(Even as a kid, I felt wrong…)
"One must not tamper with the land,"
"One must not take more than what one needs from the land,"
"One must not seek power beyond the land's gift,"
"Sigils are for royal blood alone,"
"One must not create what the land didn't, they're unholy creations,"
"One must not change their design."
(No parents… no friends, the closest to a relationship I could call was my teachers… but even still,)
Her teachers forced her to recite the six unbreakable laws daily—over and over, until the words dissolved into senseless noise, until her voice turned hoarse and her hands cracked and bled from their punishments.
The other children laughed at her blank, hollow stare. They called her cursed. Alien. Freak.
But beneath their sneers, she knew they were afraid.
And why shouldn't they be?
"Hello, little guy," she muttered, staring down at the sickly rodent curled at the base of a tree, its matted fur trembling as it sought warmth.
