For many, the change comes quickly. A single moment, realizing the truth of their nature, followed by new scales, new wings - and tears of joy.
But for others, the changes start subtle, as subconscious suspicions grow. They think, 'Could I be- no, that's impossible', then push it down. But those glimmers are already enough to make it begin.
Sitting in the garden, the girl's eyes unconsciously snap to a fast-flying bird. The night before, she had a dream of hunting, of killing a goat with her nails and teeth alone - but the details are fuzzy, and she feels a pang of shame for how good, how fulfilling, it felt in the moment.
She feels some kind of presence on her back - not quite a weight, not something else clinging onto her, but rather, a feeling like there's more of her that should be there over her shoulder and at the base of her spine, but isn't.
She shakes her head, and yawns. But the yawn isn't a dignified lady's yawn. It's a big, open mouthed, hearty yawn, accompanied by an instinctual sort of growling noise. She's too calmed by it to even express externally the surprise and concern she feels a momentary pang of.
She knows something is changing. She's experiencing new thoughts, new sensations, new mannerisms; but those things aren't alien. The opposite, actually. They feel natural, effortless, even comforting.
The next day, the world starts to feel sharper, more alive. Her sense of smell is stronger, and she starts to notice that everyone she knows has a distinctive scent to them - it's so obvious now, she almost wonders why she had never noticed before.
She's feeling stronger, more capable. A door in her father's mill got stuck, and when she tried to kick it open again, she smashed it into splinters.
The shell of denial around her begins to crack.
Until one day, walking home from running a delivery of hops to the nearby brewery, oxcart in tow, a man blocks the street in front of her.
She hops down from the cart. The man's got a shady look to him, a sword at his side.
"Hand over everything you've got and maybe we'll let you live" he says. "You're surrounded. Try anything and you'll be an arrow pincushion."
She isn't afraid. She's being robbed by bandits, but she isn't afraid. A few days ago, she would have quivered in fear, acquiesed, given them the cart full of the brewery's payment, trudged home in shame.
But she feels a strength welling inside her. A pride and confidence stronger than any other she's ever felt. These are no holy knights with magic swords, she realizes. Something deep within her, stirring and rising, is telling her she doesn't have to be afraid.
The bandit isn't lying - she can smell his companions on the wind, see them crouched, camouflaged in the bushes, easily.
She shakes her head. "Sorry, can't do that. Gotta get this home. Step outta the road, please."
The bandit seems surprised by more than just her confidence. He gazes into her eyes, starts shaking a little. She's unsettling him, somehow.
He raises a hand. And arrows come flying from the bushes.
They're cheap arrows. Sharp, but lacking even in metal heads. One strikes her directly in the upper arm -
and glances off.
It tears through her shirt, but doesn't even pierce her skin. All she feels is a dull thump, an annoying scrape, like weakly drawing your fingernails across your upper arm. The bandit on the road panics, he pulls out his sword and lunges at her -
The world seems to slow. She notices that she's been tensed up this whole time, ready to unleash a sudden burst of movement at the right moment. Instinctually. She swings around on her heel, doing a little pirouette, bringing a weight she suddenly feels swaying behind her to bear -
And next thing she knows, she's sent the bandit flying.
As he hits the ground - bouncing a little - she starts to notice the world is seeming smaller. Her neck feels longer. She suddenly falls down onto all fours, but the stance doesn't feel awkward. Her clothes have all ripped off, but she doesn't feel naked nor exposed at all. That weight behind her - it's that presence she's felt for a while now, except now it's brushing against the ground, swaying, with real mass to it. She feels a few more dull thumps alongside her side. No doubt more arrows.
The bandit, slumped on the floor, looks up at her with pure terror. He scrambles, fleeing, and she hears the gentle rustling in the bushes as his companions rush away, too.
She blinks, feeling a second set of eyelids swish forward behind her own as she does so. She's starting to realize what happened. She feels an energy within her chest, horns upon her head. On her back, she feels wind blowing across that strange presence she had been feeling for weeks now. as she in unconsciously shifts and adjusts them - they're dextrous, maneuverable. Like... limbs. No, that's what they are. Limbs. Wings.
The thought that had struck her here and there for the past few months returns. But this time, she doesn't try and bury it down. Doesn't try to deny it. What use would it be, when she can already feel her tail and wings and horn and flame and claws?
Something wells up within her. A fierce, burning, potent ferocity. She cocks her head back and, through a sharp toothed maw, unleashes a roar.
She knows, now. She's emerged from her egg.
She is a dragon.
