I always knew there was something wrong with me. They may say that there’s nothing wrong with me, that it’s a “talent,” a “gift,” but I don’t buy it. How stupid do they think I am? I was born different; I live life different; for as long as I live and even in death I will probably still be different. And I embrace the different.

And I see the way they look at me. My difference seems to spread from within my soul and the darkest regions of my heart to my face, my body, like an epidemic; they stay far, far away in fear of becoming sick themselves. How foolish of them. I’m not sick.

If anyone here is sick, they are. They poison themselves to make themselves look “better,” which is actually looking worse; sparks of fear fly among them and a raging wildfire starts. I remember the Dark Ages. Ignorance and fright take over their bodies, and panic controls their mind.

And then we are the ones to suffer. The ones who they fear; the ones they do not know. We are burned by the violent inferno of hatred. We drown in the bloody seas of pain. Again, I remember the Dark Ages. We were killed by the dozens. The question is how, I think, as I walk through the ruined battlefield. We were born powerful because of our difference. More powerful than these stupid, sick ones. So how did they manage to kill this many Different? How many did the Different kill in return?

I step around the bodies. A cold wind blows around me and I keep my head down. It passes through my black cloak easily, and seemingly more frigid than usual, because there are no trees here to shield me from the gales, only dirt and ground and earth. As I see the aftermath of these horrid Ages, the darkness within me is just itching to come out, to make these poisoned ones pay for their crimes. The battlefield’s ground is stained with blood – mostly red, but I catch glimpses of black, blue, green, and even gold. That makes me frown. I personally know most of the Spiritblood Different, being one myself. There was no way that the Spiritbloods could be killed by the talentless. But I kneel down and stare at the ground; mixed into the crimson blood of the talentless and non-Spiritbloods was unmistakable silver.

Silver…

My eyes widen. I stand up and back away from the spot. Silver! I hope she’s all right. Was she slaughtered here like so many of the others? Did she make it out with only a wound? I stare up into the red sunset sky. There was no way of knowing.

“I hope you’re all right, Silverblood,” I murmur, and walk in the opposite direction, towards the dark forest standing at the edge of the barren battlefield, the place I now call home. “After all, what would we do without you?”