Dragonborn. Serenity sighed and brushed the word out of the sand. Fantasy books used the term freely to mean all varieties of things, but in Thytrea the word had a meaning only whispered about by the most rebellious of children and zealots. Or scholars. Her father was one such, which was the only reason she even knew the word. Her school was far too close to the Queen’s Circle to risk childish whispers. Even as oblivious eleven-year-olds, but especially now that she was eighteen and expected to Find a Way. Once you have a Way, you are tried as an adult in court, and the punishment for such rumours was a swift trip to the kiln. They wouldn’t even plant your ashes, but scattered them in the water instead.

The back wall of the Queen’s Circle rested high above a small cove on a cliff, soaring up from the dark rock like a crown—if crowns were dark marbled granite and blocky crenellations instead of delicate twists of silver and sparkling gemstones. A singular precarious path chipped into the face of the cliff wound down to a narrow crescent of fine white sand. It was here that Serenity applied to use for her Finding. Quiet and undisturbed were requirements for everyone, but where she could be watched was only a requirement for her. Mother, after all, was the one to turn Father in to the Queen’s Guard. Serenity was deemed too young to understand his heresy, but the Guard’s watch on her was always closer. Always prickling the back of her neck.

She drew her finger through the sand again, and again spelled the forbidden word. Dragonborn. She wiped it away. Wings. Then, fire, majesty. Then death. That was all it would be for her. Death and not even a tree for her soul to grow in.

Too late, she thought bitterly, that seed was planted long ago.

Her father used to help her build forts with blankets and pillows between his desk and chair, using books to weigh down the sides and his desk lamp as the moon. Then, he would crawl inside with her, chuckling at her admonishments to be careful not to bring the fort down around them with his head. It was their space, and it kept out her mother’s reproving look and mutterings of childishness. Mother was good for cookies and the lingering taste of food Serenity would always associate with home and safety, but Father was good for secrets and fun and wrapping her up tight in his arms to make the big scary world go away. He was good for whispers in a dim blanket fort about the people whose Waymark turned into wings and who could Imagine even after the Shift and adulthood took the powers of Childhood away from them. He was good for the private informality of Dad and the smell of books and a wink behind Mother’s back that would make her roll her eyes, then smile fondly at their antics.

Dad was good for philosophical discussions about just what exactly everything was. What was Childhood, beyond being young and the ability of Imagining? And on that topic, what was Imagining? Imagining, he always used to say, hushed and whispering in Serenity’s ear where Mother couldn’t hear, is when your imagination hasn’t yet been all dried up by adulthood. You can still believe you can do anything, so you can do it. It’s as simple as that. Don’t ever let them take believing away from you, my little dragon. Breathe fire if they try to stop your flying.

Then he would unlace the cuff he wore on his forearm and show her his Waymark and talk about Ways. How your Way was you. Your career, your passion, your defining trait. The manifestation of all you learned and wanted to learn and experienced and wanted to experience.

Finding wasn’t so much finding as choosing, according to Dad. It was a journey within oneself, true, but less some meditation on what intrinsically was within a person and couldn’t be decided on or changed, and more a choosing of what felt right. Fate versus free will.

Serenity leaned back on her elbows, looking up at where the stars were winking to life in the darkening sky. She would spend the whole night out here, as each of her peers had already or would at some point this season. Many, she knew, would choose to have their Finding under the signing leaves of an ancestor’s tree. The great forest that stretched away from the capital city was densest close to the city walls because of the ancestor trees, with their bark bleached white by the ashes they sprouted from, and leaves singing the songs of the departed’s soul. It was said, not that anyone would dare disturb the ancestors to check, that family groves were all connected by the roots. Some of the families that had resided here for generations had groves so big that more than one cousin could have their Finding on the same night in the same grove without even knowing the other was there. Her father’s family had a grove like that, where he had done his own Finding.

Serenity was not afforded such privacy, not that anyone dared comment on it. This night would determine, after all, if she fell subject to the blasphemy her father exposed her to as a child.

Not that he had a soul tree for her to sit under. The thought still stung, a familiar ache, but no duller for the years that had passed.

She frowned. Or that the Guard would know her Way just from watching her Finding. She tilted her head back far enough to see the dim lanterns of the watchmen on the walls. Two extra lights, like the eyes of some beast lurking in the shadows, marked the top of the trail down to the cove. Or would they?

The nuances of Dragonborn Findings weren’t exactly common knowledge. Was a Dragonborn’s Waymark actually wings like Dad had said? And if it was, how big were they? How easy to hide?

Some Findings left obvious marks. Warriors, for instance, all came back with tattoos on their faces demarking whether they were cavalry or infantry or Queen’s Guard. Most marks were rather more private, though. Her father had a beautiful quill up the side of his dominant arm that he hid with a delicate leather cuff, and her mother a veiled crown on her left breast that never peeked out from under her clothes. The Way of a Scholar, and that of Lady in Waiting. An odd match, for sure, but happy—until her father made the mistake of equating love with complete trust.

Serenity sighed and laid all the way back on the sand, wiggling until it shifted to cradle her. It was warm still, from the sun, and the heat crawled beneath her skin to hum through her muscles, her bone, her blood. She closed her eyes and pictured flying, drawing herself into the image until her stomach swooped and her limbs gained that strange feeling of leaden, yet floating. Before the Shift, she would often use her Imagining to jump from high boughs and glide gently to the ground, or into her laughing father’s arms. Mother was never so amused by this Imagining, and Dad speculated that disapproval was why the Shift came early to Serenity.

Her parents fought about it bitterly. It was the only time she could remember them arguing. Was that why she turned him in? It was a question she’d been asking for years. A question she knew she would never have the answer for. Or perhaps it was just because Mother bought into the Crown’s doctrine. The Queen’s doctrine. Dad said the Crown wasn’t always this afraid of Imagining.

What Serenity never told either of her parents, was that sometimes she still glided from high boughs, even after the Shift. She held onto her belief, even though Imagining as an adolescent was almost as forbidden as mentions of the Dragonborn. Imagining, after all, could accomplish just about anything, and such power was nothing but a threat to a system of martial law.

I wonder if the Way of the Dragonborn is just that, an Imagining?

It would certainly explain some things, and her father had said as much, all those years ago.

Perhaps I should just choose Sailing. The sand was nice after all, and the water, and being on a ship felt remarkably similar to flying sometimes. Serenity closed her eyes again, throwing herself into a different image now, picturing the rock and swell of a ship under her feet, the way her stomach swooped when she climbed up the rigging. Similar, sure, but not quite the same.

By the time the moon began to sink, Serenity’s heart was ready to go with it. On rare occasions, you had to try twice for your Way, but that was almost always an indication of something problematic. Being Wayless, or Dragonborn, or Childbound, or something else equally dubious in the eyes of the Crown and equally likely to end up with you in the kiln. Or the dungeons. Or the Pit.

Well, it wasn’t really called the Pit, that was just the common name for it. It was some sort of underground facility the Childbound—those stuck without Imagining but also still not ready for a Way—were sent to for therapy to help them complete their Shift. Most emerged gaunt and glassy-eyed and with Ways like Servitude or Wandering. Wandering was almost as bad as being Wayless. They didn’t throw you in the dungeons for it, but no one would give you a job knowing you would just end up wandering away in a couple of weeks. At best.

I could be a Wanderer. At least then I would have an excuse to travel.

But would traveling let her escape the eye of the Crown?

For the umpteenth time, Serenity heaved a sigh and resettled into the sand. It wasn’t warm anymore, the sun-warmth having long leached away, but it had soaked up enough of her body heat to not be all that cold either. She flipped over onto her stomach and returned to sketching in the sand, body carefully positioned to casually block any prying eyes from the cliff. They probably had binoculars trained on her all night.

Bet they all think I’m Wayless, what with how long this is taking. She shrugged. Let them. It’s better than thinking I’m actually considering Dragonborn.

Because she was. Considering Dragonborn, that is.

The sketch in the sand turned out to be a rough self-portrait, just complete with a massive set of leathery wings uplifted and curled slightly, almost like a shield around her back and sides. She tilted her head to regard the image. Artist was the Way Mother wanted her to choose. Serenity was a fair hand with paint and pencils, even sculpture, and could be quite good with some dedication and practice. Way or no. She tapped a finger against the pouch hidden at her side. It had the necessary brush and ink to draw on a Way Mark if that subterfuge became necessary. A last resort, of course, because there was the risk they would check for that sort of thing.

She hummed and began to slowly scrub the image out of the sand. Her art teacher said that Artists did have marks, they were just always different, and never something obvious. No paintbrushes or inkpots or chisels, but rather an image of their crowning masterpiece, or a color wheel, or incomprehensible scribbles and images they could spend their entire lives trying to decipher and recreate. Artist would be a good enough cover, and give her plenty of excuses to spend time wandering around in the wilderness looking for inspiration. And once she Declared, the Crown could go back to their more passive observation.

Serenity resisted the urge to glance back at the cliffs.

Am I really doing this?

Something stirred deep behind her sternum. A buzzing almost, similar to the feel of Imagining bubbling up beneath her skin and waiting to burst out. She straightened, slowly, eyes fixed out to sea, but not seeing.

I’m totally doing this. Sorry, Mother.

The buzzing spread out to encompass more and more of her skin, her vision filling with specks of black and bright gold-white sparks.

Gods, Dad would be so proud.

Breathe fire, he had said.

Well, I don’t know if Dragonborn can breathe fire, Dad, but I know at least this one will be able to fly.

The buzzing began to become itching, but only across her back and down her forearms to her palms. Trying to look at her hands past the sparks in her vision, Serenity had the vague feeling she was glowing.

I hope that’s normal, else this adventure will be finished before it’s even begun.