The church bell tolled softly in the night, its echoes rolling through the mist that clung to the town's cobbled streets. Beyond the market square and past the rows of timbered houses, down a long grassy path, a lonely stone orphanage stood attached to the chapel, its walls weathered by centuries of storms.
On the doorstep of that orphanage, the matron found her.
A baby girl, barely a few months old, lay silent in a wicker basket. She did not cry, did not fuss, only looked up with wide eyes that gleamed like the sky after rain. She was wrapped in a white crotched blanket, stained with something darker, the sharp scent of blood lingering faintly in the air. The matron looked around but there was no-one to be seen.
The matron's trembling hands brushed it back, revealing a golden locket glinting against the child's chest. The delicate chain was warm, as if freshly worn, and the engraving upon its back was clear despite the fogged night air:
Starlettia.
Inside, a small miniature portrait showed a woman with silver-blonde hair and kind eyes, smiling faintly as though she were gazing at her daughter.
That became the baby's name, the only link to a family she would never know.
8 years passed.
The orphanage was no palace, but it was home. Its narrow stone corridors smelled faintly of candle wax and herbs, and the chapel's stained-glass windows cast coloured light that danced across the floors each morning.
Starlettia grew in those halls. She was different from the other children. Quieter, more thoughtful. Where others played in the yard, she lingered in the library alcove, a forgotten little room tucked behind the chapel. Its shelves leaned with the weight of donated tomes, most of them dull histories or outdated ledgers, but to her, every book was a door to another world.
One dusty afternoon, while searching the lower cupboards, she found a book unlike the others. Its cover was cracked leather, its title barely legible:
"The Chronicles of the First Flame."
Inside were myths whispered since the kingdom's founding: tales of dragons who once ruled the skies, their blood said to flow through the veins of ancient royals and noble houses. Though no dragon had been seen in centuries, the legends claimed that those born of their line carried unusual gifts, strength, beauty, or magic beyond measure.
Starlettia's fingers lingered on the faded illustrations: wings spread across mountains, fire lighting the heavens. Something stirred inside her chest, as if the images were more than just fantasy.
It was only when she turned the last page that she noticed a smaller parchment folded within. A beginner's grimoire. Spells of light, flame, healing and warding, penned in careful script.
Her heart raced. Magic.
That night, by candlelight under her blanket, she whispered the first incantation. Her voice trembled. At first, nothing. Then—
A spark, bright and fleeting, danced across her fingertips before fading into smoke.
Her breath caught. The book hadn't lied.
From then on, her evenings belonged to practice. A flicker of light here, a whisper of warmth there. Never enough to draw notice, but enough for her to know she had something the other children didn't. Something she didn't dare share.
The summer air was heavy when it happened.
Starlettia sat in the orphanage garden, the old stone walls covered in ivy. The roses had begun to bloom, their petals perfuming the air, and the chapel bell had long since rung for vespers. She had the dragon book open on her lap, lips moving as she repeated an incantation. A faint glow shimmered at her palm, just for a heartbeat, before flickering out.
She sighed. "Almost…"
The creak of stone startled her.
Two shadows vaulted over the wall, landing roughly in the grass. Starlettia scrambled to her feet, clutching the book to her chest.
The first boy pulled a hood low over his head, though a gleam of silver hair betrayed him in the moonlight. His sharp blue eyes darted around the garden, searching. The second boy, smaller with a wild mess of black hair and piercing yellow eyes, grinned despite the dirt on his cloak.
"Shh," he hissed at his companion. "We lost them."
Starlettia's voice came out small but firm. "Who are you?"
Both boys froze, eyes snapping toward her.
"You didn't say anyone lived here," the silver-haired one muttered. His voice was low, commanding, the kind that made her pulse quicken.
"How was I supposed to know?" the dark-haired boy shot back, then stepped forward with a mischievous smile. "Uh—hi. Don't mind us, just… passing through."
Starlettia's grip on the book tightened. She wasn't foolish; she'd seen nobles before, when the matron took the children to market. Their fine cloaks and expensive boots gave them away, even if muddied from climbing.
"You shouldn't be here," she said warily. "The chapel matron doesn't like strangers."
"We won't be long," the dark-haired boy promised. "We just needed to hide."
"Hide from who?"
The silver-haired boy's eyes narrowed. "Guards."
Starlettia's breath caught. Guards?
"It's not what you think," the dark-haired one said quickly, flashing another grin. "I'm Callum. That's—"
"Don't," the silver-haired boy cut him off sharply.
Callum rolled his eyes. "Fine, that's Mister Grumpy."
The corner of Starlettia's lips twitched before she could stop herself. A laugh bubbled up, soft and fleeting, and Callum's grin widened in triumph. The silver-haired boy looked at her, something flickering in his gaze, but said nothing.
"What's your name?" Callum asked.
Her hand brushed against the warm locket at her chest. She hesitated, then whispered:
"Starlettia."
"It suits you," Callum said softly.
Starlettia glanced down, cheeks warming. She didn't notice the way the locket around her neck pulsed faintly in the moonlight, as if the name had awakened something sleeping deep within.
That summer night, in the ivy-walled garden of a quiet orphanage, a secret friendship began. One that would shape the course of kingdoms.
And above, unseen in the stars, the old dragons seemed to watch.