Adonia

Adonia was born with fire in her eyes. Not the passion and fury of her nestmates; not the determination and drive of her mentors, no. Real, flickering flames that curled into black smoke when she was sad; white hot and blazing when the rage came upon her, even as a hatchling. It was why, some said, her egg had been abandoned.

Everywhere she went, she heard their whispering. 'Cursed' they called her. 'Evil'. 'Sacrifice', others said, for dark deeds yet to rear their heads. 'The poor thing', they muttered. 'Doomed to pay for another's sins.'

It was as though she couldn't hear them, as though, because her eyes didn't work the way theirs did, they expected her ears to stop up. How she hated them, and their pity and their disgust!

She began to bind her eyes, wrapping cloth tight around them until they burned holes through the fabric. She draped silk across her face, tried wearing a mask, but whether wood or bone, eventually, the fire in her core gnawed through it. But it didn't stop her. She wanted to wander, she wanted to learn, and she couldn't that hiding in the back of the lair, like some wolf pup in its den.

Later, she could never remember exactly who gave her the shawl. The more her mind picked at it, the more the hint of memory frayed, distorted. She didn't remember running from the market square and curling around a fire of twigs to sob, black smoke curling above her head. She did remember a warm, honey voice, and a weight on the top of her head.

"You shouldn't hide your eyes, little one," it had said. "Soon you will see that. But for now, here. This will not burn so easily."
By Siennia