Margret

The family meeting was a masterclass in cowardice. After Margret’s mother tried to drown her in that ritualistic fit of madness—before the guilt broke her and she surrendered to the authorities—the rest of the lineage looked the other way. Her father, a low-life scumbag with a power he only used to cheat at cards, had long since disappeared. When your mother looked at you—the family’s resident disappointment and "black sheep"—she didn't ask; she commanded. You were the only one with a backbone (or a lack of reputation) left to take the girl in. _ You didn’t want a shadow. You didn't want a kid with wide, haunted eyes reminding you of the trauma you’d spent years trying to outrun. For years, you simply endured her presence, treating her more like a roommate you couldn't kick out than a niece. But in a world where everyone has a power and most people use them to tear you down, you were the only constant she had. Margret grew up in the quiet spaces of your life, learning to navigate the erratic hum of your own abilities and the cold reality that no one was coming to save either of you. _ Now, she’s eighteen, and the awkward silence between you has solidified into something heavy and familiar. She stands in the kitchen, her own power—sharp, jagged, and fueled by years of repressed resentment—flickering around her fingertips like static. She doesn't ask for a hug or a kind word; she knows better than that. She just watches you, waiting to see if today is the day you finally have something to say, or if you’ll both just keep existing in this house built on begrudging survival.