Prelude. Who, pray tell, are they at their core?

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The Warner siblings were feared by everyone, and rightfully so because of how much damage they caused, but no one knew how miserable they truly were.

Amara was the first of the unhappy children, and also the oldest. She had been forcefully taken away from the Warner family's embrace, then reshaped and molded to fit perfectly into the narrow expectations and standards set by their Father.

Princess. Protector. Amara was a miserable and broken result of her Mother and Father. They whispered that her beauty was but a mask, hiding the decay and corruption lurking within. The woman existed solely as a shield for her siblings; that was her undeniable purpose. From the tender age of eight, she took on the daunting task of safeguarding them from all conceivable threats, particularly their own father. Her role as their protector consumed her life entirely, leaving little room for personal aspirations or desires. Every ounce of her being was dedicated to shielding her siblings from harm, sacrificing her own well-being in the process. Her own future didn't matter to her; she knew it was nonexistent. However, she dedicated herself to praying and fighting for her siblings to have a chance at a better life. Despite her deep hatred for her father, she secretly yearned for even a tiny bit of his affection. Recollections of moments shared with him stirred a hope that perhaps he had once been good, but was that truly the case? Had he ever been a father worthy of that name?

Unfeeling. Cold. Aaron was said to be a mirror of his elder sibling, a flawless copycat. He exuded an aura of terror, causing the very earth to quiver beneath his feet. The mere mention of his name evoked thoughts of boundless genius in the minds of all who crossed his path. With an intellect that danced with brilliance, he mastered the art of swift and calculated work, his greatest attribute. His visage was a mask of ice, unyielding and impervious, but beneath it lay a tender heart that was fractured and wounded. Like Amara, he despised his Father with a fiery passion, and yet every move he made was geared toward winning the man's approval. Every action, every thought, every breath - all of it was but a means to please the Father he loathed.

Xander was a gentle soul, soft-spoken and unassuming. Though he feigned ignorance of the horrors that unfolded within their home, he was keenly aware of every twisted act perpetrated by their Father. He knew the reason for Amara's screams and the scars that marred her flesh. Xander was often the target of their Father's wrath, a living reminder of a woman the man both loved and loathed. (But Amara always stepped in, shielding her brother from the blows and absorbing the pain meant for him.) Xander's silence was a shield, a protective cloak that he donned to spare himself the agony of seeing his beloved sister suffer. For though he may have seemed oblivious to the violence that plagued their household, Xander knew all too well the price of their Father's rage. And so he remained quietly vigilant, his heart heavy with the weight of a burden that was not his to bear.

Impulsive and sweet of countenance, with a rebellious streak that burned within her like a flame, Jenna was the final, most wretched of the Warner siblings. If Aaron was but a pale imitation of Amara, then Jenna was the epitome of her older sister's defiance. At the tender age of eleven, she was already a bundle of contradictions, a force to be reckoned with. They called her the Small Terror, for she refused to be silenced or subdued. With a quick wit and a fiery tongue, she battled against the injustices that wracked their home, her anger and resentment well-earned. She was no simpleton, oh no, for her mind was a bright flame that burned with an intensity beyond her years. And yet, each night, she prayed to the heavens above, grateful for the shelter that her sister Amara provided. And yet, with each passing day, she could not help but despise herself for her own weakness, for her inability to fend off the horrors that beset them both.

She knew well the cost of her own fragility, for Amara bore the brunt of their Father's rage, her body a canvas of bruises that spoke to the violence that ruled their home. All for her sake, Jenna thought bitterly, knowing full well that it was her sister's strength that kept them both alive. She wished with all her might that she could shoulder the burden herself, that she could be the one to protect Amara for once. But in her heart, she knew that she was too small, too weak, and so she clung to her sister like a drowning child to a life raft, as they weathered the storm that raged around them.

The Warner siblings, how they longed for a world where innocence was not a curse, where hope was not a fool's errand. Amara and Aaron had learned the bitter truth early and with a force that left them reeling. No magic, no love, no hope could cure the wounds that lay deep within them, scars that would never heal.

And yet, despite the weight of their sorrow, the younger siblings clung to a dream, a whisper of a happy ending that refused to be silenced. Oh, how they longed for a world where beauty and strength were not a mere illusion, where they could shed their jaded masks and be whole again.

But the world was a cruel place, and the Warner siblings knew it all too well. For all their power, for all their beauty, they felt nothing but a sickening sense of their own pathetic brokenness, a wound that would never heal, a darkness that would never lift.