Blog post #5- fear and forthcoming (draft)

Your biggest obstacles are often the ones you create yourself.

Waking up in the mornings can be tough. Some days, your body wants to sink into the warm covers and never leave. However, responsibilities and tasks loom over your head while you get ready for the day, like a dark, stormy cloud raining over a wide field of grass. A little rain is good. It helps the grass and flowers grow. But too much rain will slowly drown the plants, turning the soil heavy and cold. When that happens, the grass weakens and gets trampled by every passing animal, cows, horses, gazelles, you name it. That field is my happy place. I picture it whenever my thoughts grow too loud. In that place, the hills roll gently, the sky stretches wide and blue, and the rain falls only as much as it needs to. Nothing more.

I hold onto that image as I sit in my chair on the morning of my magistrate entrance exam. The hall is silent except for the rustle of robes and the faint scratching of quills. Sunlight streams through tall arched windows, catching on the polished stone floors. At the front stands Ms. Tegu, her vermillion red scales shimmering as they scatter light in every direction. Her sharp eyes scan the room, making my chest tighten.

My name is Vaeloria Nightmere, daughter of a powerful and respected magistrate family. In my household, magic is not simply practiced. It is perfected. My father oversees the protection wards that guard entire districts of our kingdom. My mother specializes in intricate binding spells that only the most disciplined witches can perform. For generations, the Nightmere name has stood for excellence.

And then there is my brother.

He sat this same exam two years ago. He passed with distinction. Ten days later, he vanished. No sign of struggle. No trace of magic gone wrong. Just gone. His disappearance is a quiet wound in our family. We do not speak of it often, but it shapes everything. I can feel the weight of his absence pressing on my shoulders as I stare at the blank parchment in front of me.

Ms. Tegu’s voice slices through the silence. “Begin.”

My hand trembles as I dip my quill in ink. At first, the answers come easily. I write about energy transference and elemental balance, about the ethics of binding spells. But then the storm begins. A single thought slips in. What if this is wrong? Another follows. What if you embarrass yourself? What if you fail like you always fear you will?

The thoughts multiply. They loop and repeat, growing louder with each pass. I imagine my parents’ disappointment. I imagine whispers from other families. I imagine the Nightmere name losing its shine because of me. My focus shatters. I reread the same question three times without understanding it. My breathing grows shallow. I know that overthinking only makes things worse, yet I cannot seem to stop. The harder I try to silence the thoughts, the more they return.

I finish the exam in a daze. I cannot remember half of what I wrote.

The results arrive a week later. My mother opens the envelope at the kitchen table. Her eyes scan the page, and her face falls ever so slightly. My father clears his throat, silent and rigid.

I have failed.

The decision is swift. As punishment and as a lesson, I am banished to Terra Draconum, a distant land where dragons rule and humans serve. It is said to be a place where weakness is burned away or destroyed entirely. I am escorted across barren plains and through towering gates carved with dragon sigils. There, I am delivered to the royal palace of Apep, a midnight black dragon feared throughout the realm.

Apep’s scales absorb light rather than reflect it. When he speaks, the ground vibrates beneath my feet. His golden eyes study me with cool amusement.

“You will serve,” he says.

My days in the palace are long and exhausting. I scrub floors blackened by smoke and polish towering pillars of dragonsteel. The air smells constantly of ash and iron. Other servants keep their heads down and speak little. At night, I lie awake replaying my exam in my mind. I remember questions I might have answered differently. I imagine better responses. The self criticism is relentless. I call myself foolish, weak, unworthy. The more I think about my failure, the worse it feels. I begin to believe that I deserve to be there.

One evening, as I watch the horizon glow with firelight, something inside me shifts. I cannot remain in this place, not physically and not mentally. I escape under cover of darkness, slipping past guards and scaling a narrow wall. My heart pounds, but it is not only fear that drives me. It is determination.

I run through the Dulce et Saccharum kingdom, where fields of pale grass shimmer like sugar under the moon. I steal food from abandoned carts and drink from narrow streams. After days of travel, I reach Mons Congelatus, a mountain range so high its peaks disappear into clouds. The cold is sharp and constant. Snow crunches beneath my boots, and the wind howls without mercy.

It is there that I meet a young girl named Luma and her small emerald lizard, Pyre. She travels alone but carries herself with confidence. When she sees me struggling against the wind, she offers to share her fire.

“You look like you are fighting something,” she says gently.

“I am,” I reply. I do not explain further.

We travel together across the icy slopes. We gather small shrubs for firewood and melt snow for water. At night, when my thoughts threaten to spiral again, I close my eyes and picture my field. I imagine the grass bending softly in the breeze. I imagine my brother standing at the edge of the hills, watching over me. The image steadies my breathing. It quiets the storm inside my mind.

Our journey leads us into the Prickle Forest, a dense and dangerous place filled with towering thorned vines. The air feels heavy and watchful. Suddenly, a roar shatters the silence. Dragons descend from the sky, their wings beating violently. Luma shouts for me to run.

I sprint through the undergrowth, branches tearing at my clothes. A powerful gust sends me tumbling down a steep hill. Before I can rise, sharp talons seize me. I dangle helplessly in the air as the dragon ascends. Fear surges through me, but so does that familiar voice. You failed. You deserve this. You ruin everything.

Then a flash of silver slices through the darkness. A blade strikes the dragon’s leg, forcing it to release me. I fall, but strong arms catch me before I hit the ground. The person holding me is dressed in dark leather, their face hidden. Yet when I look into their eyes, recognition sparks instantly. They are steady and warm, filled with a quiet strength that feels like home.

For a moment, the chaos fades. My racing heart slows. The sight of those familiar eyes anchors me, even as dragons circle overhead. Together, we escape the forest, moving quickly and silently.

When we reach the edge of my childhood home, I turn to thank my rescuer. He removes his hood.

It is my brother.

Emotion floods through me. We step toward the door together, relief washing over us.

“Time is up.”

The words snap through the air like a crack of thunder.

I jerk upright. I am back in the examination hall. My parchment lies filled with neat, steady writing. Ms. Tegu stands at the front, watching. Confusion swirls in my mind. Had I imagined everything? I glance down and notice something in my pocket. A small strip of worn leather.

Weeks later, another envelope arrives. This time, my hands are steady as I open it. My parents stand beside me, tense but hopeful. I unfold the letter and read the words twice to be certain.

Highest score in the grade.

For a long moment, none of us speak. Then my mother smiles through tears. My father places a firm hand on my shoulder. Pride replaces the heavy silence that once filled our home.

At the wand ceremony, as polished wood settles into my palm, I understand something clearly. The dragons were never my greatest threat. The real battle was inside my own mind. My constant rumination, my perfectionism, and my fear of disappointing others built a storm far worse than any external challenge. I had been drowning my own field with unnecessary rain.

Now, when I close my eyes, I still see the grass and the hills. But the storm has passed. The sky is wide and calm. I know I will face difficulties again. I know expectations will not disappear. But I also know that I am capable. I do not need to sabotage myself to prove my worth.

For the first time, the field is not weighed down by fear. It is growing.