Aliyya_Olowolagba

Four hundred years ago, a man named Vasilus stole a crown and drowned an empire in blood.

When he finally died stabbed by on hairpin of a woman he’d raped  the priests said his sins were too great for hell alone to deal with.

So his descendants would pay.

That’s how it started.
One cursed bloodline. Then thousands. Then millions.

We’re called the Tainted Ones now.
Branded at birth. Hated by law.

I’m 06/50.
I don’t have a name.

My sister was all I had. Then she was raped and killed like her life meant nothing.
When I asked for justice, they nearly beat me to death.

So I ran.

I made it to Nalara, where I could finally breathe. Where no one looked at me like filth.

But Sanctem is still standing. And they’re still killing.

Even if I die for it,
I have to fight for my future — and the future of those after me.

How do you fight a future that’s already branded you worthless?

Children Of The Mark : Story Of The Tainted Ones

They gave him a bed in the breeding unit.

For the first time in his life, he lay down on something soft. Clean sheets, actual pillows. The ceiling above him had faint water stains, but at least it wasn't falling apart. There was a tray beside his bed too—actual food. A steaming bowl of something that smelled like real meat. Bread, not powdered mush. Even the water was chilled.

He ate slowly, still waiting for someone to slap it out of his hand. No one did. He finished every bite.

"Not bad, right?" the same man from earlier—Number 05/85—said from across the room, mouth dry and untouched.

He looked older up close. Hollow eyes, cracked lips, but something sharp lingered beneath the decay. Anger or pain—it was hard to tell.

The man gave a bitter laugh. "You think that was free? You think they're being kind?"

A few hours later, they came. They didn't speak. They didn't smile. Just clipped commands and cold hands, leading him into a sterile white room. He still wasn't sure what was happening—until they strapped his hands down. Until they injected something into his arm. Until machines hummed and something cold touched his thighs.

They didn't touch him like people. They handled him like cattle.

The pain didn't come immediately. But when it did, it bloomed like fire in his lower back. His spine twisted under invisible pressure. His legs ached. Everything inside him felt… wrong.

When it was done, they left him alone. No explanation. No apology. Just the same clipped commands to get up, clean up, and return to his bed.

He staggered back into the unit. His body was heavy with pain, and his thoughts were empty. He collapsed into the bed, curling up on the clean sheets like a wounded animal.

Number 05/85 didn't look surprised.

He couldn't speak. He just whimpered. Hours passed, and they came again.

He didn't even resist. What was the point?

05/85 watched him shake and bleed. Then, with the same bitter, exhausted sarcasm, he muttered, "Oh, don't look so broken. They just want you in peak condition. Good food makes for high-quality milk. And blood. You're basically livestock now."

He laughed again—hysterical, breathless. Like someone halfway between sleep and death.

"They keep us just healthy enough to harvest. You're probably the last of your tainted line, right?"

"What… what did my ancestor even do?" the boy choked out.

"Beats me," 05/85 said, flopping onto his side. "All I know is, mine did something to a nun. At least that's what they tell me. Maybe he knocked her up. Maybe he sneezed near her. Doesn't matter, does it?"

The sarcasm faded, giving way to a quiet, pitiful tone. "They say blood remembers. So we pay for it. Forever."

The boy looked at him—really looked. He saw the bruises, the tremors in his fingers, the way he didn't seem to blink unless he had to.

And for the first time since arriving, the boy felt something that wasn't fear. It was a fragile, irrational thought. A whisper.

But now... now he wasn't sure he wanted to escape alone.

Chapter 10 : Breeding Hurts