Draconis Genesis: The Dawn of Magic

Aria's world was expanding, but it still felt impossibly small compared to the sprawling ideas that swirled in her head. The confines of her family's home—a cavernous structure of polished wood and stone that seemed endless to her toddler legs—was a kingdom in its own right. Yet even this kingdom could not contain the daydreams that bubbled up within her as naturally as breathing.

She toddled through the halls, her bare feet pattering against the wooden floors, her small hands brushing the smooth walls as she moved. The house was a place of warmth and familiarity, filled with faces she trusted and voices that soothed. There was her mother, elegant and poised, who smelled faintly of lavender as she brushed Aria's wild hair into submission. Her father was sterner, with a deep voice that carried authority even when he spoke softly to her. Despite their differences, both parents treated her like the most precious thing in the world.

But Aria's mind often wandered far beyond their presence.

The first time she tried to say a word, it came out as a garbled string of sounds that even she didn't understand. She was alone in her little playroom, stacking wooden blocks that wobbled precariously as they reached above her head. She had no one to talk to but herself, so she tried.

"Da… da-da… daaaaah."

Her voice was high and soft, more of a sing-song than anything resembling speech. But to her, it was an accomplishment—a victory over the quiet that often surrounded her. She clapped her tiny hands together, laughing at the noise she'd made.

It wasn't long before she began to string more sounds together, mimicking the melodic tones she heard from her parents and the household servants. Her mother, delighted by this development, began encouraging her with gentle repetitions.

"Say 'Mama,'" she would coo, leaning close with a smile. "Ma-ma."

Aria would stare up at her, wide-eyed, before attempting the word. "Ma… maaaa…"

"That's my clever girl!" her mother would exclaim, scooping her up and spinning her around.

Her father was less outwardly expressive, but his pride was no less obvious. He would crouch to her level, his large hands resting on his knees, and say, "Can you say 'Papa,' Aria? Pa-pa."

"Pa… pa!"

Her father's deep chuckle warmed the room. "There she is. That's my Aria."

As Aria grew, her speech improved, and so did her curiosity. Her parents, recognizing her budding intelligence, began her private studies earlier than they had planned. Tutors were hired—learned men and women who came with stacks of books and scrolls, their hands calloused from years of handling parchment.

At first, Aria loved her lessons. She would sit at the little desk her father had commissioned, her feet dangling far above the floor, and listen with rapt attention as her tutors spoke of letters and numbers, of shapes and colors.

"'A' is for apple," one tutor said, holding up a picture of a bright red fruit.

"Apple!" Aria exclaimed, her voice triumphant.

"Yes, very good!"

But as the lessons became more structured, Aria's mind began to wander. It wasn't that she didn't understand—she grasped concepts quickly, her tutors often remarking on her sharpness—but the rigid structure of the lessons felt confining.

When they spoke of letters, she imagined them as little creatures, crawling across the parchment and forming secret messages. When they spoke of numbers, she wondered what it would be like to live in a world made entirely of shapes—triangles for mountains, circles for suns, squares for houses.

And when they spoke of the natural world, of rivers and forests and skies, her mind drifted to places that didn't exist.

"What are you thinking about, Aria?" one tutor asked one day, catching her as she stared out the window, her eyes unfocused.

"Worlds," she said simply, turning back to him with a dreamy smile.

"Worlds?"

"Different ones," she explained, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Where the rivers are gold, and the trees can talk."

The tutor frowned slightly but didn't press further. Aria returned to her lesson, but her mind remained in that imaginary place long after the tutor left.

Her family quickly learned of her tendency to drift off into daydreams. At first, they found it charming.

"She's got her head in the clouds," her mother would say with a fond smile, watching as Aria stared at the ceiling during dinner, her fork idly poking at her food.

"She's imaginative," her father replied, though his tone carried a hint of concern. "That's not a bad thing."

But as her daydreams began to interrupt her lessons and distract her from her tasks, the label of "odd" began to surface more often.

"Aria," her mother scolded gently one evening, finding her in the hallway staring at a tapestry. "Your tutor said you were distracted again today. What were you thinking about this time?"

Aria hesitated, her little brow furrowing. "What if the people in the pictures could move?"

"The pictures?"

She pointed to the tapestry—a woven scene of knights and castles, of battles fought and won. "What if they could leave the picture and walk around like us?"

Her mother sighed, brushing a stray curl from Aria's face. "My darling, it's a lovely thought, but you must focus. The real world is what matters, not… whatever it is you dream of."

Aria nodded, but the faraway look in her eyes didn't fade.

Her charm, however, remained undeniable. Despite her oddities, Aria's presence had a way of softening even the hardest hearts. Her laughter was infectious, her smile bright enough to light the darkest corners of the house. She was endlessly curious, always asking questions, always seeking to understand the world around her.

And though she was often lost in her own imagination, her family loved her deeply. Her mother would sit with her by the fire in the evenings, braiding her hair as Aria told wild stories about dragons and magical lands. Her father, though stern, would often pick her up and carry her on his shoulders, showing her the world from a higher perspective.

"She's special," her mother would say sometimes, watching Aria with a mix of wonder and worry.

"She's different," her father would reply, his tone guarded but not unkind.

Aria, for her part, didn't see herself as different. To her, the daydreams were as real and vital as the walls of the house or the lessons in her books. The worlds she imagined were hers to explore, hers to create. And even as she learned to speak and write, to count and read, she carried those worlds with her—tucked away in the corners of her mind, where no one could scold her for dreaming.

And in those quiet moments, when her tutors' voices faded into the background and the words on the page blurred into shapes and colors, Aria felt a strange, unexplainable pull—like the whisper of a distant melody she couldn't quite hear, calling her toward something greater.

Something beyond her small, familiar world.