Nineteen years ago

  Mira was a small woman with warm brown skin and dark brown eyes. She was from a region far to the east called Sorhara, hot and humid though not a desert. She had left Sorhara because there was nothing left in it for her. Her parents had passed away long ago. Her village had been swallowed by a drought that turned the surrounding farmland to dust and sent people scattering in every direction. So she gathered what coin she had left, found a merchant ship willing to take a passenger, after paying, of course, and got on it alone.

  It was so different from home. Home had been dry heat and the smell of spice on every wind. But Gillport, where she had just landed, smelt of salt, fish guts and wet rope. The water was blue-green and cold looking, nothing like the dirty river she had grown up beside. The ships were enormous, dark-hulled things that groaned time and time again. Men shouted in accents which were so different from hers. Seagulls screamed overhead without stopping.

  Sailors moved across the decks and up the rigging without looking down, boots finding rope and beam by memory alone. Ships crawled in heavy with cargo, some with travellers, while others crawled back out.

  So many different buildings full of colour began at the waterfront and climbed back from it in dense uneven rows, packed so tightly together that from certain angles they seemed to lean on one another for support, shoulder to shoulder. They were exceptionally tall, three storeys, four storeys, some of them even five.

  Mira bravely tried getting work in Gillport where her ship had landed, but was rejected time and time again, too unfamiliar to people who had barely seen a face like hers. She had thought getting work would be easy, but she was mistaken. Her coin was running out. Slowly at first, then faster than she could keep track of.

  Then she met Edwyn Vael, a somewhat pale man, a bit older than Mira, strong, with spikey rough black hair and shiny brown eyes, who spotted her in the corner of the dockside tavern one evening, soaking wet from the rain, shivering from the cold, counting the last of her coins on the table with sadness. He sat down across from her without being invited, which she found offensive. Then he bought her a meal without asking, which she found less offensive. They talked for two hours. After that they started meeting often, they were good and kind to each other.

  Edwyn did not live in Gillport, he was just visiting. His village called Veldwick was much further north, much greener. He invited her, with a kind smile, to come with him to which she agreed to.

  He quickly found her work at his village’s tavern. She was good at it. Edwyn wasn’t just kind to her but to all in Veldwick, he was trusted and loved by many and Mira enlarged his kindness even more. They married within the same year they had met, quietly and without fuss.

  But there was one thing which bothered Mira deeply. Edwyn would never tell Mira what he actually did for a living. He would disappear for days at a time, sometimes longer. And would then come back as if nothing ever happened. Mira asked time and time again as to where he was, to which he would reply, "Just working," already brushing her off. "Don't worry about it."

  Eighteen Years Ago

  Then they had a child…

  M was born with his mother's medium brown skin. But his eyes, his eyes were unexplainable. One grey, one red.

  Mira died seconds after giving birth to M. The infant came into the world and his mother went out of it in almost the same breath.

  Edwyn was right there, on that tragic night, screaming Mira’s name, with tears running freely down his smooth face all the while holding his dying wife’s hand as she passed away. Edwyn sat besides her, speechless and horrified.

  He looked directly into the crying infants eyes, he shook his head and turned away, disgusted and horrified by the eyes he saw. The eyes, so unnatural one of the village elders even suggested having the child buried alive.

  “‘Tis not right, ‘tis not fit, ‘tis not proper,” the village elder uttered in horror on the night M came into the world.

  Edwyn hated M from the day he was born. He believed, with a certainty that M was the reason his wife had died. A small helpless infant who had done nothing except be born was the reason.

  Mira hadn’t been sick before the birth, so what could have killed her? The villagers asked themselves.

  Edwyn was never the same after Mira’s death. His smile had completely vanished from his face and his kind nature was non existent after that day.

  Not long after, the rumours started. The village of Veldwick had nothing more interesting to talk about, and a motherless brown infant born on a red moon with mismatched eyes was more than enough material.

  One woman suggested Mira's blood, while she was dying, had seeped into the child’s iris during the birth, which was how the red got there, but how would the grey have gotten there then?

  Some said it was a demon's mark, the child would bring nothing but misfortune to others around him. His first victim being his own mother.

  Other’s believed it was magic. Magic which was long gone from this world. The consequence was her mother’s death. Could there really be… Magic in the child?

  Five Years Ago

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  M was thirteen. It was a wonder he had survived three years at all. Cursed, fatherless, motherless and entirely alone. He had become a thief out of necessity, stealing food from marketplaces wherever he could find it. The cloak helped ironically. But ultimately he was exhausted by everything. He wore the same cloak, ate the same old food, walked the same miles to the next village to do it all again. He tried begging once. Stood outside a tavern for five hours and made two bronze coins before giving up. Stealing was faster, the only thing that worked.

  As a young child he had even tried getting employed. More than once. He would walk into many taverns, stables and smithies with his hood up and his head down, he would ask plainly if there was work. Sometimes they would begin to consider him. Then they would see his freakish eyes and brown skin.

  One day M was walking helplessly on a dark night through a village whose name he had forgotten, when the smell of smoke reached him before anything else did. A stable burning at the edge of the village, not a lot of people had awoken then, around four people only, standing in the moonlight watching some of the wood slowly fade into ashes, none of them moving toward it. The stableman had pulled every horse out except one. M looked at the fire for a moment. Miserable and all alone, he decided to simply walk into the burning stable.

  "THE HELL YOU DOING?!" the stableman shouted behind him. "THERE'S ONE FOAL LEFT IN THERE— USELESS THING’S JUST BEEN BORN, DON’T TRY AND SAVE IT, GET OUTTA THERE!"

  But the truth was M hadn't gone in to save anything. He had thought this was a reasonable place to end his miserable life. Let the fire have the cloak. Let the fire have all of his body. To end his curse once and for all, to end it all.

  The world immediately became red and choking. The orange light from the fire danced wildly across the stalls. Flames raced along the ceiling beams, sending burning pieces of straw drifting down like cruel snow.

  Just stay, the tired part of him said. Just stay here and let it end, it won't hurt long. At least in death I won't have to wear this anymore.

  His hand moved to the edge of the black cloak he was wearing. Three years it had been and not a single night passed where he thought about what it would feel like to just live without wearing the damned cloak, or to live without his abnormal mismatched eyes.

  His black hair unwashed and falling in uneven strands across his sweating forehead. His black cloak, the one he could not remove, hung from his shoulders and swept the scorched floor behind him.

  Then he heard it, from the corner of the burning stable. Small and terrified, a whimpering sound. A black foal, less than an hour old at most, pressed against the slow burning wood with his legs folded uselessly beneath him, trembling, his enormous dark eyes wide and full of confusion. Too new to understand what fire even was. Born into a world that was already set alight.

  He turned toward the far corner of the stable, where the fire had not yet fully reached. M stopped and looked at the poor helpless creature..

  Why are you here? He though sadly to himself. Why must a baby horse be here to see my death. Just let me die in peace, please just let me be turned into ashes already.

  The foal looked up at M with enormous dark eyes and made the small broken sound again. M, once again looked back at him. His hand dropped from the cloak.

  Please I just need peace and time to think for once he thought tiredly.

  As he stared at it, it was as if time suddenly slowed down. The fire crackled slowly, the wood slowly burnt, everything slowed down.

  What? What do you want from me? Stop looking at me. Let’s just… Die together, okay? You didn't do anything wrong black baby horse, he thought. You were just born in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  The foal tried to stand. Its thin legs trembled violently beneath it, sliding across the scorched floor before collapsing again. The small body crumpled back down with a weak thud. M watched silently. The fire crept slowly along the walls, licking the beams above. Smoke hanging thick in the air.

  Ugh, why are you even trying?

  M slowly walked over to the horse. The heat was getting enormous now, pressing against his face and chest. He crouched down in front of the foal, those enormous dark eyes looked up at him. But they weren’t frightened or scared at the sight of him, at the sight of his mismatched eyes or his black cloak.

  You don't know what I am yet, M thought. You don't know what I did… They say I killed my mother and a girl my age.

  “Is no one coming for you…?” M finally whispered.

  M knew that feeling better than anyone else. Being neglected by his own father. Being alone time and time again on cold empty roads with nothing and no one. His chest suddenly got heavy.

  He tried picking the foal up but the weight defeated him immediately. The small foal’s body was heavier than it looked. M’s eyes moved quickly. The fire was climbing. A beam from behind them cracked, sending a shower of sparks raining down, fully blocking the front entrance.

  Then he spotted it, a thin rope rein still attached to the foal’s neck, left by whoever had been tending it before everything fell into chaos. M grabbed it and pulled gently, trying to coax the foal to stand up on its legs. But the legs scrambled beneath it, collapsing once more.

  He got behind the foal, planted both hands under the small hindquarters and pushed, just supporting enough weight that the legs could find the floor. The foal scrambled and slid. M’s arms were burning with effort, smoke stinging his eyes until they watered, his boots scorching through from below.

  Come on, he thought. Come on damn it.

  The foal's legs held for two full seconds. That was enough. M grabbed the rein, kept his hand under the haunches and walked him forward one lurching step at a time, half carrying half dragging, through the smoke toward the back of the stable where the air was still breathable and the wood just standing.

  They quickly came out into the cold dark field together. As soon as M exited the burning stable he felt a small ache in his stomach. Maybe due to the starvation he was experiencing. Or possibly something else.

  The stableman doesn’t deserve you, he thought to himself ignoring the stomach ache. M hadn’t saved the black foal out of heroism or bravery. But simply because he didn’t want the tiny foal to die all alone. Because M knew exactly what it felt like to be brand new and all alone in a burning world and have no one there with you.

  The black foal finally found it’s footing and stood up properly. M ran alongside the foal out the village. Once they were away, he shouted, “Shoo!” Waving his hands up and down. ”You’re free. You can go now baby horsey.” M said cutely.

  The coal-like foal didn’t budge though. He stayed at M’s side.

  “Why aren’t you going?!” M said in frustration. It was weird, no one had ever wanted to stay with him. “You… Want to stay with me?” M wondered.

  The foal only stared at him and refused to move away.

  “What do I name you…?” M uttered, thinking as his eyes went up. “I’m not good at names, baby horse.”

  M stared at the small creature for a while.

  “Everyone around me dies… “ M muttered. “So I’ll name you just one letter. K. ”

  The foal blinked.

  “If you live long enough, maybe I’ll give you a proper name.”

  After that, the two were inseparable. Wherever M went, K went with him. On the cold nights when M had nothing and no one, K was there, entirely unconcerned with M's eyes or his cloak or any of the things that made other living creatures uneasy around him. In his younger years, when M would cry, which he did quietly. K would turn his great head and press it gently against M's and stay there without moving until he stopped crying. The horse understood M's emotions better than any human ever had.