Xierra has dreamt of many things.
Her dreams arrive like drifting wisps—some bright enough to guide her, others dimmed before they ever reach the sky. Each one rises, burns for a while, then sinks quietly into memory, leaving warmth behind, or a lesson that settles deeper than comfort ever could.
At three, she dreams in colors too large for her small hands to hold.
She imagines parents who exist somewhere beyond the church walls—faces she cannot picture but feels certain would smile at her. In those dreams, she lives in a vast manor where hallways never end, and footsteps never sound lonely. Some maids braid her hair, servants who bring warm food without counting portions, and rooms filled with light instead of draft and prayer. In that world, wanting is never a sin, and asking never feels like a burden.
At three, she learns that some names will never be spoken aloud.
No one comes for her.
No door opens because it belongs to her.
At five, her dreams take flight.
She wants the sky. She wants distance. She wants to climb past the bell tower and glide over the forests surrounding Hage, wings spread wide, heart light enough to forget the ground entirely. She imagines abandoned ruins swallowed by vines, paths no one else has touched, freedom that tastes like wind against her face. In those dreams, she is a bird—untethered, unseen, untouched by worry.
At five, she learns that wings do not mean safety.
She watches talons strike smaller bodies.
She learns that hunger decides who survives.
The world does not spare the gentle.
At seven, her dreams grow ambitious.
She wonders what lies beyond Hage—villages with paved roads, towns filled with voices she has never heard, the Royal Capital shining like a storybook illustration come alive. She dreams of standing tall in a crown not given by birth, but earned by merit and magic. A Wizard Queen shaped by effort rather than blood, trusted because she listens, followed because she understands.
At seven, she learns that fairness is not a rule the world follows.
Magic is uneven. Unfair. Unwilling.
Opportunity favors some hands more than others.
Curiosity burns bright in a few—and barely flickers in many.
Not everyone climbs with the same resolve.
At ten, her dreams grow quieter, but no less vivid.
She dreams of libraries—rows upon rows of books she does not have to return. Of ink-stained fingers and candlelight stretching deep into the night. She steps into fairy tales borrowed from the Mayor's shelf and loses herself in other worlds while seated in Drouot's office, heart racing as though the pages might open a door. She wishes those adventures were real. Wishes she could leave footprints somewhere unknown.
At ten, she learns the cost of survival.
Coins must stretch. Food must come first.
Gratitude becomes a habit born from necessity.
She learns how heavy a meal feels when others may have none.
At twelve, her dreams turn hopeful again—reckless, desperate, sincere.
She dreams of miracles that require no effort. Of money appearing where it is needed. Of the church repairing itself without splinters or leaks. Of Sister Lily and Father Orsi staying exactly as they are, untouched by time. She dreams of impossible things—Asta staying quiet, Yuno speaking freely—and though she knows better, a part of her still believes miracles might exist simply because she wants them to.
At twelve, she learns that nothing stays.
Villagers leave. Others arrive. Faces change.
Father Orsi's hair grays faster than she expects. His laughter grows slower, his back stiffer. The children grow taller, louder, stronger—Recca, Nash, Horo, Arlu—no longer small enough to be carried.
Neither is she.
The world keeps moving, even when she wishes it wouldn't.
At fifteen, she dreams of almost nothing.
Or perhaps too many things she refuses to name.
She believes she understands the world now.
At fifteen, she learns its cruelty again—this time with sharper edges.
Power taken instead of earned.
Systems that grind people down.
Greed dressed as order.
And yet—
At fifteen, she learns something else.
She learns that the emotions she has carried for years finally ask to be acknowledged. Fear she never voiced. Trust that she gives carefully. Respect that grows quietly. Joy that surprises her when she least expects it.
And love.
Love shown by a boy her age. Love felt in the way her heart forgets how to slow down. Love that arrives unannounced and settles in her chest like warmth she didn't know she was missing.
There is embarrassment in it. Heat in her cheeks.
A strange awareness in her hands, her breath, her steps.
At fifteen, she dreams of a boy.
A boy with dark hair that moves like a shadow in motion. Footsteps so light they barely disturb the world beneath him. Eyes the color of amber—flint and jasper, citrine caught in firelight. Gold shaped by heat and patience, warmth meant for a crown he does not yet wear.
At fifteen, she dreams of him.
Of his confession.
Of the way he unsettles her.
Of how her name sounds different when he speaks it.
Love feels like standing at the edge of something vast—terrifying and beautiful all at once. Like holding light in shaking hands. Like wanting without knowing where it will lead.
It feels like noticing him before she means to.
Like her gaze finding him in a crowd without effort, as though some quiet force keeps drawing her eyes back. It is the awareness of his presence changing the air around her—how the world sharpens when he is near, colors deepening, sounds growing clearer. When he smiles, it is never careless; when he speaks, it carries a weight that settles somewhere just beneath her ribs.
Love is the way her thoughts betray her, returning to him during idle moments, weaving him into dreams she never planned to have. It is the ache that blooms when he is close and the strange calm that follows, as if simply sharing space with him steadies something restless inside her.
Love is also fear dressed in tenderness. The fear of missteps, of words chosen poorly, of revealing too much too soon. It is the way her heart reacts before her mind can intervene—beating faster at his quiet laughter, tightening at his silence, softening at the sincerity in his eyes.
She learns that love is not loud; it does not demand. It waits in glances held a breath too long, in gestures offered without expectation, in the unspoken promise that he sees her—not as an idea, not as a role, but as herself. And that knowledge frightens her more than any dream she has ever dared to keep.
At fifteen, her dream is no longer a place or a title or a miracle.
It is a boy.
And for the first time, the dream feels frighteningly real—
and unbearably out of reach.