Chapter 3
Sequoia
The sky has always been kinder than the ground.
Up here, there are no expectations, no social obligations, or whispered conversations with careful smiles. No ancient family name rests on my shoulders like a crown I never asked to wear.
There is only wind and darkness. The steady rhythm of my wings slicing through the night.
I fly higher, letting the cold air rush over my scales.
The clouds part around me like they recognize me.
Like they know that, for just a few more minutes, I belong to no one but myself. Not the family. Not tradition or the centuries of history waiting inside the manor walls.
Just me, my fire, and the freedom of the sky.
My silver scales catch the moonlight, but I do not care who sees me tonight. Being seen is exhausting, especially when everyone believes they already know who you are.
The daughter of the house. The youngest heir.
The girl who turned twenty-one and is suddenly expected to stand among the elders as though she has spent her entire life preparing for this moment.
I haven’t. I’ve spent most of my life trying to escape it.
Below me, the cliffs rise from the sea like ancient guardians of jagged stone, bathed in black shadows. Waves crash against the shoreline far below, but the solitude comforts me. This is where I come when the world becomes too loud.
The cliffs don’t ask anything from me, and the lake doesn’t care about my name. The sky doesn’t care about my family’s reputation. The wind doesn’t care about my speed or destination. It simply carries me.
I dive, and the world disappears. For a moment, there is no manor. No ball with inquisitive guests. No carefully disguised nudge into society because I’ve rejected all of the ideal suitors and refused every proposed courtship.
I fold my wings close and plunge toward the dark surface of the lake, and there is only water. The cold rushes over me, calming me. My scales shimmer beneath the water as I swim beneath the surface, letting the quiet surround me.
Dragons are not meant to spend their entire lives on the ground. Perhaps that’s why so many of us become restless. We are built for horizons. And yet, with every generation, we build more walls. More traditions. Tradition keeps families connected, after all.
And history matters. Our ancestors fought to ensure we could exist openly. They sacrificed everything so we would never again have to hide away. I respect that.
But sometimes I wish respecting something didn’t feel so much like denying a piece of myself.
The moon moves higher, and I know I am running out of time. Breaching the surface and spinning in the air, the water flies from my wings in a wild arc.
The lake reflects my dragon form back at me. A creature of silver and lavender. Everyone sees the beauty and power, but nobody sees the girl underneath. The one I’m still trying to figure out.
A low, frustrated growl rumbles in my chest, echoing off of the cliffs as I climb into the sky and head for home because I know what happens if I return too late.
Mother will forgive many things. My stubbornness, the disappearing acts, and she has even forgiven me every time I have chosen the sky over a social obligation.
But tonight matters. It’s not just another party.
It is my first appearance as an adult dragon of the family.
Tonight is the night everyone has been waiting for.
And if I don’t arrive, my absence will not be seen as a woman avoiding a ballroom.
It will be seen as a daughter disrespecting her bloodline.
The manor comes into view, the unmistakable silhouette of the family estate against the night sky growing larger as I approach.
I circle once, giving myself a stern lecture about obligation and destiny, as a circle again. I consider leaving, just flying away to find somewhere no one knows me. Somewhere I can be myself. The thought lasts exactly three seconds, because no matter how much I want freedom, I love my family.
I land on the balcony, the ancient stone firm beneath my claws, and I know I have already been noticed.
Of course I have. Dragons notice everything.
The balcony doors are open, and warm golden light spills onto the stone. Music drifts outside on the cool night air, mixing with hundreds of heartbeats echoing from within.
I close my eyes, giving myself one final moment before I shift. Magic moves through me like breath as my colorful scales become fair skin and my dragon fades beneath my human form.
I’ve never been more grateful that clothing cooperates with the shift rather than leaving me naked on the balcony, exposed to the curious eyes of my parents’ guests.
The dress, one my mother chose specifically for tonight, is simple but elegant.
The black silk clings to me, another shield.
I run my fingers through my hair, take a breath, and step toward the doors.
Before I enter, my fire rises. Not burning or destructive, but a veil. A living shimmer of silver and lavender that curls around my face. A dragon’s mask.
Everyone inside wears one tonight. Some made of metal and jewels, others of lace or glass. But mine is made of the power I was born with. My fire.
The moment I step into the ballroom, I know it doesn’t work.
The conversations shift. Heads turn. The room changes. I keep walking, smiling when it’s expected. I greet the elders and accept compliments. I answer questions and pretend not to notice the whispers.
“There she is.”
“Sequoia.”
“She finally came.”
“She looks just like her grandmother.”
The comparisons never end. I know they are meant kindly—she was an amazing woman who passed too young. But her legacy is one of wisdom and valor. Of charity and compassion. It’s too much expectation for a young girl to uphold.
I move through the crowd, searching for familiar faces, finding mostly strangers and a few I recognize but couldn’t name if it saved my fire. I’m surprised that, despite the whispers and polite conversation, I don’t hate the ball.
The decorations are beautiful and the food smells incredible. The music makes even the oldest dragons smile behind their ornate masks.
There is something wonderful about watching humans and dragons stand together in the same room. Two hundred years ago, this would have been impossible. Even a hundred years ago, it would have been rare. Now it’s simply another All Hallows Eve.
I’m halfway through accepting another greeting when I feel something shift. There’s no sound or movement to alert me, but rather a presence.
My instincts sharpen, and I glance around. But there’s nothing out of place. Just guests mingling. Hundreds of people gathered beneath the chandeliers.
I shake off the feeling, attributing it to my imagination running rampant from exhaustion and nerves.
I step away from the crowd for a moment, the night calling to me from the open balcony doors behind me. I almost smile, tempted to run, to reunite with the sky. Then I feel something brush against my leg and I look down.
A large cat stands beside me, its fur shimmering like molten gold beneath the lights. Black onyx spots cover its coat like shards of midnight.
I grin as its eyes meet mine, a knowing amusement in the glimmering black depths. It moves closer, winding itself around my legs with a calming, rumbling purr, like he has every time I’ve needed reassurance since the day he chose me in school.
“Well,” I whisper. “You’re certainly not subtle.”