The day of my branding was the day I turned seven. I pulled on my worn and ragged clothes, their threads frayed and faded from years of use. My reflection in the cracked mirror revealed a girl too thin for her age, with tangled silver curls framing my pale face, and silver colored eyes.

I felt a pang of envy as I thought of my mother— a true Celestial beauty with fire red eyes and auburn curls. Her beauty was like the stories she told me of the original Celestials: how they were overwhelmingly radiant, their skin imbued with a glow, and their features perfectly proportioned. It stood in stark contrast to my own dull appearance.

As I entered the tiny living room, the warmth of my mother’s presence enveloped me, even if just for a moment. She sat near the flickering candlelight on the table, her back to me as she carefully arranged a bouquet of wilted roses, a touch of color in our otherwise faded existence.

“Good morning, love,” she said, her voice soft. “These are for you.” She turned to face me, and I was struck by the deep sadness in her red eyes, which mirrored the very petals of the flowers she held. 

“Mom, I’m scared,” I admitted, my voice barely a whisper.

She laid the flowers aside and reached for me, pulling me into her embrace. “I know, my beautiful Nemmi. I know. But remember, I will be with you every step of the way.” Her warmth wrapped around me, yet her trembling grip hinted at her own fear—fear of what today might bring.

The morning passed in a blur of dread. The sun struggled to pierce through the gray blanket of clouds that loomed overhead, casting an eerie paleness over our small home in the Veil District. The streets lay silent and deserted, and the only sound was the soft rustle of the wind, a cruel contrast to the turbulent emotions swelling inside me.

The houses in this impoverished community were decrepit, with crumbling walls, leaky roofs, and lacking basic amenities, making them far below acceptable living conditions. The homes were arranged in a square formation around a central courtyard, where the ground was a neglected mix of deteriorating stone and patches of dirt, reflecting the overall state of disrepair.

My mother and I stepped outside. The air felt heavier, and the atmosphere thickened as we approached the center of the district, where the branding would take place. I saw three guards approaching— their eyes like arrows, piercing and filled with disdain. The heavy armor they wore clanked ominously, the sound echoing in the silence of the abandoned streets.

As we entered the square, the hollow pit in my stomach deepened. I was struck by the silence of my fellow Mongrels—the street usually abuzz with whispers and laughter, now muted in fear under the watchful eyes of the guards. I never understood why we were punished for a lineage we couldn’t control.

Then came Cyrus, my best friend and betrothed. Ten years old but filled with an unyielding courage, he was like a beacon of warmth to calm the fear. “Nemmi!” he called, running to my side, his blond curls bouncing with each hurried step. His small arms wrapped tightly around my shoulders as he pulled me into a hug.

Before I could embrace him back, the guards marched up to us, and the fear I felt washed over Cyrus, turning his confidence into a trembling frown. “Step aside, brat,” the lead guard snarled, shoving him off of me. Cyrus stumbled backward and gave the guard a hateful look.

“Are you Noemi Vermisial?” he asked, his tone indicating he already knew the answer.

Unable to speak, I swallowed, nodding my head.

The guards forced me toward the wooden platform. As I stood before my family and the other mongrels who watched, my heart raced in my chest. I could feel their eyes on me, a mix of pity and fear. 

Then, like clockwork, the lead guard’s voice boomed over the small gathering. “Noemi of angelic descent, by order of King Varek, as part of the laws of the Bloodline Charter, you are to be branded as a creature of mixed lineage.”

Some of the gathered Mongrels averted their gaze, unable to witness my humiliation. Others watched, curiosity and fear etched into their expressions. I tried to stand tall, holding onto the remnants of my dignity, but my legs trembled as the reality of the moment pressed down on me.

“Please don’t let them do this!” Cyrus shouted, his grip pulling at my father’s clothes. The desperation in his voice rang through the courtyard, yet it seemed to fall on deaf ears. My father stood there silently, his silver eyes looking straight ahead, unimpressed at what awaited me.

Serf Seraphiel, Cyrus’s father, grabbed his hand gently, “Cyrus,” he whispered. “There is nothing we can do.” His features that so similarly matched his son were full of regret, and his blue eyes filled with heartache.

Cyrus’s voice broke, “Please, Dad,” he cried. “Do something!” 

Mother had walked to their side. Her red colored eyes, even more red from her tears, and her normally perfect posture reduced to her half slouched and racking with sobs. Father was of no comfort to her, standing tall with a look of disinterest. Serf Seraphiel noticed his neglect, and decided to reach for her and pull her into a hug. 

“Just put your head into my shoulder. I know how it feels to watch this,” he told her, quietly. “I don’t want to see it again, either.” Her auburn hair fell over her face as she rested her head against him.

Tears welled in my eyes as I turned away, the fear threatening to consume me. Memories of past Mongrels flooded my mind—screams of anguish echoed through the streets, images of tortured souls branded and broken. 

My heart was beating hard into my throat, choking me as the guard lifted his thumb to my cheek. I immediately felt the heat and let out a blood curdling scream, with a pitch I never knew I could reach.

“No! Please Stop!” I yelled as his finger traced the symbol for angelic descent into my face. The magical heat was worse than if they had taken a heated rod to my skin. “PLEASE! IT HURTS!” I screamed.

I bit down hard on my tongue and tasted copper filling my mouth. I could smell my own burnt flesh. 

Father watched impassively as the guards finished, his face a mask of indifference. It felt like the pain had lasted a lifetime. Then, with a final thrust, it was over. The guards released their grip, leaving me to crumple to the ground, my tears staining the soil beneath me. A soft rain began to fall, temporarily soothing the pain I had just endured.

“You piece of SHIT!” Cyrus screamed- running up towards the guards. He was always a beacon of defiance, ready to face the cruelty of the world.

Serf Seraphiel immediately grabbed his tiny body, holding him back. “Cy, stop!” he pleaded, continuing to scold him in his ear.

The guard that branded me stopped and glared at him. His brown hair danced menacingly in the wind and his green eyes looked sharp enough to kill. “What did you say to me, you little brat?” he hissed, his mouth twitching.

“Please,” Serf Seraphiel begged. “He’s only a boy– he didn’t realize what he was doing.”

One of the other guards jumped up. He was younger, seemingly less experienced than the other two. “Maybe we should teach him a lesson then-” but he stopped. The guard who first spoke was holding out his arm, halting his movement.

“Don’t let it happen again,” he hissed. “Teach your kid some manners– or he’s gonna get it too.”

Serf Seraphiel nodded and pulled Cyrus back towards him, holding him protectively. Fear was evident in his father's eyes as he looked away.

“Noemi of angelic descent,” the brunette guard calls out again. I shifted my weight to look up at him. “This is to serve as a warning of the pain you will endure if you ever try to use your abilities without direct permission from the King. Do not cross us and you will not have to feel this again.” 

He raised his open palm at me and I knew I was about to feel the wrath of his ability. The ability I have seen used on too many of my people before. In my sudden realization, I desperately tried to crawl away, but it was too late.

My body immediately became tense. It felt as though a thousand knives were being shoved into me at the same time, every part of my body feeling on fire. I let out a scream but I heard nothing. I attempted to look for a way out but I saw nothing. I tried to run but I couldn’t move. My thoughts were of nothing but the sharpness of his magic racking my body.

After finally releasing his hold, I felt something dripping out of my ears and my vision was nothing but red. I knew it was blood– I’d seen it before.

When I finally collected myself, the guards were gone. Mother, Serf Seraphiel, and Cyrus were already by my side, trying to help me. Father was nowhere to be found.

Then, it was as if time stood still. In that moment, my world narrowed down to anguish and despair. I felt my heartbeat, slow but hard, a wild drum against the growing numbing pain. I fought against the darkness creeping at the edges of my vision, not wanting to succumb.

I barely heard the three of them talking frantically, asking me to stay with them– promising they would make it all better soon. The world was blurred, but I could feel hands around me; there was warmth—my mother’s embrace. In that moment, I was reminded that I was not entirely alone.

“Nemmi!” Cyrus knelt beside me, urgency in his voice. “Look at me. Focus!”

The last thing I heard before I passed out was a woman’s voice saying, “Thank the Angels there are no more branding’s this month. I can’t watch another one.”

Thank the Angels, huh? Their stupid offspring are the ones who do this to us all.