On the eve of the girl's birth, the old village seer saw a dragon in her portents. Thusly, the superstitious villagers saw her as either a blessing or a curse.
"The dragon symbolises strength" her father said. "She will be a great leader"
"The dragon is calamity" said the blacksmith. "She will bring misfortune on us all"
Two decades later, and the girl - now far, far away, on a journey of her own - knows the answer. She looks at the scales blossoming across her arms, runs her hand over the small, slowly growing horns atop her head.
It was neither. She is not a hero, nor a calamity. She is simply a dragon; bereft of further meaning.
It was not a portent of her value to the community, but simply one of her very nature, of the beast that she would one day blossom into.
That girl, her heart long scarred by mighty expectations and horrible rejection alike, smiles, her eyes filling with tears. How wonderful it is, to simply be what she is.

