The Legend of Scarlett.

3

The day started like every other for Scarlett: early, cold, and merciless. He had been awake long before dawn, tending to the animals and making sure the fields were ready for the day's work. His body moved mechanically through the tasks, muscles aching from exhaustion, his back still raw from the last time he'd been whipped. He didn't allow himself to think about it. Thinking only made things harder. Better to numb his mind, let the work take over, and push the pain to the back of his mind.

By midday, the sun was hanging heavy in the sky, casting long shadows across the fields. Scarlett was hauling another sack of feed toward the barn when he heard the faint echo of laughter from the farmhouse. It grated against him, not because they were happy—they were always happy, always well-fed, always comfortable—but because it reminded him of what he would never have.

The laughter faded as he entered the barn, the usual smell of hay and animals greeting him like an old companion. He felt the weight of the day pressing down on him, each step slower than the last, but there was no time for rest. His work was never done, and no matter how much he did, it was never enough. There would always be more.

As evening approached, the familiar ritual began. Scarlett was never invited to join them at the dinner table. The family's meals were something sacred, something for the "worthy." They sat around the large, polished table in the grand dining room, plates filled with rich meats, steaming vegetables, fresh bread—meals that Scarlett could only dream about.

He ate alone, in the corner of the kitchen, far from the warmth of the family's laughter. His portion was whatever was left over. Sometimes it was nothing more than a bowl of broth. Tonight, it was a single slice of stale bread and a piece of cheese that had long since hardened. Scarlett's stomach twisted in protest, but he was used to it. Hunger had been his constant companion for years.

The chatter from the dining room grew louder, his family's voices rising in conversation. Scarlett chewed slowly, listening, not out of interest but because there was little else to do.

"Honestly, Amara, you need to stop being so reckless," Livia's voice floated through the kitchen, sharp with irritation.

Amara scoffed. "Reckless? You're one to talk, Livia. I saw what happened at the training grounds today. Nearly lost control, didn't you?"

"Shut up, Amara," Livia snapped, her tone cutting through the room like a blade. "At least I have control, unlike you. I don't need to rely on—"

"Enough," Bram's deep voice interrupted. "Both of you. You're acting like children."

Scarlett continued to eat, slowly, mechanically. He knew better than to let his interest show. Whatever was happening in that room, it had nothing to do with him. Or so he hoped.

But then the arguing grew louder, the voices overlapping in a tangle of words he couldn't fully make out. Something had sparked between the two sisters, and their tempers were rising, each one pushing the other further. Scarlett didn't need to see them to know where this was heading. Amara's fiery temper was infamous, and Livia wasn't one to back down from a fight.

A sudden crash sounded from the dining room—something had been knocked over, or thrown.

"That was your fault!" Amara shrieked, her voice laced with fury.

Livia's retort was quick, biting. "If you hadn't been showing off—"

"I wasn't showing off! You're just jealous, Livia, because I—"

Bram's voice cut through again, commanding but less patient this time. "Stop it. Now."

Scarlett froze, his grip tightening on the edge of the wooden counter. The atmosphere had shifted, the tension thickening in the air. He knew what was coming. Whenever things went wrong, whenever tempers flared or accidents happened, they always needed someone to blame.

And that someone was always him.

Scarlett didn't even hear Amara's next words clearly, but he heard the tone—the sharp, accusatory lilt—and then the inevitable: "It's his fault! Scarlett! He distracted us!"

Scarlett's heart sank. He closed his eyes, letting out a slow breath. Of course.

The sound of footsteps echoed across the wooden floors as Bram's heavy boots approached the kitchen. Scarlett remained still, hands clenched at his sides, bracing himself for what was to come.

The door swung open, and Bram stood in the doorway, his broad frame filling the space, his expression hard as stone. Amara and Livia stood behind him, both glaring at Scarlett with the same cold disdain they always reserved for him.

"You heard your sister," Bram said, his voice low, but with a dangerous edge. "This is your fault."

Scarlett didn't bother protesting. It wouldn't matter if he explained that he'd been here the whole time, that he hadn't even stepped foot near the dining room. None of that mattered. When the family needed a scapegoat, he was always the easiest target.

Bram's eyes darkened, and without warning, his hand shot out, grabbing Scarlett by the collar of his shirt. He yanked him forward, dragging him toward the back door. Scarlett stumbled, barely able to keep his footing as Bram shoved him outside. The cold night air hit his skin, sharp and biting, but it was nothing compared to what was coming next.

Amara followed, her lips curling in a cruel smirk as she watched Bram haul Scarlett toward the barn.

"You should've known better, Scarlett," she said, her voice dripping with venom. "Always causing problems. Always making things worse."

The door to the barn creaked open, and Scarlett was thrown inside, landing hard on the dirt floor. He didn't get up. He didn't even try to defend himself as Bram grabbed the whip that hung on the wall.

Scarlett's back tensed instinctively. His scars throbbed in anticipation of the pain, the old wounds aching in unison. He had been through this too many times to count.

The first crack of the whip came swiftly, a sharp slice of agony tearing across his back. He clenched his teeth, refusing to make a sound. The second lash followed quickly, and then the third. Each strike sent shockwaves of pain through his body, but Scarlett remained silent. He had learned long ago that crying out only made things worse.

In the darkness of the barn, under the flickering light of a single lantern, the punishment continued. The sound of the whip cutting through the air mixed with Scarlett's labored breathing. His vision blurred as the pain became too much, but he didn't beg. He never begged.

Bram delivered one final blow before stepping back, breathing heavily. He tossed the whip to the ground with a grunt, as if even punishing Scarlett was a tiresome chore.

"Next time, keep your head down and stay out of sight," Bram muttered, wiping his hands on his trousers before turning to leave. Amara followed, casting one last glance at Scarlett before disappearing into the night.

Scarlett lay on the cold, hard ground, his back burning, blood soaking into the dirt beneath him. His mind was numb, his thoughts scattered like the dust swirling in the barn. The familiar ache of defeat settled in his chest, heavier than the weight of the whip.

He didn't know how long he stayed there, staring up at the beams of the barn ceiling, the sounds of the animals moving softly in their stalls the only noise in the silence.

Another day. Another punishment. Another scar.

In the end, it was always the same.

And in the end, it would always be him left bleeding in the dark.