I wrote a book about dragon fire, plucked from the theory of dark energy. About a righteous heroine and a ferocious dragon. At least that was what I thought.

I wrote a book about misinformation, carved into the bones of its pupils. Indoctrination masked as truth, and fed like poison to children so they would grow up dependent on it.

I wrote about finding yourself through tragedy, and letting your own moral compass guide you when exposed to the genuine truth. About asking ‘what do I do now?’ and deciding you need to choose.

I wrote about choosing the righteous path instead of the easy path, because that was the only path Daya would ever be able to walk. A path that turned a ‘murderous’ dragon into a friend. Into a victim.

I wrote a book about oppression. About what you do when you realize that you have been lied to your whole life, from the smallest detail to the grandest revelation. How you find your sense of self and do the right thing.

I meant to write a book about enemies who fall in love. About righteous heroines and powerful dragons. And I did manage to write that. But I also wrote a story about staying true to yourself and choosing to be brave instead of comfortable.

About choosing to view others as people deserving of life, liberty and love, even if the system will punish you for doing so.