Darla

The angry fire lights up the night sky; the house no longer looks recognizable. The left corner of the roof has since caved in, the wood charred black. The soot covered my sweat-slicked skin. And the smoke filled my lungs, causing the back of my throat to itch, but with every breath of clear air, I’m filled with anger, sadness, and fear. The hand in mine squeezes my own. Turning away from the burning home that once meant something, to look at my brother. He has always been slightly taller than I am. In this faded dream, he seems different.

“Darla,” his voice breaks the silence, but his voice doesn’t sound like his own. “Darla!” He says louder. That’s definitely not his voice, then whose is it? This dream has been the same for years. But this time it changed somehow. “Darla!” He screams this time.

I wake up and quickly sit up from where I lay my head. What once was a wooded area is now a room filled with peering eyes, desks, and black obsidian walls. And the source of the voice I was hearing.

She’s about an inch taller than I am, with curly red hair that always seems to be in a mess. Her green eyes shine brightly with irritation. A look I am all too familiar with, “yes?” I ask nonchalantly, resting my chin on my hand.

Mrs. Briggs is the only teacher I have had this recurring problem with. She’s getting on me for not paying attention or sleeping in her class. Others don’t mind, mainly because I’m passing all my classes with flying colors. However, Mrs. Briggs doesn’t seem to care about my grades. She still gets onto me when I’m not paying attention to her spill about shifter laws or history. “Darla, why come at all if all you’re going to do is sit there and sleep?” She crosses her arms in front of her chest, trying and failing to give me the best stern face she can muster.

“Really thought we were past this after last time, Gabbie, we both know I already know this stuff.” I all but shrug my shoulders.

“She’s got a point Mrs. Briggs” A deeper voice break our stare off as i turn to the owner of the voice, Ryden.

His gold-flecked eyes assess Mrs.Briggs from head to toe. I know what that look in his eyes means: he wants a fight. Ryden is my older brother; he’s not a man of many words, but when he does speak, it’s always regarding a fight.

“But, aye, you can help me?” He leans back into his chair, tilting his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I could use an extra sparring session if you would like to help,” he says. His excitement practically radiates off him.

“You—” she begins, but is cut off by the bell.

“Oh, would you look at that, Gabs,” I say, grabbing my bag and slinging it over my shoulder. “Time’s up. Gotta head to my next nap session.” I flash her a two-finger salute as her face turns red with frustration. She looks like she’s about to stomp her foot and have a tantrum.  Ry and I file into an all-too-familiar hall that is more of an ornate fortress, built out of black steel and polished marble, than a regular, everyday high school.

Our halls and walls feature statues of dragons and carved depictions of historic shifters. Dragon shifters are proud people; they hold themselves in high esteem, and not many other shifters know much about dragons. We keep to our territory and don’t allow others in, unless, of course, they are dragons themselves. But it’s very rare to find an outsider dragon.

We stay together. The other shifters don’t seem to mind; then again, I think it’s because they wouldn’t be able to go against us if they didn’t respect our territory and people.

“D, did you have to pick a fight with her?” Ry catches up in two strides. At six-foot-four, he towers over me. My head barely reaches his chest.

“If you learned illusion magic, you’d hear less bitching every day,” he mutters.

“Like the illusion spell I’m using right now?” I counter, rolling my eyes. “Or maybe the silence spell around us so no one hears this conversation?”

He grabs my arm, stopping me mid-step. “You know just as well as I do—we’re being closely monitored,” he says, arms crossing. “That includes class. We need to be careful.”

He’s not wrong. Most dragon shifters start showing signs of transformation early, but not us. That makes the higher-ups paranoid. We get weekly evaluations, mandatory training, and are treated like anomalies.

Not horribly—but differently.

The teachers push us harder than everyone else—mentally, physically, magically. And if we fail? The punishments, well, they aren’t pleasant.

We do everything we can to avoid that—learning new spells, fortifying our mental shields, and sparring constantly.

I look up into Ry’s matching-yet-different eyes. “I am well aware. I was there too.”

It’s always been us against the world—protecting each other the best we can. However, no amount of protection can erase the things we’ve had to do to survive. Same life, different scars.

I shrug off his hand, unable to hold his gaze any longer. “Let’s just go to the library, I need a new book to read,” I say, pulling away from him and heading down the crowded hall.

I barely made it two steps before a voice as smooth as oil slid into my ear.

“Darla. Brightens my day to see you’re awake for once.”

My stomach sank. Orin Helios.

He lounged against a marble pillar, as if the hallway were his personal stage, his golden hair gleaming, his uniform pressed within an inch of its life. The picture of charm. The kind of boy who could smile and make teachers forget he’d just gutted someone in training.

Ryden stiffened beside me. “Helios.” His tone was flat, all warning.

But Orin didn’t bother acknowledging him. His eyes stayed locked on me. “Still keeping your brother on a leash, I see. Must be exhausting, always babysitting.”

The words came out light, casual—almost like a joke. But I caught the real meaning buried in the silk: weak little Darla, always hiding behind Ryden.

I smirked, refusing to give him the satisfaction of flinching. “Better a leash than a muzzle.”

Orin’s grin sharpened. He shifted closer, enough for his cologne to sting my nose. “Careful with that sharp tongue.” His voice dipped lower, smooth as honey, sour as rot. “But then again, I do like a girl with teeth.”

Heat crawled under my skin, not the kind that’s good. Orin stood too close, too deliberate. Everyone in the hall probably thought he was flirting. I knew better—Orin never flirted. He hunted.

Ryden’s hand clamped on my shoulder, pulling me back. His voice was steel. “Move. Now.”

Orin lifted his hands in mock surrender, that lazy grin never slipping. “Relax, protector. We’re just talking.” His gaze lingered on me, smug, hungry. “One day, you won’t have him to hide behind.”

Then he melted into the stream of students, leaving behind the echo of his cologne and the sting of his words.

I exhaled slowly, forcing my shoulders loose. No shudder. No weakness. That was the only way to beat him—starve him of reactions.

Still, his words clung to me like smoke. Empty threats didn’t linger like that. Promises did.

I drag my finger down the spines of the books as I walk down the aisle. The library is one of my favorite places to be; the smell of paper and the silence bring me comfort that I keep to myself. Ryden leans against one of the shelves just outside the aisle as I search for the books I’m looking for.

I hum a soft tune, a tune that’s familiar to me but unknown to me. But one I’ve known since I was little, on rough nights and burning days, I would hum it to calm my nerves.

The sound of Ryden's head thudding against the shelf brings me back to reality. I look down the aisle at him; his eyes are closed, and his head tilts back, as if he is lost in his own mind. To anyone else, he would appear to be loitering.

To me. I see the tightness of his jaw and the whites of his knuckles as he tightens his fists. Ryden found my humming beautiful, but it also brought him sadness.

“Sorry,” I whisper to him, so as not to disturb the other students who sit at the tables studying. He shrugs his shoulder; he may not have said anything, but the movement is his answer enough, one that says “no harm done.”

I turn back to my task finding the book of spells i was looking for rather quickly. I had finished learning all the ones in the last volume. I open the book to a random page and skim what it says. It holds some history, but it also seems like this is more of a personal journal than a book; then again, that’s how most spell books are.

Just passed along knowledge of all the spells a dragon can cast. Dragons may be considered a part of the shifters, but they have their own thing about them. A lot of dragons can wield their own sense of power, from lightning to telekinesis. But they are also able to cast their own spells to help them with other things as well—things like everyday tasks, or a location spell of sorts.

I close the book and turn to find another one; this one is more for entertainment. From princesses to warriors, I always found my joy in a good story. Humming with pleasure, I head out of the aisle. I tap on Ry’s elbow twice to tell him I’m ready, and then head to the counter to check out my books.

The sweet auburn-haired Librarian knows me well and sends a beaming smile to me, “What did you pick this time?” She grabs the books from the counter, reading the titles, her black eyes cutting up to look at me, “Another spell book?” She stamps the cards so she knows which book was checked out and by whom.

“Don’t you think you should slow down, Darla? You’re learning some advanced spells there, ones that you aren’t supposed to be learning until later.”

I grab the books, giving her a smirk, “There’s nothing wrong with getting ahead of the game.” She shakes her head as her eyes shine with amusement, “Very well, just be careful.”

I nod my thanks.

We quickly found ourselves in the after-work and school crowd, Ryden padding behind me.

The market stretched out before us like a living river, the tide of voices crashing and swelling with every step. I pulled my cloak tighter and wove into the flow, eyes flicking over the chaos that always left Ryden tense and left me oddly… alive.

Silk-draped merchants hollered above the din, their voices cutting through the air like knives. A man in a green tunic lifted a bolt of dyed fabric, its sheen catching the light, emerald shifting into blue depending on how you looked at it. A woman in a thick wool dress bargained loudly over a basket of pears, her voice sharp as the knife she used to test the fruit’s ripeness.

The smells tangled together—smoke from roasting meat, sweet figs caramelizing in sugar, leather newly oiled, the metallic bite of blacksmith’s work cooling on anvils. It was overwhelming to most. To me, it was freedom.

Children darted through the streets barefoot, clutching candied nuts in paper cones, laughing at nothing but the thrill of running. A man in a feathered cap strummed his lute on a corner, singing something about a knight and his lost lady. I caught the tail end of a gossiping whisper as two women passed: “…did you hear about the northern patrol? Disappeared—the whole caravan gone.”

I let the words slip away, my attention snagged by a smell that always caught me—warm, buttery, faintly sweet. My heart stuttered.

The bakery.

The sign above the door was simple: a carved wooden loaf, edges worn smooth by years of sun and rain. But it wasn’t the sign that drew me—it was the promise within. Apricot cheese danishes. The baker was famous for them, and judging by the line spilling out the door, they hadn’t lost their reputation.

I slowed my steps, pretending to adjust the strap of my satchel. Ryden brushed past me with a grunt, muttering something about how crowded it was, how he hated the press of so many bodies. He never noticed the way my eyes followed the tray a young boy carried from the shop—three golden pastries dusted with powdered sugar, steaming in the cool air.

I waited. Timing was everything.

A wagon creaked to a stop, blocking part of the street. The baker’s assistant stepped out with another tray, balancing it on one arm as he shifted the door closed with his hip. A gap opened between the waiting line and the assistant.

Perfect.

I moved with the crowd, head down, steps unhurried. My hand slipped out from my cloak, fingers brushing the edge of the tray as though by accident. One swift movement, quicker than a blink, and the still-warm danish disappeared into the folds of my satchel. I kept walking, never breaking rhythm.

No one shouted. No one noticed.

I bit back a grin, glancing over my shoulder. Ryden hadn’t seen a thing. He was too busy glaring at a drunk who’d stumbled into his path. Good. My little victory was mine alone.

The apricot sweetness clung to my fingers, tempting, daring me to taste it. But this wasn’t for me. It never was.

Ryden would roll his eyes if he knew— he would call me reckless and foolish for risking so much over something so small.

So I kept walking, the danish tucked safely away, my little secret mission complete. The market surged around me, voices and footsteps blending into a tide I let carry me forward, smiling to myself at what waited for me later.