Archibald wasn’t to earn the family heirloom until he turned 15, but with their home under attack, his mother gave it to him 7 years early. The cloak spread around his feet in a soft lilac pool. It was heavy and the fabric pricked his skin. He would have complained, but the look on her face stopped him. She pulled the hood over his face, shrouding him in suffocating cloth. He breathed softly, trying to not let fear overtake him.
The cloak did what all good cloaks do: it kept him out of sight. When invaders reached the child, their minds erased him. He stood, covered in purple, yet they couldn’t look at him directly. He was a blight on the edge of their vision; an error in the universe.