The Five Realms

Chapter 10: Fate I

Chapter 10: Fate's Golden Bond

Fatina Simmons was tired of hiding the damn egg.

Three days. That's how long she'd kept it stuffed inside a decorative shoebox in her locker at Saint Augustine High—right next to a stack of sketchbooks, a granola bar with mold potential, and her backup hoodie. It had pulsed through the wood, the fabric, the metal. Constant. Rhythmic. Like it had its own smug heartbeat.

She tried ignoring it. Focused on classes, on pretending to care about finals. But every time she glanced at her backpack or brushed the inside of her locker, it buzzed faintly. And only she could feel it.

Now it was Friday afternoon. Her back hurt. Her head buzzed. Her locker smelled vaguely like dragon farts. And she just wanted silence.

She trudged home, earbuds in but no music playing, and let the old brick row houses blur past in a haze of warm Floridian haze. It felt like walking through a memory—familiar, but too quiet.

When she stepped into her house, it was still and sun-drenched. Her mom was out working a double shift. The only sounds were the hum of the ceiling fan and the distant bark of the neighbor's dog.

She locked the front door, kicked off her shoes, and marched straight to her room. The shoebox thunked onto her desk.

"You. And me. No more secrets," she muttered.

She pulled the lid off. The golden egg gleamed back—perfectly still. Like it hadn't spent three days trying to drive her insane.

Fatina narrowed her eyes.

Then it pulsed.

Once.

Twice.

Then a long, drawn-out hum, like a cello string caught in her bones.

She froze.

The surface of the egg shimmered—not cracked, but moved. Like something inside was stretching.

She backed up.

"Nope. Don't you dare."

Crack.

A hairline fracture zipped down the shell.

She stumbled backward, knocking into her rolling chair.

"Oh no no no—do not ruin my carpet, you dramatic dinosaur."

CRACK.

Another split. Then a soft hiss of air. The egg opened like a blooming flower.

From within spilled... limbs.

Tiny, spindly, golden limbs.

A baby dragon flopped onto her desk with all the dignity of a sock puppet. It sneezed. Sparks flew into her sketchbook.

Fatina stared.

It squeaked.

She blinked.

Then it burped, smoke curling from its nostrils.

Fatina dropped into her chair like her knees had given up. "Okay. This is happening."

The dragon—no bigger than a purse—blinked up at her with crystalline eyes.

Then it opened its mouth and chirped.

A soft, echoey sound. Like a flute played underwater.

Fatina didn't speak.

She just slowly reached for her pencil... and began to sketch.

Fatina had kept count.

Steven's dragon had hatched Monday afternoon—he'd texted the group chat in all caps while claiming he was being "scorched alive by a spicy lizard."