As the first rays of the sun breached the eastern horizon, their warmth intruded my bedroom, coaxing me away from the clutches of slumber. You know that quiet moment when you’re cradled in the softest of dreams and the morning light starts shoving you lightly, reminding you that a new day has arrived? That’s where I was, in that private space where peacefulness wrapped around me like a cozy blanket. It felt like the universe was telling me something epic was about to happen. The sun was like an artist with a brush dipped in gold, painting the world outside in beautiful shades. Each stroke hinted at the boundless potential of the day ahead. It was as if the world itself was saying, “Wake up, Arianna dear, there’s magic in the air today.”

Honestly, I was tempted to snuggle back under the quilt and grab a few more minutes of sleep. But there was this unshakable feeling, like a silent challenge, waiting just outside my door, urging me to get up and face it. Today was no ordinary day. It was a day that promised to change everything. I swung my legs out of bed. The cool floor greeted my feet like a refreshing jolt of reality. I glimpsed myself in the mirror, and for a moment, our eyes met, my reflection and I. There was a spark there, a silent intensity that spoke of a journey awaiting me.

On the edges of Horlock Town, there was this quaint cottage, straight out of a storybook. Not just any cottage. This one had a thatched roof sheltering sturdy timber walls, and nature had gone all out with climbing vines, splashing colors everywhere. A cobble path wound its way through a carpet of greenery, practically begging you to follow it. It led visitors and sometimes curious passersby right to the front door, promising secrets and stories inside this delightful place.

And oh, the garden. Framed by a pale picket fence, it was a backyard that invited you to sit, relax, and lose yourself in the beauty of nature. Every element, from the flowers swaying gently in the breeze to the soft swish of leaves, seemed to be in perfect harmony. This was more than just a house; it was a sanctuary. And today, as I stood at the edge of this pleasant scene, I knew something extraordinary was beginning.

Inside our home, my mother, a skilled fire mage, could coax life from the soil in ways that seemed almost magical. She spent her mornings in the garden, a place that bloomed under her care with a collection of healing herbs. Each herb flourished under her nurturing hands, their sweet and strong fragrances mingling with the morning air. My mother loved her garden, and her dedication filled our home with a sense of peace and purpose. It was as if each leaf and blossom were imbued with her spirit.

But not every day in the garden was peaceful and relaxing. There was one particularly amusing incident that still makes us laugh. It’s one of those stories we bring up during family gatherings, a way to relive our moments of shared joy.

The anecdote in question took place one sunny morning. My mother was busy tending to her beloved chamomile patch, her fingers nimbly working the soil, when suddenly, a garden snake decided to make an appearance. Now, despite all her fiery prowess, my mother had one notable weakness, a strong aversion to anything that slithered. She froze, her usual composure shattered by the sight of the reptile.

What happened next was spectacular. In her startled state, my mother summoned a fireball, which leaped from her wand and danced wildly amidst the chamomile. For a few heart-stopping seconds, the flames flickered and flared. We watched, breathless, as the fireball twisted and turned.

Luck was on our side that day. The flames, wild and untamed, miraculously avoided our beloved cottage. They stayed confined to the chamomile patch, eventually sputtering out, leaving behind only a trace of singed herbs and a story we would recount for years. My mother’s face, flushed with a mix of relief and embarrassment, was priceless. And as we tended to the scorched chamomile, we couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Speaking of flames, I’ve always felt this weird connection to them. It’s not just a fascination; it’s like fire runs through my veins. There’s this primal edge it gives me, something that makes me feel different, more alive. But it wasn’t just my affinity for fire that set me apart. My skill with a blade really put me on the map. Imagine the ten-year-old me wielding a sword with such grace and precision that it seemed almost natural. Each thrust and parry felt like second nature, the blade becoming an extension of my being. That sense of control, the way the sword moved, filled me with a confidence that nothing else could.

Now, at sixteen, I am still waiting for the invitation letter from the Academy of Swordcraft, Heincraft. This place is the stuff of legends. They accept the best young swordsmen and swordswomen, the elite of the elite. Every day, I check the mail, hoping, dreaming that the letter will finally land in my hands. I can picture it so clearly, my name in stylish script, the crest of Heincraft at the top. But so far, nothing. The waiting is the worst part, the not knowing if I am good enough.

As I fastened the straps of my leather armor, the feel of the familiar material against my skin brought back a flood of memories. My father, a swordsman who had vanished years ago, was always in the back of my mind. His disappearance had left this gaping hole in my heart, a void that nothing seemed to fill. I barely remembered him, but the stories my mother had told painted a picture of a great man, a skilled teacher. He’d taught at Heincraft, or so the story went. This burning need to uncover the truth about his disappearance and his connection to the academy drove me. Maybe getting into Heincraft would finally give me the answers I craved.

Securing the last strap, I took a deep breath and let my mind wander to those rare, fragmented memories I had of my father. He had shown me how to hold a sword, how to balance my weight just right. Even though I was very young at that time, I could feel the pride in his voice. He had believed in me, and that belief was something I clung to, especially on days when self-doubt tried to creep in. I imagined what he would say if he were here now. Would he be proud of the swordswoman I had become? Or would he have some stern advice on how to improve? That question badgered at me, pushing me to be better, to strive harder.

I was heading for the door, all set for my morning training, when my mother’s voice pulled me back.

 “Arianna, my dear,” she called, concern in her tone. “Please, won’t you take a moment for breakfast?”

I hesitated, urgency in my eyes. “Mom, I need to get to old Johan’s place right away,” I pleaded, my voice betraying how important today was.

But she wasn’t having it. “No! Breakfast first,” she insisted, her motherly love and firm tone leaving no room for argument.

With a resigned sigh, I made my way to the kitchen table. The smell of freshly made egg muffins and a smoothie bowl filled the air, soothing my disappointment. I ate slowly, savoring each bite, knowing this was probably her way of grounding me, of making sure I didn’t lose sight of what really counted. After finishing my breakfast, I kissed my mother’s cheek and promised to help at the apothecary in town after training. I knew today was special. It marked the end of my apprenticeship with Johan Willcraft, the hermit swordmaster who lived five miles from our cottage. He was preparing to leave to be with his daughter’s family in another part of the province, so I had to make the most of our time left.

The path to my master’s hut had always felt like a journey through an everlasting forest. Tall, proud trees surrounded me, their branches stretching toward the sky, beyond human grasp. The air was thick with the scent of nature. It felt like a place untouched by time, where the boundary between worlds seemed to grow thin.

My master’s home finally came into view. His hut clustered among the thick pines, blending perfectly with the forest. The old wooden walls and rustic charm made it seem like a part of the forest itself. Wisps of smoke trailed from the chimney, a sign that my master was inside, probably waiting for me. The small training yard outside was a familiar sight, the ground worn smooth from years of practice.

As I approached the door, I paused, letting the moment settle. I took a deep breath, feeling a mix of excitement and readiness. With a gentle knock, the door creaked open, unveiling the hermit’s presence within. This was it, the end of one chapter of my life and the beginning of another.