The year is 2011 of the Avalorian Imperial Calendar. I am eleven years old.
The day of my departure was a masterclass in controlled chaos, a spectacle of humiliation so profound it was almost heartwarming. We stood at the Sky-Piercer Spire, a private ducal platform built for the sole purpose of docking with the colossal vessels that traversed the upper atmosphere. Before us floated the Starchaser, the official transport for new students of Draconia Academy. It was less a blimp and more a work of art; a vast, teardrop-shaped balloon of iridescent white silk that seemed to glow with a life of its own, its surface etched with golden runes that pulsed with the soft, steady hum of contained levitation magic. Suspended beneath it was a multi-decked gondola of polished heartwood and gleaming brass, its observation windows crafted from single panes of flawless crystal.
Several other noble families were already present, their farewells a study in prim, aristocratic restraint. A polite kiss on the cheek, a firm handshake, a few whispered words of encouragement. Then there was my family, delivering a performance worthy of the Royal Theatre.
My mother was treating the occasion with the solemn gravity of a state funeral, except she was the main attraction. Her tears could have filled a moat. She clung to me as if I were being sent to the gallows, her quiet, heartbroken sobs punctuated by dramatic sniffles that turned every head on the platform. My sister, Lyra, seeing our mother in distress, immediately decided this was a group activity and began wailing with an impressive volume that belied her small frame, her chubby arms wrapped around my leg like a shackle of pure love. My father, the stoic Duke, stood slightly apart, his expression a pained mixture of paternal pride and the sheer, agonizing embarrassment of a man wishing the earth would swallow him whole.
"Oh, my cream pie," my mother wept, dabbing her eyes with a silk handkerchief. "My precious little lion cub, all alone in the world. Who will make sure you eat properly? Who will pinch your cheeks?"
The other nobles weren't just giving us weird looks; they were staring with the kind of fascinated horror one usually reserves for a two-headed griffin. I, the supposed genius heir of House Wight, was at the center of the most undignified display of affection in the kingdom's history. And yet, beneath the crushing weight of public mortification, a quiet warmth spread through my chest. This was my chaotic, over-the-top, fiercely loving family.
Coming with me were my two constants: Bob and Patricia. Bob stood impassively beside the boarding ramp, a silent mountain of loyalty. Strapped to his back was an enormous, tarp-covered object that drew more than a few curious glances. It was heavy, awkwardly shaped, and utterly mysterious to outsiders. If one were to peek beneath the canvas, they would see four interlocking bars of a strange, dark metal. It was my greatest secret, the culmination of a year's work: the frame for my portable, dimensionally-linked workshop. Before this, only the Elves knew the secrets to creating stable pocket dimensions and storage items, a monopoly that had made them fabulously wealthy and influential. This simple doorframe was an act of quiet, earth-shattering revolution.
Patricia, meanwhile, was receiving her final instructions. "Look after him," my mother ordered, her voice thick with emotion. "Make sure he wears a scarf if it's cold. See that he doesn't stay up all night with those… projects of his."
My father clapped a firm hand on Bob's shoulder. "Your duty is to his safety, above all else. Understood?" Bob simply nodded, the gesture carrying more weight than any oath.
Kaelus, my ever-present companion, floated down from his pillow and nudged Lyra gently, his smooth egg-like body beginning to pulse with a soft, calming azure light. Her wails subsided into hiccuping sobs as she hugged the warm, glowing egg.
Finally, after one last bone-crushing hug from my mother, I was free. I walked up the ramp and into the opulent interior of the Starchaser. As the vessel detached from the spire with a whisper of released energy, I looked out the crystal window. In the sky above, a shimmering form of liquid sapphire and seafoam coalesced from the very moisture in the air. Aquarius, Bob's Water Dragon, had taken up a silent, watchful escort position. He would follow us until we left Wight territory.
As the familiar landscape of home receded, Aquarius gave a final, silent nod toward the ship before banking away. But he wasn't returning to the castle. Instead, he flew east, a shimmering streak against the morning sun, toward the distant Azure Peaks, Cygnus's domain. A visit to an old friend, perhaps? Or a king receiving a report on the safety of his heir? The politics of dragons were as complex as any human court.
The journey itself was a new form of torture. For three days, I endured a self-imposed exile in my private quarters. As soon as we were airborne, the sons and daughters of the other noble houses descended upon me like well-dressed vultures, not to invite me to their factions, but to pledge themselves to mine.
"Lord Wight," one particularly slick-looking boy began, having cornered me on the first day, "when you inevitably form a faction to consolidate your influence at the academy, my family, House Sterling, would be honored to be considered a founding member."
"An alliance with the future of House Wight is the only logical path to power," another chimed in, practically bowing.
They saw me not as a person, but as a political asset, a powerful piece to be acquired for their childish games of influence. I was more annoyed than flattered. Patricia, sensing my irritation, became my gatekeeper with the grace of a seasoned diplomat.
"The Young Master is fatigued from the journey," she would say, her voice polite but firm as steel, turning away yet another hopeful sycophant at my door. "He will require his rest before we arrive."
So I hid, passing the time by reviewing my magitech schematics with Tes and trying to ignore the constant, hopeful knocks on my cabin door. My internal monologue was a litany of sheer annoyance. I've already graduated from college. I have a degree in computer science. I've built flying armor and plasma swords. And now I have to go back to school? To sit in lectures about basic mana theory? This is absurd.
On the third morning, a steward announced our final approach. The Starchaser broke through the final cloud layer, and I finally stepped out onto the observation deck. There, suspended in the endless blue of the sky, was Dragon Valley. It was more magnificent than any map could convey, a living jewel set against the heavens. A continent of impossible beauty, with waterfalls that fell into the open air, disappearing into the mists below, and forests of crystalline trees that chimed in the wind. At its heart, a single, colossal mountain rose, its peak carved into the breathtaking spires and courtyards of Draconia Academy.
As we glided toward a grand docking platform, a plan hatched in my mind. I had with me a letter, personally written by my father, to be given to the headmaster. It was meant to explain away some of my more eccentric needs like requiring a private, secure space for "meditation" (my workshop) and to request a certain level of discretion. But I would use it as a foundation for something more. I would show them just enough of my skill, just a fraction of what I was truly capable of, to skip the tedious lower years. Let them think I was a once-in-a-generation magical prodigy. It was a better explanation than the truth.
They could force me to go through college again, but I'll be damned if I was going to redo school.