The village of Harrowfield had always been ordinary—quiet mornings, dusty roads, and the warm smell of bread drifting from old stone houses. But on the day Termo turned thirteen, everything changed.
It began with the sky.
A strange white glow spread across the clouds, swallowing the sun until daylight looked pale and sickly. People stepped out of their homes, shielding their eyes as the air grew heavy, thick, and cold.
Termo stood in front of his house, clutching the small wooden charm his mother gave him when he was younger. His heart beat faster with every second the light grew brighter.
"Get inside, Termo!" a neighbor shouted.
But before he could move, the white light crashed down onto him like a falling star.
Pain burned through his body—sharp, violent, endless. His vision blurred, and he collapsed to his knees as a cold mist wrapped around him. He felt something crawling under his skin, rewriting him, twisting him.
He wanted to scream, but no sound came out.
When the light finally faded, the villagers stared at him with wide, terrified eyes.
His hair had turned completely white.
Snow-white.
His eyes glowed with a pale light that wasn't human.
And the mark—an intricate, twisted symbol—burned across his chest like frostbite.
"C-cursed…" someone whispered. "He's cursed!"
Termo tried to stand, but fear spread through the crowd like wildfire. Mothers pulled their children closer. Men took a step back. Even the priest crossed himself and muttered a prayer under his breath.
Then came the rumors.
"He'll bring disaster."
"He's marked by demons."
"He should be taken away before the curse spreads!"
Termo heard everything. Every word felt like a knife.