Misfit

From the beginning Reina stood out like a storm cloud against a sunny sky. Her jet-black hair and the faint, ominous mark on her hand—a swirling sigil that seemed to darken when she was upset—made the villagers uneasy. They whispered among themselves, calling her cursed, and as she grew older, Reina did little to dissuade them.

At just five years old, her sharp tongue and mischievous streak were already in full bloom. One day, a timid boy with flushed cheeks approached her, clutching a crumpled love letter in his trembling hands.

"R-Reina," he stammered, holding the letter out to her. "Will you—"

"No," Reina interrupted flatly, folding her arms.

The boy blinked, startled. "P-p-please?"

Reina smirked, mimicking his stutter with a mocking tilt of her head. "N-n-n-NO," she said, snatching the letter from his hands. Before he could react, she threw it into a nearby puddle and stomped on it, muddy water splashing over the boy's shoes. Without a backward glance, Reina turned and walked away, her small figure radiating defiance. The boy stood frozen, tears streaming down his face before he turned and fled, sobbing uncontrollably.

It was a moment that cemented the villagers' growing disdain for Reina. They already found her unsettling—her dark features, her knack for sneaking into places she wasn't supposed to be, and the way she seemed to revel in breaking the rules. Stories about her mischievous deeds spread quickly, and every new incident added weight to their suspicions.

Once, an elderly woman tried to pull Reina away as she yanked at another child's hair. "Stop this at once, young lady!" the woman scolded.

Reina spun around, her black eyes narrowing. "Stop interfering, you old hag!" she spat, jerking free from the woman's grasp. The villagers gasped at her audacity, but Reina walked away without a shred of remorse.

Even her adoptive parents, who had taken her in after her biological parents perished in a fire, found her increasingly difficult to manage. When they caught her stealing bread from the pantry and tried to discipline her, Reina shrugged.

"Stealing is wrong, Reina," her adoptive mother said sternly.

"So is your existence," Reina replied with a smirk, walking away as though the conversation didn't matter.

Her parents had initially pitied the young orphan, adopting her despite the hushed rumors that the fire had been unnatural. Some villagers even went so far as to suggest that Reina, though only three at the time, had been responsible. The suspicion was eventually dismissed—how could a child that young have caused such destruction? But the doubt lingered, and Reina's increasingly disruptive behavior only reinforced their fears.

By the time Reina turned sixteen, her reputation was firmly established. Few people in the village wanted anything to do with her, and even her adoptive parents began to see her as a burden rather than a child. They waited for the day they could legally wash their hands of her, and when that day arrived, they didn't hesitate.

"You're old enough to fend for yourself now," her adoptive father said, handing her a small sack of supplies.

Reina took the bag without a word, her face a mask of indifference. She turned her back on the only home she'd ever known and walked away, leaving the village behind.