The sun had barely begun to burn through the thin clouds that hung over the jagged edges of the volcano when Maelin woke. Her red hair, tangled from sleep, caught the morning light, flickering like sparks in the dim kitchen where the first smoke of her mother's fire curled upward. Around her, the house hummed with life, a quiet, persistent energy that belonged to families who survived not just by blood, but by the rhythm of shared work.
Maelin was the middle of eight children, a place that often meant walking a delicate line between being seen and being overlooked. Yet she carried her position like a steadying weight, moving through her day with careful attention to all who needed her: younger siblings still groggy with sleep, older ones already out seeking work that paid just enough to keep them afloat, and parents whose worn faces bore the strain of a life that demanded more than it gave.
