Lover

The whispers had started subtly, like the rustling of dry leaves in a forgotten corner of the academy. At first, I’d dismissed them, attributing them to the usual dragonet gossip, the fleeting enthusiasms and sudden disinterests that defined our existence. But the rustling grew, morphing into a murmur, then a low hum that vibrated through the polished stone halls, a disquieting sound that always seemed to follow me. Every averted gaze, every hushed conversation that ceased the moment I approached, felt like a tiny shard of ice pricking my skin.

School had always been my sanctuary, a place where my awkwardness and the gnawing emptiness inside me could be momentarily forgotten. Here, my abilities, the ones that felt like a curse in the quiet of my own mind, were praised. I was the prodigy, the one with an innate understanding of ancient runes, the dragonet who could coax the most vibrant hues from a spectrum of elemental paints. They’d looked at me with awe, and for a brief, shining period, their admiration had been a shield.

But shields, I was learning, could shatter.