Morning light crept into Birmingham slowly, dragging with it the weight of another day. The village square buzzed with chatter—merchants unloading goods, women carrying water, and children darting between stalls like sparrows. But amid the lively sounds was another current: the whispers.
Darrel could feel them everywhere he went.
He walked through the square with his hood pulled low, but whispers seemed to chase him down every street.
"—That's him, the boy who—"
"—poor Alex, his jaw is still swollen—"
"—Marcus says he lost control—"
"—dangerous… unstable—"
Each word stung like a wasp.
He clenched his fists and kept his eyes down. He didn't need to look up to know that people were staring.
The humiliation from the Harvest Vigil hadn't faded—it had spread. It was in every conversation, every sideways glance, every awkward silence that followed him.
And the worst part was that even his family had started to avoid walking beside him in public.
He noticed it that morning when his father strode ahead in the market, pretending not to see him. His mother busied herself at a stall, avoiding eye contact. Jareth walked beside a group of his friends, laughing loudly, never once looking back to see if Darrel followed.
They'd all left the house together, but by the time they reached the square, Darrel was alone.
He stopped walking, his heart tightening painfully. So this is how it is now.
The whispers continued. Somewhere behind him, a child giggled, mimicking a little twirl and bow. His stomach turned.
He considered leaving. Just disappearing down the forest path, away from Birmingham, away from the stares.
But then he heard Marcus' voice.
"Darrel! There you are!"
Every muscle in his body tensed. He turned slowly. Marcus stood near the well, surrounded by a small group—Alex among them, with his jaw bandaged.
Marcus wore that same easy smile, the kind that hid knives behind silk.
"Good to see you out and about," Marcus said loudly, so the surrounding villagers could hear. "We were just talking about the show you put on during the vigil."
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
Darrel's jaw tightened. "Leave me alone, Marcus."
Marcus' smile widened. "Oh, come now. Don't be shy. We're all friends here, aren't we?"
Alex snorted. "Friends don't punch each other in the face, puppet."
The laughter grew louder.
Darrel turned to walk away—but then he froze.
Standing near one of the stalls was his father. He watched the entire exchange. So did his mother, just a few steps away. Even Jareth lingered nearby with his friends.
A small, desperate hope sparked in Darrel's chest. Maybe… maybe they would finally step in. Defend him. Say something. Anything.
Marcus took a step closer, his voice mockingly soft. "What's wrong, Darrel? Lost your strings?"
The crowd laughed again.
Darrel's heart pounded. He looked toward his father, silently pleading.
His father looked back at him—then at the villagers. His jaw tightened. And then, slowly, he looked away.
He turned his back on Darrel.
Something inside Darrel cracked.
"Say something," he whispered hoarsely, but no one heard him over the laughter.
Jareth laughed with his friends. His mother lowered her gaze, pretending to fuss with her basket.
They weren't just silent. They were choosing silence. Choosing to side with the crowd.
Marcus leaned in, voice low enough only Darrel could hear. "See? Even your blood doesn't want to be tainted by you."
Darrel's breath hitched. He felt the heat rising in his chest, his vision tightening at the edges.
"Stop," he hissed.
Marcus tilted his head mockingly. "Or what, puppet? You'll dance for us again?"
The crowd erupted once more.
And this time, his father laughed too—a short, forced chuckle, as if to show the others he was above the embarrassment.
It was the final blow.
Darrel stood frozen, surrounded by laughter, staring at the people who should have been his shield—and realizing they were just another circle of knives.
Something deep inside him went very still.
Not sadness.
Not humiliation.
Not even rage.
Just… cold clarity.
He turned without another word and walked away.
The laughter followed him down the street, fading only when he reached the edge of the village.
He didn't stop walking until he found himself at the banks of the shallow river that cut through Birmingham's woods. The water moved slowly, reflecting the morning sun in fractured pieces.
Darrel sat on a large stone and stared at his reflection. His face was pale, his eyes shadowed.
Why am I still here?
He thought of the village. The mockery. The laughter. Marcus' smile. Alex's bruised jaw.
And his father turning away.
His brother laughing.
His mother pretending not to see.
The people who should have believed him.
The people who should have protected him.
They had chosen the crowd over their son.
His hands curled into fists.
"They're not my family anymore," he whispered.
The words startled him. But they rang true.
The bond that tied him to them—blood, love, loyalty—had been stretched thin for weeks. Now it had snapped.
He felt strangely light, as though something heavy had fallen away. But beneath that lightness was a growing darkness.
"They'll regret this," he said softly to the rippling water. "All of them."
The river carried his words away like a promise whispered to the wind.
As he sat there, lost in thought, a rustling sound came from the woods. He stiffened.
An old man came out from the trees—a cloaked figure with sharp eyes and a walking stick. Darrel recognized him vaguely as one of the wanderers who camped outside the village sometimes, a man people called "The Hermit of the Stones."
The man studied Darrel for a moment, then said, "You have the eyes of someone who's been burned by his own kin."
Darrel blinked. "What?"
The man smiled faintly. "Blood is a cruel bond. It promises safety but often delivers chains. Remember that, boy."
And then, without another word, the hermit turned and disappeared back into the trees.
Darrel watched him go, the man's words echoing in his mind like a whisper from fate.
Blood delivers chains.
He looked back down at the water. His reflection no longer looked like the boy who danced in the firelight.
He looked like someone else.
Someone harder.
Someone dangerous.