Saintscot Orphanage had been home to unwanted children ever since mutations became common. It was a religious building where they tried to “fix” their differences. Kids with horns, disfigured faces, or even extra body parts were often dropped off there and kept away from the rest of the world.

Aerelm winced as his eye started leaking again. He quickly pressed a piece of cloth to it while he rummaged for an empty ink pot. Ever since the caretakers deemed his mutation useful, he had been forced to provide a cheap alternative to ink so they wouldn’t have to spend as much. His mutation affected his eye, turning it black. It leaked a thick, black fluid that was the perfect consistency to write with. He let his eye slowly fill up the pot. He nudged you softly.

“Can you grab me another pot?” He murmured.