Chapter 2
The morning I left Willocreek, the sky burned with colors that had no names before the dragons came.
I stood at my bedroom window, watching ribbons of violet and gold twist through the pre-dawn clouds—a reminder that our world had been fundamentally changed a thousand years ago, down to the very light that touched our faces. My pack sat by the door, bulging with everything I owned that mattered: my father's old journal, three changes of clothes, a bedroll, and the small pouch of silver coins I'd saved from five years of working at the mill. But the true weight of my pack came from the sword strapped across its side—the imperial blade that had belonged to my great-great-grandfather, John Maxima. He'd earned that surname as a soldier in an empire that had crumbled to dust years after his death, but the sword remained, passed down through generations of my family like a promise. It was one of my most treasured possessions, a tangible connection to a legacy that stretched back centuries. I was bringing it with me not just as a weapon, but as a reminder of where I came from—a family of warriors, of people who'd endured empires rising and falling. If John Maxima could survive the collapse of everything he'd known, perhaps his great-great-granddaughter could survive leaving home.
My reflection stared back at me from the glass, and I looked away quickly. I'd never been comfortable with mirrors. I was pretty. Or so the boys and my mother would say. I had long wavy dark red hair, green eyes and fair skin. My chest wasn't huge but the fit my frame well. The only part of me that I was proud of was my butt. I earned that perfect ass from years of running and working. It was honestly the only part of me that didn't make me feel like a stranger in my own skin.
"You're really going through with it," I whispered to myself, as if saying it aloud might make it feel more real. My hands trembled slightly as I fastened the leather bracers around my forearms—a gift from my mother, made by the town's leatherworker. They were simple, unenchanted, but they fit perfectly. She'd measured my arms three times to be sure.
Below my window, Willocreek was beginning to wake. Smoke curled from chimneys as families started their breakfast fires. Old Garrett would be opening his smithy soon, and the Widow Chen would be setting out her herb baskets in the market square. It was a rhythm I'd known my entire life, as familiar as breathing. And today, I was walking away from it.
The thought made my chest tight.
I'd been planning this for two years—ever since I turned eighteen and became eligible for the System ceremony. In a small town like Millhaven, most people received their class assignment from Priestess Mara at the local shrine, then settled into whatever role the System had chosen for them. Farmers, craftsmen, merchants, healers. Necessary work, honest work. Work that kept our community alive.
But I wanted more.
I wanted to see the capital city of Thornhaven, where the Adventurer's Guild towers rose higher than any building in Willocreek. I wanted to delve into the dungeons that spawned in the wilderness, those temporary rifts in reality that appeared without warning and vanished just as quickly, leaving behind treasures and dangers in equal measure. I wanted to be someone who mattered beyond the borders of a town so small that most maps didn't bother marking it.
I wanted to prove that Jane Maxima was more than just the strange girl who kept to herself.
A knock at my door made me jump.
"Jane? You awake?" My mother's voice was soft, careful. She'd been careful with me for as long as I could remember.
"I'm up," I called back, grabbing my pack and slinging it over my shoulder. The weight of it felt both terrifying and exhilarating.
When I opened the door, my mother stood in the hallway with a wrapped bundle in her hands. She was a small woman, barely reaching my shoulder, with silver threading through her dark hair and worry lines etched deep around her eyes. Those lines had gotten deeper in the past few months, ever since I'd told her I was leaving.
"I made you something for the road," she said, holding out the bundle. "Honey cakes. Your favorite."
My throat tightened. "Mom, you didn't have to—"
"I know I didn't have to." She pressed the bundle into my hands, and I felt the warmth of the cakes through the cloth. "But I wanted you to have something from home. Something to remind you that you always have a place here, no matter what happens in the city."
I set my pack down and pulled her into a hug, careful not to crush the cakes between us. She felt so small in my arms, so fragile. When had that happened? When had I become the one doing the protecting?
"I'll write," I promised, my voice muffled against her shoulder. "Every week, I swear."
"You'd better." She pulled back, and I saw tears glistening in her eyes, though she was smiling. "And when you get your class assignment, I want to hear about it immediately. Even if it's something boring like 'Accountant' or 'Scribe.'"
I laughed despite myself. "I don't think the System gives out 'Accountant' as a class."
"You never know. The System works in mysterious ways." She reached up and tucked a strand of my dark hair behind my ear, the same gesture she'd made a thousand times throughout my childhood. "Your father would be proud of you, you know. He always said you had the heart of an adventurer."
The mention of my father sent a pang through my chest. He'd died six years ago, killed when a dungeon spawned too close to town and its monsters spilled out before the local guards could contain them. I'd been twelve, still trying to understand the changes my body was going through, still trying to figure out why I felt so different from everyone else.
He'd never known the full truth about me. I'd made sure of that.
"I hope so," I said quietly.
We went downstairs together, and I found my younger brother Tam already at the kitchen table, shoveling porridge into his mouth with the single-minded determination of a fourteen-year-old boy. He looked up when I entered, and something complicated crossed his face—pride mixed with resentment mixed with sadness.
"So you're really leaving," he said around a mouthful of porridge.
"Don't talk with your mouth full," my mother chided automatically.
Tam swallowed. "You're really leaving," he repeated, more clearly this time.
"I really am." I sat down across from him, suddenly unsure what to say. Tam and I had never been particularly close—he was the golden child, the normal one, the son who would inherit the mill and carry on the family business. I was the odd one out, the daughter who spent more time reading old books about the world before the dragons than learning how to properly run the grinding stones.
"Are you scared?" he asked, and there was genuine curiosity in his voice.
I considered lying, then decided he deserved the truth. "Terrified."
"Good." He grinned, and for a moment he looked so much like our father that my heart ached. "That means you're not stupid. Dad always said that anyone who goes into a dungeon without being scared is either a fool or a liar."
"Your father said a lot of things," my mother murmured, setting a bowl of porridge in front of me. "Most of them while he was drunk on festival wine."
"He was still right," Tam insisted. He looked at me seriously, his grin fading. "Come back and visit sometimes, okay? Even if you become some famous adventurer with a fancy title and everything. Don't forget about us."
The lump in my throat was back. "I could never forget about you, you little pest."
He threw a piece of bread at me, and I caught it reflexively, and just like that the tension broke. We ate breakfast together, the three of us, and for a little while I could pretend that this was just another normal morning in Willocreek.
But eventually, the sun rose higher, and it was time to go.
The walk to the town's edge felt both too long and too short. My mother and Tam accompanied me, along with a small crowd of neighbors who'd heard I was leaving. Old Garrett pressed a small knife into my hands—"Just in case," he said gruffly. The Widow Chen gave me a sachet of herbs that she promised would ward off dungeon sickness. Even Priestess Mara came, her ceremonial robes swishing around her ankles, to offer a blessing for safe travels.
"The System will guide you," she said, pressing her thumb to my forehead in the traditional gesture. "Trust in its wisdom, and you will find your path."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. These people had known me my entire life. They'd watched me grow up, watched me struggle with being different, watched me retreat into myself year after year. And now they were here, sending me off with gifts and blessings and hope.
It was almost enough to make me stay.
Almost.
"The morning coach will be here soon," my mother said, glancing down the road toward the distant tree line. "You should probably—"
She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to.
I hugged her again, then Tam, then made my way through the small crowd, accepting handshakes and well-wishes and promises to write. By the time I reached the edge of town, where the dirt road gave way to the cobblestone highway that led to Thornhaven, my eyes were burning with unshed tears.
The coach appeared right on schedule, pulled by two massive draft horses whose breath steamed in the cool morning air. The driver, a weathered woman with a scar across her cheek, barely glanced at me as I climbed aboard.
"Thornhaven?" she asked.
"Thornhaven," I confirmed, handing over the fare.
I found a seat by the window and pressed my face against the glass as the coach lurched into motion. Through the distortion, I could see my mother and Tam waving, growing smaller and smaller as we pulled away. The other townspeople had already started to disperse, returning to their daily routines.
And just like that, Willocreek was behind me.
I sat back in my seat, my pack clutched in my lap, and tried to calm my racing heart. The only other passenger was an elderly man who appeared to be asleep, his head lolling against the coach's wall. I was grateful for the silence. It gave me time to think, to process what I'd just done.
I'd left home.
I was really doing this.
The landscape outside the window began to change as we traveled, the familiar fields and forests of my childhood giving way to wilder terrain. I caught glimpses of magic everywhere—trees that grew in impossible spirals, their leaves shimmering with inner light; streams that flowed uphill, defying gravity; distant mountains that seemed to shift and change shape when I wasn't looking directly at them.
This was the world the dragons had made. A world of wonder and danger, where the old rules no longer applied.
And somewhere in this world, in the great city of Thornhaven, I would undergo the System ceremony. I would receive my class assignment. I would begin my journey as an adventurer.
If I was lucky, I would find a way to be comfortable in my own skin.
If I was very lucky, I might even find a way to be happy.
I pulled out one of my mother's honey cakes and took a bite, savoring the familiar sweetness. Outside, the sun continued to rise, painting the strange sky in colors that had no names. The coach rattled onward, carrying me toward a future I couldn't predict.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt something that might have been hope.
The road to Thornhaven stretched out before me, full of possibilities. Whatever came next—whether I received a powerful class or a mundane one, whether I succeeded as an adventurer or failed spectacularly—at least I would know I'd tried.
At least I would know I'd been brave enough to leave.
I finished the honey cake and watched the world transform outside my window, and I let myself imagine all the things I might become.
The journey had begun.