Dragons Dawn

The roughspun blanket scratches against your scales as you sit up, the chill morning air raising goosebumps on your arms despite your draconic heritage. Sunlight paints stripes across the dormitory floor, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The scent of woodsmoke and stale porridge drifts from the kitchens, a familiar, if not enti...

The roughspun blanket scratches against your scales as you sit up, the chill morning air raising goosebumps on your arms despite your draconic heritage. Sunlight paints stripes across the dormitory floor, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The scent of woodsmoke and stale porridge drifts from the kitchens, a familiar, if not entirely pleasant, aroma. You swing your legs over the edge of the narrow bed, your clawed feet padding softly on the wooden floor. The other children are still asleep, their small forms bundled beneath threadbare covers. A quiet sigh escapes your lips – a sound more akin to the whisper of wind through mountain crags than a human breath. Rising, you stretch, your wings – normally invisible, now subtly appear as faint shadows on your back – lengthen and retract as you extend, feeling the familiar pull in your shoulder blades. The scales on your cheeks shimmer faintly as you turn your head, catching the light. You pad over to the small, cracked mirror hanging on the wall near the window. Your reflection stares back: red hair a tangled mess, fiery eyes still heavy with sleep. The horns on your head, small but undeniably dragon, curve back along your skull. A sigh this time laced with a touch of impatience. You reach for the worn wooden comb on the windowsill, drawing it carefully through the knots in your hair. Each stroke is slow and deliberate, a small act of control in a world where you often feel adrift. As you work, you gaze out the window. LowerHowl is slowly stirring to life. Carts rumble on cobblestone streets, their drivers yelling greetings. Smoke rises from countless chimneys, painting the sky in hazy layers. The distant towers of the city guard gleam in the morning light. The orphanage bell rings. A loud, clanging summons that shatters the morning quiet. The other children stir, groaning and stretching. You turn away from the window, placing the comb back on the sill. Already, the scramble for clothes and the sleepy complaints have begun. Your stomach rumbles. Porridge awaits, and after that, chores. Another day begins within the walls of the orphanage, but beneath the surface of the mundane, a deeper question stirs within you: what lies beyond LowerHowl, beyond the familiar routine? What destiny awaits a dragon in human form in the vast and perilous world of Antar? The tantalizing idea of adventure calls from the horizon, whispering on the wind like the rustle of scales.

The clatter of wooden bowls and the murmur of sleepy voices fill the dining hall. You take your place at the long, scarred table, the rough wood cold beneath your fingertips. A bowl of grey, lumpy porridge sits before you, a thin gruel that barely qualifies as food. The scent is unappetizing, but you swallow your sigh and pick up the spoo...

The clatter of wooden bowls and the murmur of sleepy voices fill the dining hall. You take your place at the long, scarred table, the rough wood cold beneath your fingertips. A bowl of grey, lumpy porridge sits before you, a thin gruel that barely qualifies as food. The scent is unappetizing, but you swallow your sigh and pick up the spoon. Across from you, a young boy named Thomas shovels his porridge down with gusto, seemingly oblivious to its flavor. He grins at you, a gap-toothed smile, before returning to his meal. You offer a small, polite smile in return, but your mind is already elsewhere. Each spoonful of the tasteless porridge grinds against your thoughts, your mind wandering. Dragons were once revered, weren't they? Legends spoke of their wisdom, their power. But here you are, scrubbing floors and eating slop, a secret hidden beneath a veneer of humanity. You wonder about your true parents, whether they were even still alive... The matron, a gaunt woman with sharp eyes, watches over the children like a hawk. Her gaze lingers on you for a moment, a flicker of suspicion in her eyes before she turns away. You lower your gaze, focusing on the porridge, trying to become as invisible as possible. You finish your ration quickly, the bland taste leaving a lingering unpleasantness in your mouth. Rising, you place your bowl on the stack by the door, joining the other children who are already gathering brooms and buckets. "Emilia, you're on scrubbing duty in the west wing," the matron barks, not bothering to look up from her ledger. "And make sure you get those stains out this time." A sigh escapes you, barely audible. The west wing is the oldest part of the orphanage, perpetually damp and grimy. The stains she speaks of have been there for years, impervious to any amount of scrubbing. Still, you nod and take a bucket and scrub brush, joining the other children as they disperse to their assigned tasks. The work is hard and monotonous. You scrub and scrub, your muscles aching, but the stains remain, mocking your efforts. The other children work in silence, their faces etched with weariness. There's a sense of resignation in the air, a quiet acceptance of their lot in life. As you scrub, you catch snatches of conversation. Whispers of the outside world, of the city beyond the orphanage walls, of adventures and opportunities. Your heart quickens. A glint of sunlight catches your eye. You glance towards the window, seeing the distant towers of LowerHowl gleaming in the distance. Suddenly, your brush slips, sending a spray of dirty water across the floor. A small sound, but in the quiet of the west wing, it echoes loudly. The matron's sharp gaze snaps towards you. "Emilia!" she snaps, her voice like a whip. "Pay attention! You'll be scrubbing floors until nightfall if you can't even do that right!" You bow your head, shame burning in your cheeks. "Yes, Matron," you murmur, and you continue scrubbing, thinking once again of the call of adventure. The whispers from beyond those walls that won't let you be...

The west wing is finally clean, or at least as clean as you can make it. The ever-present dampness clings to the air, and the stubborn stains remain, but you've scrubbed until your arms ache. You gather your bucket and brush, the water sloshing with each step, and head back towards the main dormitory. The dormitory is empty and silent. T...

The west wing is finally clean, or at least as clean as you can make it. The ever-present dampness clings to the air, and the stubborn stains remain, but you've scrubbed until your arms ache. You gather your bucket and brush, the water sloshing with each step, and head back towards the main dormitory. The dormitory is empty and silent. The other children are likely still occupied with their chores, mending clothes or weeding the garden. You take a seat on the edge of your cot, the thin mattress offering little comfort. Images flicker through your mind, a constant replay of your life here. Families arriving at the orphanage, their eyes scanning the rows of children. Their gazes often stop on you, but not with the warmth of interest. Disgust, pity, or simply indifference – those are the expressions you see most often. Your size has always set you apart. You're taller, stronger, even more robust than the other children. It's as if you've grown too quickly, your body straining against the confines of childhood. And your eyes...those strange, reptilian eyes that betray your secret. Each time a family comes, hope flares briefly in your chest, only to be extinguished by the familiar sting of rejection. They choose the smaller, more delicate children, the ones who fit neatly into their idea of a perfect family. You are always overlooked, always the outsider. You rise and walk to the far wall, sinking to the floor with your back against the rough wood. The memories are a weight on your chest, a dull ache that never truly goes away. Why are you so different? Why can't you be like the others, easily loved and accepted? Tears prick your eyes, hot and unwelcome. You squeeze them shut, but they escape anyway, tracing paths down your cheeks. You don't want to cry, but the sadness is overwhelming, a dam breaking within you. A surge of anger bubbles up, surprising you. Why should you be rejected? Why should you be made to feel like an outcast? You clench your fists, your nails digging into your palms. It's not fair. Your hands tense, claws extending almost involuntarily. The wood beneath your fingers groans, and you realize, with a jolt, that you've left deep gouges in the floorboards. Three long, parallel scratches mar the smooth surface, a testament to your hidden strength. "Shit," you whisper, staring at the damage. Your heart pounds in your chest. Despite your age, you are far stronger than a human. Your draconic heritage gives you that, and you didn't mean to do it. What if someone sees? What if the matron discovers your secret?