Though the group celebrated Dorian's progress, the display deepened unspoken tensions among his friends. Lucas smiled outwardly but looked away quickly, his shoulders tensing. "Not bad, lightning boy. Don't electrocute your audience."
Ryssa's tail flicked restlessly as her smile tightened. "Careful—it's easy to lose control of lightning if you're not careful. Not that you would, but…" Her voice trailed off, and she turned back to practicing a quiet flame in her palm.
Bogo said little, keeping his hands busy with a half-finished carving. But his quiet sigh as the conversation lulled didn't escape Dorian's notice.
Later that day, as the group walked back to the village, Lucas lagged behind slightly, his usual quick wit dampened. When Ryssa conjured a small ball of flame as they passed her family's fields, her tail curled uneasily as her success earned glances from nearby workers. Bogo remained absorbed in a small, portable toolkit he carried, murmuring excuses about why he didn't need to join the others for another experiment that evening.
Dorian watched them all, concern growing in his chest. While his confidence in his magic was rising, the quiet hesitations of his friends created an undercurrent of unease.
That night, the group sat around a quiet campfire near the outskirts of the village. Dorian strummed his lute absentmindedly, the occasional spark lighting the strings. Lucas lay flat on his back, looking up at the stars, while Ryssa poked at the embers with a stick. Bogo sat quietly to the side, polishing a small wood carving—a feather etched in intricate detail.
"You know," Lucas began, his voice casual but brittle, "some people just get lucky. You wake up one day, your veins are awake, and boom—magic. Some of us…" He trailed off, a wry smile curling his lips. "We're good at shoveling."
"Lucas—" Ryssa started, but he waved her off, the grin not quite reaching his eyes.
"It's fine. Dorian'll zap his way to greatness, and we'll cheer him on from the sidelines."
The words lingered uncomfortably in the air as the embers flickered.
…
The tension of the previous day carried into the morning. Ryssa, normally confident in her guidance, hesitated in her magic demonstrations, her spells flickering inconsistently. Lucas's jokes turned sharper, and Bogo immersed himself in his projects, quietly excusing himself whenever the group pressed too far into aspirations or dreams.
Dorian, increasingly aware of the weight his success had brought to their dynamic, firmly gripped his lute and decided to speak about this when the time was right.
One evening, as the group sat around the campfire, Dorian finally broke the silence.
"I've been thinking," he said, setting his lute aside. "We talk about my dream all the time—but what about yours?"
The question lingered heavily. Lucas stared into the fire, his usual grin nowhere to be found. Ryssa fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, her tail flicking erratically. Bogo continued carving, his knife scraping softly against the wood.
"I'll tell you mine again," Dorian continued, his voice steady. "But first, let me say this."
Dorian set down his lute and looked around, his heart heavy with the weight of their silences. Taking a deep breath, he stood tall, letting his voice rise like it did when he performed.
"Do you know why I talk so much about my dream?" he began. His words had the rhythm of a melody, as if each one carried the weight of something more.
"When I put up my dream out there, the world hears it. It doesn't matter if the world doesn't reciprocate the way I hope. I don't live with regrets, because at least I tried."
"I hold the quill to my story. No one else does. And once you let go of that quill, do you know what happens? It could disappear. Or worse—someone else could take it, and then your story isn't yours anymore."
The group sat in silence, his words echoing in the quiet grove.
Dorian smiled softly. "Don't let that happen. Hold your quill. Even if you don't know what to write yet, hold on to it. Because one day, you'll realize the story was worth writing all along."
Dorian, his silhouette illuminated by the firelight. He held his lute loosely, the melody he played soft and bittersweet as he spoke:
"To the ones who laugh, to the ones who dream,
Your stories are threads in life's grand seam.
Hidden fears and doubts may grow,
But within you burns a brighter glow.
The quill is yours, your story to write,
Through days of shadow and days of light.
Speak your dreams so the world might hear,
Even when they don't, still persevere.
For when the quill is set aside,
The pages blank, the ink denied,
What could have been will never show—
The unwritten tale no one will know."
Dorian let the notes hang in the air as he finished, his green eyes shining with conviction. "We're not just farmers' kids or family expectations," he said. "We're something more. The world doesn't define us—we define ourselves."
The group sat in stunned silence before the firelight flickered in Lucas's eyes.
"Sometimes you're annoyingly right, you know that?" Lucas said, his grin returning, softer this time.
Ryssa ignited a small flame in her palm, holding it steady. "Maybe you're onto something."
Bogo nodded slowly, his carving complete: a tiny lute etched with delicate detail. He held it up to the light and smiled. "Maybe... it's time to build something bigger."