The Secrets We Keep

Episode 2: Branding

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.