I was five years old the day I first breathed fire.
Most of the time, when I try to remember it, the details slip away, like the edges of a dream. But there are a few things I can never forget. The smell of the polished wooden floor, the afternoon light slanting through the high windows, and the way Elira looked at me when her hair caught flame.
We were playing in the south wing's nursery, where the carpets were so thick they swallowed our footsteps. Our tea set was carved from smooth, painted wood, bright with little dragons along the rims.
Elira sat across from me, her golden hair arranged in perfect ribbons. Even then, she was particular about it. She'd glare at anyone who touched it without permission.
Aric sat beside me, fidgeting with a miniature dragon. He couldn't sit still for more than a moment, and every time he shifted, the little chair creaked in protest.
He'd already eaten most of the tea cakes the kitchen staff had arranged for us and was busy making up stories about the creatures our ancestors used to be, dragons and fox spirits and leviathans that ruled the old kingdoms.
I knew I was a dragon-blood too. We all knew, in the way children know big things we can't quite imagine. But no one ever told me it could happen so soon. They said we'd start training when we were twelve or thirteen, maybe later, when we were ready.
I wasn't ready.
The heat started in my chest, low and heavy like I'd swallowed something burning. It rose up into my throat, and I tried to cough it away.
But before I could, the sneeze came, unstoppable.
A bright, yellow-orange burst exploded from my mouth, hotter and brighter than anything I'd ever felt. For a moment, it painted everything in flickering color.
Elira screamed.
She scrambled back, batting at her hair as the ends curled and blackened. The smell of scorched hair and wood drifted through the air.
Aric froze, eyes wide, a crumb stuck to his lip.
Then the maids were there, rushing in with wet cloths and calm voices, though I could see how their hands trembled. One of them lifted me out of my chair like I was a bundle of hot coals.
My mother didn't run. She never ran. She stepped into the playroom with the same quiet composure she wore everywhere, her gaze sweeping over the smoke, the children, and finally settling on me.
Her expression didn't change, not even when she looked at the charred table.
But she took me in her arms. And that was one of the only times she'd held me for so long. She knew something or understood it. She understood that I needed her in that moment.
I was five. I didn't know what manifestation was supposed to feel like. I didn't know what I'd done.
Later, everyone would call it an omen. Some would call it a curse. They'd whisper that no child should come into their birthright so early, that it meant something was wrong with me.
But in that moment, my hands still warm and my heart hammering so hard it hurt, I hugged my mom tighter and only thought one thing:
I didn't mean to.