I can feel the dawn warming my eyelids, precisely three springs digging into my back, and a hole in my left sock. The normalcy of how I start each day is a bright contrast to the wild and wonderous dreams of the other orphans in my building. It seems like all of them know some bloodline they are a part of, and they love to boast the magic each one gives them. Thalia is Igni, Grome is Terra, Undi is Whisper, and the list goes on.
Opening my eyes to welcome the morning world, I stretch my arms above my head, resulting in a few satisfying cracks. I don't understand why they dream so big, and I certainly can't fathom knowing you are a descendant and having no family to give you a home. The life I lead is content and monotonous, my two favorite things.
A flash of gold catches my eye at the foot of the bed, and I find that my strange sponsor has struck again. Every year on my birthday, I find a mysterious pile of gifts at the foot of my bed. Due to the nature of the items within, I often wish that I had no birthday at all. A medium sized gift catches my attention, as its perfect brown paper is in such contrast to the other gifts-- most of which glitter in some way. I pick up the gift, bracing myself as I carefully unwrap the box.
A blood-curdling scream erupts into the room as I lift the lid. Wincing, I slam the lid back down. What is it this time? A banshee? Why in the world would anyone give anyone a screaming box for their birthday?
Carefully, I set the box aside and pick up a glimmering silver box the size of one of Grome's slippers. The wrapping is haphazard and I accidentally tear the paper due to improper tape placement. This box has a latch that I warily undo. Inside, is a perfectly black egg, sitting on a bed of Phoenix feathers. This box goes straight onto the windowsill next to my most prized possession, the silver spoon that was in my mouth when I arrived at the orphanage as a baby.
The final two packages are tied together, so I carefully unwrap one after the other. The first one reveals a shadow-sewn tunic and the other is a matching pair of pants (also shadow-sewn). Even though I rarely wear pants or trousers, I slip these on readily. I can barely contain my excitement at owning shadow-stitch. Finally, I can go unnoticed in crowded rooms at social events when I'm trying to binge on tiny sandwiches!
I turn back to the screaming package, steeling myself for an ear-rape that never comes. Cautiously, I tilt the box enough to see the contents holds only a note. It's just like my sponsor to encase a scream in a box with just a piece of paper in it.
Unfolding the note with the care I reserve only for my sponsor's unpredictable gifts, I realize that the note isn't written in common-- but I can still read the words.
