Draconis Genesis: The Dawn of Magic

The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of the sitting room, casting golden beams across the polished wooden floor. Aria sat demurely on a cushioned chair, her hands folded neatly in her lap, the picture of propriety. Around her, the other girls chattered animatedly, their voices rising and falling in singsong tones as they shared the latest gossip.

"Did you hear about Lady Erelise's dress at the ball?" one of them asked, her voice full of mock scandal. "It was a whole season out of style!"

"Appalling," another chimed in, her giggle muffled behind her hand.

Aria forced a polite smile, nodding in agreement as though the conversation truly captured her interest. Inside, her mind was far away, drifting through the vast, imagined landscapes she often retreated to. She imagined herself running through dense forests, climbing rocky peaks, and exploring forgotten ruins—not trapped here, pretending to care about fabrics and hems.

"Don't you think so, Aria?" one of the girls asked, turning to her with an expectant smile.

"Yes, absolutely," Aria replied automatically, though she hadn't heard the question. Her tone was warm, her expression pleasant. None of the girls seemed to notice her detachment, their chatter continuing unabated.

This was the mask she wore, a carefully constructed façade that kept her true self hidden. She had learned, over time, that her boundless curiosity and unorthodox interests made her stand out, and not always in a flattering way. Her family's worried glances, the subtle pauses in conversations when she voiced an unusual thought—these were reminders that the world expected her to fit a mold she simply couldn't fill.

So she pretended.

In the evenings, when the house grew quiet and the shadows stretched long across the walls, Aria found her sanctuary. In her small, candlelit room, she sat hunched over a leather-bound journal, her pen scratching furiously across the pages.

Here, she could be honest.

She wrote about the worlds she imagined, the adventures she dreamed of having, and the questions that gnawed at her mind. Why did rivers flow the way they did? What lay beyond the horizon? Could the stars be reached, or were they merely lights set in the sky? Her thoughts spilled onto the paper in a torrent, unfiltered and unrestrained.

The journal became her confidant, a place where she could explore the depths of her curiosity without fear of judgment. It was where her true self lived, hidden from the prying eyes of those who wouldn't understand.

By day, Aria sought solace in the family library. It was a grand room, its shelves stretching to the high ceiling and filled with books of every kind. She often spent hours there, pulling down volumes on history, geography, and natural philosophy.

Her favorite books, though, were the speculative tales—stories of distant lands, mythical creatures, and daring explorers. She devoured them eagerly, her imagination weaving itself into the fabric of the narratives.

The librarian, a kindly old man with spectacles perched on the tip of his nose, quickly grew fond of her. He would smile indulgently as she returned her borrowed books, always asking her opinion on the stories she read.

"You've quite the appetite for knowledge," he remarked one day as she handed him a stack of tomes.

"I like knowing things," Aria replied simply, her tone earnest.

The librarian chuckled. "A noble pursuit. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

But it was in the forest that Aria felt truly free.

The towering trees, their leaves whispering softly in the breeze, were her sanctuary. Here, she could shed her mask entirely, letting her imagination take flight. She climbed trees with an agility that surprised even herself, her small hands gripping the rough bark as she scaled higher and higher.

From the treetops, she could see the world spread out before her—the rolling hills, the distant mountains, the shimmering river that cut through the valley. She would close her eyes and pretend she was flying, the wind rushing past her face as she soared through the endless sky.

On the forest floor, she practiced her secret hobby. Using sticks and discarded branches, she mimicked the movements she had seen soldiers use during training exercises. Her strikes were clumsy at first, her small arms struggling to wield even the lightest of makeshift weapons. But she persisted, her determination driving her to improve.

Over time, she graduated from sticks to small daggers she had hidden in her room, their polished steel gleaming in the dappled sunlight. She practiced with these in earnest, her movements growing sharper and more precise.

Aria's behavior did not go unnoticed.

Her friends found her charming but odd, her interests so different from their own that they often struggled to relate to her.

"She's always off in her own world," one girl whispered to another during a sewing circle. "It's like she doesn't even care about real life."

"She's peculiar, that's for sure," the other agreed, glancing over at Aria, who was staring out the window with a distant look in her eyes.

Her family, too, began to worry.

"Do you think she's lonely?" her mother asked one evening, her brow furrowed with concern.

"She's just… different," her father replied, though his tone was uncertain. "She'll grow out of it."

But Aria knew she wouldn't.

In those rare moments when she allowed herself to reflect, she felt the weight of her solitude. Her passions, her dreams, her unrelenting curiosity—they set her apart, isolating her in ways she couldn't always articulate.

And yet, she couldn't bring herself to change.

The mask she wore was heavy, yes, but it was necessary. It protected her from the world's expectations, giving her the space she needed to explore her true self in private.

For now, that would have to be enough.

But deep in her heart, she longed for a time when she could cast the mask aside entirely and step into the world as the person she truly was—curious, unconventional, and unafraid.