Life in the Veil District carried on, the routines and rhythms of our little community unchanged, yet I felt the shift within me. The mark on my cheek was as common as the air we breathed, shared by all Mongrels, yet it still weighed heavily in my young heart, a symbol of both belonging and division. It meant that now I would be punished for use of magic, just like everyone else in the Veil.

Despite the lingering weight of my new reality, Cyrus remained a constant source of lightness and mischief. His unwavering friendship was a steady anchor, keeping me grounded even when the rest of the world felt like too much.

One sunny afternoon, we found ourselves near the boundary of our district, where a small stream cut through the earth. The area was a hidden gem, where Mongrel children claimed the wild terrain as their own.

The stream trickled with a quiet persistence, its water so clear you could see the small stones settled at the bottom. Sunlight glinted off the ripples, casting patterns of light that danced on our faces. It felt like our own secret world, untouched by the heavy shadows that loomed over the Veil District.

“You ever think about what lives in this water?” Cyrus asked, squatting at the edge, peering intently into the clear stream. He picked up a small twig, using it to stir the water gently.

“Probably magical creatures waiting to jump out and grant wishes to curious boys,” I teased, plopping down beside him and leaning over to get a closer look. “Or maybe they won’t because they’re afraid of your face.”

“Hey!” he exclaimed, nudging me with a grin, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “My face could charm even the scariest of magical creatures.”

“Perhaps a blind ogre or an easily impressed goblin,” I retorted, splashing a handful of water his way.

We laughed, the sound melding with the soft flow of the stream. These moments of laughter painted our world bright, offering respite from the shadows that sometimes encroached upon our lives.

Yet, even in these stolen moments of joy, a shadow lurked within my home—my father’s presence growing increasingly cold and distant, his demeanor shifting in ways I struggled to understand.

He was once the steadfast father, quiet but present, attending to household needs with silent diligence. But since the branding, an unspoken chasm widened between us, and he often disappeared into himself, leaving echoes of his absence in the corners of our home.

“Hey, Cy.” I called out to him.

He barely looked up as he tried to wring the water out of his clothes. “Yes, Nemmi?”

“Is your father always kind to you, or is it just when he is around my mother?” I asked. Maybe all father’s were like mine– cold and stoic. It was obvious that Serf Seraphiel cared for my mother as a friend, so maybe that’s why he was so happy whenever I saw him.

Cyrus looked up, his blue eyes puzzled but sincere. “What do you mean? He’s my dad—he scolds me when I mess up, but he’s nice most of the time.”

I looked down, avoiding his gaze. “Well, I– I just– my father is not as kind to me as yours,” I confessed, twisting the hem of my shirt between nervous fingers. “I don’t know if he’s ever really been.”

Cyrus contemplated it. He walked over to me, plopping back down and putting his feet in the stream. “Maybe he doesn’t know how to show you,” he suggested, shifting closer. “Or maybe he just knows you are way closer to your mother.”

I nodded, letting the thought sink in. Maybe Father just didn’t understand how to connect with me, or maybe I needed to reach out first. With this resolve in mind, I promised myself I'd try to bridge the gap between us. Maybe, Father wouldn’t be as mean anymore.

Before we left, Cyrus nudged me, gasping loudly. “What if this stream is the start of a river that flows through the entire world?”

I smiled, indulging the fantasy. “Maybe we should map it, label all the places it goes!”

In that moment, we decided to sketch makeshift maps on scrap parchment, filled with pretend treasures from distant lands.

Returning after a day spent with Cyrus, I found Father's figure silhouetted against the dim light of our small kitchen. He sat at the table with a glass of something dark and foreboding. His expression was hard to read—a mixture of contemplation and something else, something heavier.

“Hello, Father,” I said, trying to sound light, to bridge the void with familiarity.

His gaze flicked up, a fleeting acknowledgment before drifting back to the depths of his glass. “Noemi,” he replied, the word hanging heavy in the air.

I hovered a moment longer, hoping for more, feeling the warmth from my afternoon with Cyrus fade in the cool draft of the room. “I spent time with Cyrus by the stream,” I offered, hoping to elicit some connection.

Father’s jaw clenched briefly before his expression smoothed to neutral. “Take care not to lose track of time,” he finally said, the warning implicit. “There's much to learn beyond chasing young boys.”

The words stung, more harshly than intended, disappointing in their restraint. I nodded, suppressing my shame. “Yes, Father.”

As I turned to leave, his voice halted me. “Daydreams aren’t reality, Noemi. Remember that.”

I paused, the weight of his words settling on my shoulders. “I know,” I whispered.

Retreating to my room, I found solace in the whispered confidences exchanged with Mother—her gentle reassurances were like medicine to my wounds. Her warm embrace spoke volumes beyond words.

“I played at the stream with Cyrus today, Mother,” I told her as she rubbed my back. “We had a lot of fun making up our own little world.”

“Oh, did you?” she mused, chuckling softly. “And what was this world like?”

I smiled. I could always tell her anything. “It’s beautiful– every single creature in our world is kind to each other. There’s magic that is used all the time and lots of roses with all different colors. But, Cyrus wanted to put terrifying dragons in our world that he could ride on.”

Mother laughed, wholeheartedly. “That sounds wonderful, Nemmi.”

My smile turned into a small frown. “I tried to tell Father about my day, but he didn’t care,” I muttered.

“Your father cares in his own way, I think,” Mother said softly. “He just doesn’t show it.” It sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than me.

Despite the frost creeping through our home, life continued. Mother guided me with quiet strength, and Cyrus was always nearby, his friendship a comfort unmatched by the constraints of our world.

We wandered the district, exploring forgotten alleyways and discovering secret paths through the tangle the forest. Curiosity drove us deeper, and on those paths, among forgotten relics and whispered legends, dreams of our future began to blossom.

“We’ll go everywhere someday,” Cyrus mused aloud as we slipped through a narrow passage behind the old mill, the walls echoing our footsteps. “You, me, and all the places we've yet to discover.”

I grinned, matching his eager pace, feeling the promise alive in his voice cling to my heart. “Yes, and everywhere we go, we must steal a small token– something to remind us of our adventures.”

He laughed softly. “Dangerous,” he said. “We will have to be extra careful to not get caught.”

“What will we steal here then?” I asked, looking around at the decomposing wood. Mold was growing between it’s cracks.

Cyrus gave me a disgusted look. “We can start stealing on a different adventure. This one doesn’t have anything I want to touch.”

Our quiet resilience turned into laughter, and the whispers of our made-up world took root. It was a world where labels held no power, where tomorrow’s uncertainty could be reshaped by our daily dreams.

Days turned into weeks, and our expeditions through the district became more adventurous. Every corner we turned seemed to unveil new experiences, moments of laughter, and whispers of childhood secrets. We encountered old buildings with windows cracked but decorated with wildflowers bursting forth in defiance. We found hidden graffiti that told stories only we could interpret, and we dared to dream of the places beyond the Veil—a world full of colors and magic we could only imagine.

But as the seasons shifted and the days grew shorter, shadows also crept deeper into my home. My father’s cold demeanor solidified, turning the once warm atmosphere into a rigid coldness that settled between us like a wall. He would often retreat into silence, disappearing for hours into the dim corners of the house, leaving me to wonder if I would ever truly reach him.

Despite the growing distance, I chose to hold onto my mother’s warmth, hoping it might fill the emptiness between my father and me. Each evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm light through the kitchen windows, I would sit with her at the table, sharing my day, her smile reminding me that not all love was lost.

I held hope—hope for a future as certain as our next adventure, and I found my solace in the company of those who dared to dream beyond our brands.