My Past
Somewhere in the vast, gray sprawl of London, beneath the weight of clouds and the hush of strangers, I was left behind. Abandoned—not on the streets, but on the doorstep of a stranger's home.
My mother, whoever she truly was, left me not out of cruelty, but perhaps out of fear. I was different.
My eyes shimmered with two distinct colors, unnatural and unsettling. A bold, intricate tattoo curved over my chest and wrapped around my torso like a serpent made of ink.
She must have believed no one would accept a child like me. And in truth, she wasn't entirely wrong.
Though I do not hate her, I often wonder what kind of mother leaves a child behind.
Her final act—placing me where someone might find me—was perhaps the only kindness she could muster. But fate is fickle.
The Richardson family took me in, but they never truly welcomed me. Their hearts were cold, their hospitality colder.
I was a servant in their home, a ghost that swept the floors, scrubbed the walls, and dared not speak unless spoken to. I endured sneers, scorn, and beatings too regular to count.
As the years passed, I learned to swallow my pain in silence.
By the time I was old enough to understand what strength was, I realized mine surpassed that of any child—or adult—around me.
I could lift things others couldn't. I could run faster, leap higher, and survive with barely any rest. But these gifts brought me no joy.
I was trapped, isolated, forbidden to leave the estate or form friendships. I cried often in those early years. Eventually, I grew numb.
The tears dried up, and my heart hardened like the calloused hands that worked day and night. At fifteen, my appetite turned monstrous.
I craved meat constantly—raw, red, and warm. I began sneaking out at night to steal livestock from neighboring farms. But one night, hunger pushed me further than ever before.
The Richardsons had a cruel old cat named Max—more beast than pet. When the family left me home alone, my hunger reached a breaking point.
I killed the cat. Ate it. Bone and all. When they returned, I kept a blank face while Mrs. Richardson wailed for her "dearest Max." I felt nothing.
But fate, again, intervened. A year later, a man arrived.
Dressed in black and silver, with eyes like polished obsidian, he bought me from the Richardsons like one might purchase furniture.
I was too stunned to resist. His name was Mr. Arthur, and unlike the Richardsons, he treated me with dignity. He told me I was not cursed, but gifted—something more than human.
Under his guidance, I learned control, restraint, and power.
He introduced me to the supernatural world: witches, shifters, monsters… and others like me. Mr. Arthur also had a son, Michael, and we weren't fans of each other in the slightest.
But I never let anyone in. Not fully. I kept my heart guarded. Love, to me, had always felt like a trap.
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Kiva's POV
This morning, I woke up feeling… something new. Joy. It was my 16th birthday.
For the first time, I was going to spend the day with my parents.
I had dreams to share, plans to discuss. I wanted to talk about school, about finding a future.
But that joy shattered the moment I reached my father's study. Behind the half-closed door, I heard them talking. Plans.
Not about my dreams—but to send me away. The betrayal cracked through me like thunder.
Tears burned in my eyes as I stormed in, demanding answers.
"Why?" I asked, my voice trembling. "What have I done to deserve exile?"
They tried to soothe me. Said it was for my protection.
That it was a place where I would be safe… and understood. But I didn't want safety—I wanted family.
I wanted to be wanted. I ran upstairs, furious and heartbroken.
I didn't want to listen. I didn't want to obey. I texted my only friend, Shane, and arranged to meet him at a club.
He hesitated, warned me, but I didn't care. If I was a monster, maybe I would act like one.
At the club, I tried to drown my emotions in music and movement. An unfamiliar figure invited me to dance, and I accepted, chasing the numbness. But the night twisted quickly.
Boys surrounded me on the floor. Their faces were too close. Their hands, too bold. Panic flooded me.
My voice cracked as I cried for help, but the music swallowed my screams. Then the pain hit—blistering and white-hot—searing through my shoulder.
I staggered back, clutching myself as my vision blurred. In a moment of blind fear, I saw it. A mirror, cracked and dusted with grime.
In it, a reflection I didn't recognize. One eye gleamed a wild emerald, the other smoldered like molten lava.
My skin pulsed with energy I couldn't contain. I barely had time to register it before a flash of light exploded in my vision, and the world vanished.
When I awoke, it was morning again. I was in my bed, safe, with Nanny Margaret beside me, her gentle hand on my brow.
My mind reeled with fragmented memories—Shane lying unconscious, my hands trembling, a fear I had never known.
Had I hurt him? Had I… done something unforgivable? Margaret calmed me.
Her words were a balm to my guilt. Shane was okay. I hadn't destroyed the only person who truly cared.
That's when my parents entered the room. Through sobs, I apologized. For the rebellion.
The rage. The fear. They listened. Then they revealed the truth. They, too, could see the unseen.
They bore the gift—or curse—that marked me. But mine went deeper, more volatile. I wasn't just a seer of the strange.
I was something strange. And the school they planned to send me to—Phoenix—wasn't a punishment.
It was a sanctuary. For the first time, I embraced them. My parents. Flawed, afraid, but loving.
I promised to listen. To try. That night, I fell asleep on Margaret's lap, lulled by her soft humming and the rhythm of her fingers through my hair.
The next morning, I awoke to a new beginning. Our car rolled away from the house, Lala my falcon beside me, my suitcase in the trunk, and the road stretching before us like a promise.
The Phoenix School awaited mysterious, unknown, and possibly dangerous.
But I had faith in Margaret. In myself. As the landscape grew quiet and lifeless, I pressed my head to her shoulder.
No more questions. Not yet. I closed my eyes, letting sleep take me once more—this time, not in pain or fear, but in anticipation of the fire.