in cheerful pastels—the exact shade of nausea you find in nurseries and kindergartens. Soft piles of toys littered the floor, a minefield of squeaks, rattles, and chewables.

Here’s the thing: in our line of work, we get enough whimwhirled folks—people and books pulled in from other worlds—that we know how dragons should act. Which makes it all the weirder how they act here. These dragons? They act like… people. Not just people—children. Wyrmlings here are needy, oversized human babies and toddlers. Older ones? Teenagers with wings. And for reasons no one’s explained, not a single dragon born in the Feengrenze has ever reached adulthood.

The chromatics are the strangest. Some get stuck in their baby years forever, which is why bored, rich fey keep them as living status symbols. And the proportions? Completely wrong. Wyrmlings in other worlds are sleek miniature versions of their parents. Ours are chubby-faced, stubby-limbed, tubby-tailed butterballs. Honestly, the behavior almost makes more sense when you see them.

Case in point: today’s lineup.

One red wyrmling was pawing the walls like he expected them to fall over. When they didn’t, he went full baby-red-dragon meltdown—earsplitting wails and all. The white wyrmling—a girl, I think—was chasing a ball in circles, pouncing and giggling like a sugar-drunk toddler. And then there was the silver one. Flat on her back. Batting at a dangling toy in a play gym. Giggling.

Weird even for a silver.

I ignored them, plopped myself in the corner with my wrap, coffee, and newspaper, and tried to salvage the break. I already knew the front-page headline—something about the heat wave, thanks to the newsie on High Street—so I skipped ahead.

Page two mocked me. There it was: Princess Kadia von Silverwing, the “ruler” of a neighboring realm, announcing new laws about cakes, balls, and quests. Yes, laws. About cake. Dragons getting stuck in their youth? Exhibit A. Kadia is one of the most “mature” dragons alive—meaning she stopped aging one year shy of adulthood—and she spends her reign live-action roleplaying as a fairy-tale princess. Her kingdom runs on whimsy, lace, and whatever teenage mood she’s in that week.

I sighed, hovered to flip the paper’s human-sized pages, and congratulated myself on at least looking busy.

Which is why I didn’t notice one of the wyrmlings had apparently taken a very keen interest in me while I was wrestling with the human sized pages. I was trying to flip open page six without folding myself in half—when I felt something nuzzle my back.

I turned.

There was the silver wyrmling. Staring straight at me. Pink ribbon clamped in her mouth like a peace offering.

Where in the ever-loving Faerie did she get that?

She plopped it at my feet, sat back on her padded little behind—oh, did I forget to mention? They wear diapers. Yes. Dragons. In diapers. Because along with acting like human babies, they also require the same potty training. And judging by these three, we were still in the “don’t trust them on the carpet” stage. So yes, I was expected to change them. Yes, my day just kept getting better.

Anyway, she was sitting there, staring up at me with those huge gray eyes, gummy almost-toothless grin, and a little snout that said “I’m cute and I know it.” I shrugged and turned back to my paper.

Boop. Another nuzzle. Same ribbon. Same look.

“Alright,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. I took the ribbon, looped it around her neck, and landed on her back to get a better angle. Bow-tying is not a core skill in my line of work, but I dredged up the muscle memory from my tomboyish girlhood and eventually managed something resembling a classic girly bow.

She toddled away—yes, toddled, like a baby learning to walk but on four legs—to the corner where someone, in their infinite wisdom, had put a play vanity. She admired my handiwork for a moment, then bee-lined (dragon-lined?) to the toy pile.

This time she came back with one of Gleamspark’s stuffed Queen Aoibheann dolls in her mouth. I squinted. Silver dragons aren’t exactly my specialty, but… was this one a girl? I zipped over to the clipboard by the door. Yep—female. Figures. She was acting exactly like I probably did at her age. I distinctly remember having the matching King Frederick doll when I was a toddler, though mine wasn’t covered in dragon drool.

“Pway,” she announced, looking up at me with the doll clutched in her claws.

I tried to turn back to my paper. She followed. Landed beside me. Nuzzled me. “Pway.”

I wanted to tell her off. Really, I did. But those big gray eyes? They could melt iron. And maybe, just maybe, they brushed up against that dusty corner of my brain where my own girlhood was locked away. I relented.

“Play,” I sighed.

She chirped—an actual happy chirp—and toddled to the toy pile. I followed, because even if I hadn’t meant it as a promise, every fey knows the price for breaking one. She dug around until she came up with—of course—the King Frederick doll. The match to her Queen Aoibheann.

She plopped down, waiting for me to make the first move.

I shrugged. Pulled a little druidcraft from my repertoire—nothing flashy, just enough to levitate King Frederick into the air and give him a puppet bow. She caught on immediately, awkwardly lifting the Queen in her claws and trying to mimic me. Coordination wasn’t her strong suit; she toppled over more than once, and I had to catch her each time.

But somehow, against all my better judgment, she got me to do something I hadn’t done since I was three years old.

Play with dolls.

And—don’t tell anyone this—I was actually having fun.

The rest of the hour vanished like a free donut tray in the break room. One moment I was grudgingly tying bows, the next I was… well… right there beside the little silver wyrmling the whole time.

We played catch with one of the balls. Hide and seek. I read her a picture book, booped her nose, gave her belly rubs, even hugged her—multiple times. She giggled. I giggled. For—ugh—more minutes than I care to admit, she was my world and I was hers.

And before you get that look, yes, I still kept an eye on the other two. The white wyrmling spent the entire hour chasing that ball until she collapsed in a nap. The red one sulked in a makeshift lair, nursing a grudge against the universe. The silver and I gave him space—self-preservation and all that.

Only once did she venture too close. She spotted something shiny buried in his hoard and, in a move that will one day make a bard sing her praises, toddled in, plucked out a crystal pendant, and strutted back to me like she’d just robbed a dragon emperor.

“What a brave girl,” I said. “Marching right into that grumpy red dragon’s lair to claim treasure.”

She chirped, pleased with herself, and started to play with it.

“You like the crystal? Fine. Your name’s Crystal from now on.” It fit—a perfect name for a little silver ice-breather.

“Cwys-tal,” she lisped, as if trying the name on for size. Then again, louder. And again, like she’d found a new favorite word.

I giggled. Yes, giggled. Me. I even tied the pendant to her ribbon so she could show it off.

And that’s when it happened.

“Mama,” she said.

My heart didn’t just melt—it puddled.

The rest of my lunch break was spent riding around on Crystal’s back like I was ten again, laughing like I didn’t have a care in the world.

Then the door opened.

Dazzle walked in with a few of the human and dwarf admin ladies, trays of food in hand. All of them stopped dead at the sight of me—Tilda Bramblethorn, cold-hearted, no-nonsense dispatcher—playing dragon dress-up.

I bolted upright, trying to glue my professional face back on. No use.

“Mama?” Crystal asked, inquiringly.

“Mama!” she said again when I started backing toward the door. Louder when I reached it. By the time I slipped through, she was crying.

The door shut behind me, and… something in me cracked. I’d abandoned her. Should’ve at least put her to sleep first. Shouldn’t have thought of her as mine. Shouldn’t have felt… whatever this was. So I floated back to Dispatch half-heartedly, headset on, head in hands, waiting for work to pull me out of it. No such luck—my console was silent while the others were buried under calls.

“I got flooding in Alteburg,” Buttercup said, which made all of us look up—flooding in this weather? She checked the Pixie Court callbox, went pale, and announced, “Countess Rósín Dubh has flooded Pixie Court.”

The place erupted. Everyone wanted to know if their houses were underwater. I sighed—my own home was practically guaranteed to be soggy, but I couldn’t muster the energy to care.

They begged me to call my father—the duty sergeant at Pixiewood Watchhouse. I patched through.

“HQ to Pixiewood. Urgent call for Duty Sergeant Bramblethorn—tell him Tilda’s asking.”

A moment later, his voice came on, warm as ever. “Hi darling, what’s the matter?”

“My coworkers are clamoring about their houses,” I sighed. “Can you check? I’ll owe you one.”

He chuckled. “Okay, but it’s chaos out there—everyone’s taking a dip in the pond, even your brothers.” And then he hung up.

“There. Your houses will be checked. Happy?”

They nodded and drifted back to their consoles. But they kept glancing at me.

Because whether I liked it or not… something in my attitude had shifted.

For the next half hour, the girls whispered like a flock of hens about what had me so “moody.” (As if I’ve ever not been moody.) I ignored them… until Dazzle burst back in.

One look at me and she lit up like she’d found a week’s worth of gossip in one afternoon.
“BY the lord and Lady, girls,” she called, beckoning her entourage closer. “You will not believe what I just saw. Our very own Tilda—yes, Tilda—riding the silver wyrmling like a little horsie. And you know what’s crazier? It called her mama.”

The room erupted.

“And,” she added, milking it for all it was worth, “she named her Crystal. Poor wittle Crystal was inconsolable, begging for her mama, crying like a baby.” Then she aimed a finger at me. “Looks like our ice queen has a heart after all—only took a baby dragon to find it.”

That was it. The rest of the shift became a never-ending parade of comments about my “princess,” “setting up the nursery,” and whether I was “going to start knitting baby booties.”

Then Anna—who had third shift at dragon daycare—swooped over, grinning.
“Wanna know a secret?” she said, not waiting for an answer. “The detectives can’t find any ID at the crime scene. Nobody’s missing wyrmlings. Those three just… popped into existence. Orphans! Tragic, right? You know what that means, Tilly-willy?”

I swallowed hard. I knew exactly what it meant. They’d be put up for adoption.

Anna launched into some dramatic monologue about how she’d adopt one herself if she wasn’t expecting, but I didn’t hear a word. That was the last straw.

I shot out of my chair, wings buzzing, and bolted for admin. Paperwork became a blur. I came out fifteen minutes later in a daze… and officially in the running to be Crystal’s mama.

And weirdly? Just having my name down made me feel… lighter. Focus came back. Work was quieting anyway—the city had apparently decided that our police cordon was more of a “gentle suggestion” and had swarmed the flooded Pixie Court to cool off.

Then my console rang. City Hall.
“Requesting watch detail for work crews to enchant the Pixie Court fountain,” the voice said, followed by a laundry list of enchantments, plus notes on changing rooms, safety fences, and a food court.

I blinked. “Girls,” I said slowly, “I think the government’s turning the court into a pool complex.”

Cue collective squealing.

The afternoon stayed oddly calm after that. Sure, we had a few weird calls—like the warning that AB Stormalong’s clipper was an hour out (please, gods, don’t let him block the harbor), and a tantrum from a locomotive dragon wyrmling named Belfast that took out part of the Wonderforge. But mostly… quiet.

Until the door opened.

Tiny claws clicked across the floor.
“Mama!”

Crystal.

I dropped my spear sized  and dove to the ground. She barreled into me, licking my face like a puppy while the other girls gawked. Commander Ironshoal appeared in the doorway, every inch the dignified officer. The girls snapped to attention. I didn’t.

“Sergeant Tilda,” she said formally, “the adoption board has approved your petition for you to become Crystal adoptive mother.”

I froze.

“Furthermore, you are entitled to maternity leave and the new-parent pay raise. Since I know you won’t take the leave, here’s a small allowance to get your daughter settled in.” She dropped a coin purse at my feet so heavy it could concuss a troll. I made it vanish into my pixie purse—human-sized currency, meet pixie-sized magic storage.

Then—miracle of miracles—she smiled.
“I also have a gift from the entire force.”

She produced a tiny pink collar, fastened it around Crystal’s neck, and murmured an incantation. Crystal shrank down to the size of a baby pixie, curling against my chest like she’d been there her whole life.

“That collar can resize her twice per day,” the commander explained. “Trust me—you’ll need it. Oh, and if you’d like, I can arrange a playdate with my youngest, Jatrana. Crystal is… adorable.”

And just like that, she was gone. The girls stared after her, momentarily remembering their commander is not just a terrifying badass, but a mother herself.

I hugged my little snowball close, not noticing that the girls had surrounded us.

“Oh, Tilly…” Dazzle’s voice was syrupy enough to rot teeth. I turned to see the entire crew grinning like devils.

“Since you’re a mama now,” she said sweetly, “you’re going to set up a nursery for your little princess.”

“As well as buy all the baby stuff,” Lilly added.

“And we,” Anna chimed in, “will be her aunties.”

“We’re not taking no for an answer,” Sparkle finished.

They didn’t even let me protest—just grabbed me, wings and all, and hauled me out the door.

I had no choice but to go along for the ride.