A year after my branding, I lost my mother. The quiet absence of her presence echoed in our small house, a haunting reminder of the warmth that used to fill every room. My father seldom spoke of her death, his words always clipped and cold, as if acknowledging her loss would shatter the fragile facade he maintained. Since her passing, he seemed almost relieved—freed from the weight of her gentle spirit—and his anger towards me had sharpened, morphing into a cruelty I never knew he possessed.

I was now eleven, yet my body resembled that of a nine-year-old, stunted by lack of proper nourishment. My skin was a sickly shade of pale, dark circles framing my silver eyes, an ever-present reminder of my constant fatigue. Most days, I was confined to my room, where I stared at the walls, the sounds from the outside occasionally creeping through the cracks.

My days were filled with fleeting memories of my mother’s warmth and laughter—the times she braided my hair or whispered stories of hope. “You’ll make the world better,” she had always assured me, her fiery auburn hair cascading around her shoulders. She had held onto dreams for the both of us, dreams that now flickered like dying embers.

The only solace I found was in the joyous memory of her and Cyrus, the only people who dared to dream of a better world with me. When Cyrus and Serf Seraphiel visited, even if only for a brief moment, they brought with them fragments of joy that punctured my solitude.

I tried to hold back the tears, knowing if I cried too loud, it would send Father into a rage. He must have given Serf Seraphiel and Cyrus a very convincing story about why I wasn’t coming around as much, otherwise they would have come to save me from this nightmare.

The silence in my room was broken by the creek of my room door opening. My body immediately tensed as Father stepped inside.

Father’s angelic power was blood manipulation, the ability that got passed down to me. He was powerful– powerful enough to maybe take us somewhere where we could be free. Instead, he used his ability to help the King, in exchange for riches. 

Nobody knew of the specifics, but he started working for the King after mother died, which provided him enough money to reinvent our home. Within weeks of his new job, some pure-blooded builders rushed to build the plan that my Father had handed to them. Ever since then, Father had shut me out from the world, afraid of the King finding out the truth of my lineage.

It wasn’t my death he feared, but his own downfall.

With a practiced coldness, he grabbed my wrists and forced me to my feet, his eyes hollow and emotionless. My pulse quickened, every instinct screaming for retreat. “Where are we going?” I managed, my voice trembling.

He didn’t respond. I tried to pull away but his grip was iron tight. He dragged me toward the stairs leading to the chamber. Helplessly, I followed, tugging at my arm– but I kept my mouth shut, knowing that if I spoke up, I would severely regret it.

“Don’t make this harder on me, Noemi!” he shouted. “I could make this much worse for you.” At that, I stopped. He meant he would use his power on me. After all, we were in our own home and nobody could see. Even if they did, he worked for the King. 

As a master of blood manipulation, my father could take control of people's bodies, forcing their movements to his will. He could make somebody stab themselves with a dagger or easily stop their heart. On top of it, there was that intense, prickling sensation of making someone's blood move against their will. 

He opened the door to the chamber, the light from candles flooding the room. There were no windows and it was made specifically so no sound escaped. He had a desk in the corner with dozens of vials and herbs. Chains decorated the walls, and a massive, stone platform was built in the center, with a small statue atop it. 

The King had granted him this chamber to perform his duties, and sometimes, he used it on me. Our own little torture chamber in our very own “home”. 

When we walked inside, he chained me to the wall, his tall frame blocking my view from the rest of the room. He walked to his old, wooden desk and pulled out a relic– a carved obsidian amulet, pulsating faintly with an ominous light. I felt drawn to it, and the longer I stared, the louder I heard those unsettling whispers that escaped from it. 

It felt… familiar.

He placed the relic on the circular platform in the center. Then, reaching for a dagger and a glass cup, he confronted me, the wicked calm in his demeanor more unsettling than rage. I froze. 

“This relic is going to cleanse you of your demonic lineage that you inherited from your bitch of a mother.” His voice was a chilling monotone, a calm that sliced through me. “The dealer assured me of that.” 

My eyes widened with fear, but I remained silent, knowing resistance was futile. He raised the dagger, slicing into my arm with a practiced hand. Accustomed to the pain, I barely winced as the blade bit into my skin. The blood flowed freely, guided by his power into the waiting cup.

With the cup in hand, he walked to the center of the room and began to draw symbols on the ground with my blood. Each scrape of his fingers against the stone sent tremors of dread through my spine, like nails on glass that vibrated down to my bones. 

I knew what this was…

Witchcraft.

The whispers from the streets about the forbidden magic known as witchcraft became a frightening reality. Reading from a crumpled piece of parchment, he chanted in the language of demons, his incantations seeping into the air, the room vibrating with each word.

The pain started slowly– a dull ache that quickly transformed into a searing agony. It felt as though every nerve in my body was ripping itself apart. I gasped, my vision waning, and my mind teetering on the edge of consciousness. 

As the pain intensified, I screamed. The next time I drew breath, something forced its way into my throat, choking me until I passed out.

Darkness. That’s all I could see. Within the abyss, sensation drained away, leaving only chilling emptiness. I no longer felt pain- no longer felt trapped as I rubbed my wrists. 

In that silence, a shadow appeared, drawing nearer—a figure shrouded in inky darkness, framed by glowing red eyes.

"Finally," the silhouette chuckled, the sound slithering into the void.

Fear unlike any I had known twisted within me, sucking breath from my lungs. Kneeling beneath its oppressive presence, I peered up through the black, and my voice faltered. “Who... are you?”

The figure smiled, malevolence radiating from it. “Me?” it mused. “I, child… am Kako.”

Well, shit.