The Legend of Scarlett.

1

Scarlett stared at his reflection in the pld mirror hanging crookedly on the barn wall. He could barely make out his features in the dim light that filtered through the cracks in the wooden planks. His face was gaunt, skin too pale from years of working in the shade, and his hair, a messy tangle of black curls, hung over his eyes like a curtain, as if even his own body wanted to shield him from the world.

Class D.

The words rang in his mind like a bell tolling for the dead. It was a curse he had been born into, the lowest of the low, the forgotten ones, the powerless. Useless. A disability in a society distinguished by powers.

"Scarlett! Get your worthless hide in here before I throw your dinner to the pigs!"

The voice of his older brother, Bram, cut through the air like a whip. Scarlett stiffened, his muscles instinctively tightening at the familiar tone. Dinner. He almost scoffed at the word. Dinner for him meant the leftover scraps his siblings wouldn't touch, the cold remnants of whatever had been on their plates—barely enough to keep him going, but enough to remind him he was an afterthought.

He dropped the old mirror back onto the rickety table and made his way across the yard, feet dragging through the muddy path, past the rows of crops he'd toiled over for hours that day. His hands ached, his back screamed with fatigue, but there was no time for rest. Not for someone like him.

As he entered the farmhouse, the warmth of the kitchen hit him like a physical blow. It was always jarring, stepping from the cold and dirt into the world his family lived in—a world he was never truly part of. His siblings sat around the long wooden table, laughing and chatting as they feasted on a meal that looked fit for royalty. Bram and his younger brother Marius were both Class B, strong and quick-witted, with just enough power to make them useful, though not extraordinary. His older sisters, Amara and Livia, were both Class A.  Annas. The pride of the family.

And then there was Scarlett. The reminder of everything they didn't want. A mistake.

"There he is," Amara sneered, her perfect face twisting with disdain. Her long, golden hair shimmered under the firelight, and her eyes sparkled like the stars that Scarlett only saw through the cracks in the barn roof. "You smell like filth."

"Like the animals he sleeps with," Livia added, not bothering to look up from her plate.

Scarlett bit his tongue. He had learned long ago that it was better to remain silent, better to let their words wash over him like a cold wind. He was nothing to them. Less than nothing.

Bram tossed a plate toward him, and it clattered to the floor with a sharp crash. The food—if you could call it that—was a sad heap of gristle and bones. Scarlett's stomach twisted with hunger, but his pride—what little remained—forced him to hesitate. His eyes flicked to the others, but none of them spared him a glance.

"Eat, or starve. I don't care," Bram said, turning his back.

Scarlett dropped to his knees, fingers trembling as he gathered the pieces of food. His heart pounded in his chest, not from shame—he was long past feeling shame—but from the gnawing hunger that had taken root in him. As he stuffed the scraps into his mouth, he felt their eyes on him, their judgment like a weight on his back. They didn't need to say anything more. He was less than them. He was always less.

He chewed slowly, each bite tasting like dirt and defeat.

Later, after the others had retired to their beds in the warmth of the house, Scarlett trudged back to the barn. The wind had picked up, howling through the trees and chilling him to the bone. His room—if it could even be called that—was little more than a corner of the barn, partitioned off with rotting planks and old blankets. No light, no warmth. But it was his.

He sat down on the threadbare mat that served as his bed and drew his knees to his chest. His mind wandered, as it always did in the quiet of the night, to the dreams he had long since buried. As a child, he had imagined what it might be like to belong, to be part of something greater than himself. To have power.

Power. That word was a knife in his chest. He had none. He would never have any. Not like his siblings. Not like the Guardians or the Annas, those chosen few who could shape the world with their will, who could bend reality to their whims. They were the elite, the untouchable. And he was nothing more than the dirt beneath their feet.

He leaned his head back against the cold wall, eyes slipping shut. The sound of the animals shifting in their stalls was the only company he had. The cows, the horses—they were his only companions in this lonely existence.

A part of him wondered how long he could last like this. How long before the weight of his life crushed him entirely. He had resigned himself to his fate long ago, but resignation didn't make the pain any easier to bear. Every day was a reminder of what he wasn't. What he would never be.

A gust of wind rattled the barn doors, and Scarlett shivered, pulling his thin blanket tighter around himself. He closed his eyes and let the darkness take him, hoping that sleep would come quickly, and with it, a reprieve from the hollow ache in his chest.

But sleep, like everything else in his life, came slowly.

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