The Unmarked

Theron's fingers were raw, the leather straps of his father's wheelchair biting into his skin as he pushed it up the cobblestone path. The sun had barely risen, yet he was already drenched in sweat. Elysara's streets buzzed with early risers, each face a reflection of disdain or pity as they passed the father-son duo. In a society where soul flares determined one's worth, the absence of it branded them lesser, invisible. At least, invisible until someone needed a target for their frustrations. They reached the mill, a stark contrast of dark, stained wood against the backdrop of the city's alabaster buildings. Theron deposited his father in the shade, whispering assurances that fell on half-listening ears. The old man stared blankly ahead, his eyes, once filled with the brightness of a vibrant soul flare, now dull and glassy. As he always did, Theron planted a tender kiss on his father's forehead. Today marked another routine of servitude, but small gestures remained his rebellion against a cruel fate. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the acrid scent of sweat. Roran and his gang were already there, their laughter a grating symphony. "Look who's here," Roran sneered, leaning against a column. His soul flare shimmered menacingly, a soft blue glow radiating from his chest. "The unmarked one, pushing his broken daddy around." Mocking laughter echoed from the shadows, wrapping around Theron like chains. He gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to retaliate. Theron's tasks were simple yet torturous in their monotony. The mill's grindstones required endless turning, wood needed splitting, and the constant cleaning kept his hands perpetually cracked and dry. Each task presented an opportunity for more bullying. Roran was an expert in weaving torment into everyday moments, punctuating them with bursts of energy from his soul flare, just enough to sting but not maim. The cruelty was refined and deliberate. Greeting his tormentors with silence, Theron focused on the grindstone. Every turn was a scream of resistance against his plight. The weight of the stone mirrored the heavy burden on his heart, yet he refused to be crushed by it. The other laborers, those marked by radiant abilities, moved effortlessly through their tasks, casting occasional scornful glances his way. Despite their sneers, Theron knew some of them feared their own fall from grace, for soul flares were capricious gifts, prone to flicker and fade. As the sun climbed higher, heat suffused the mill, amplifying the scent of sweat and desperation. Theron's muscles quivered, a silent rebellion against the relentless toil. His mind, however, remained sharp. Every cutting remark, every malicious shove, forged a resolve within him. He moved from task to task, each step a defiantly whispered promise: I will endure. And as the shadows lengthened, he cast a final glance towards the city beyond the mill. There lay secrets tucked within its heart, mysteries waiting for the unmarked to uncover.