For so long, murder identified me – literally. I do not have the face I was born with anymore. I lost it in the month after my sixteenth birthday. I carried the face of my first victim, and all my other victims afterwards. But they all vanished. Consumed by my blade, and by my heritage.
I am a Ravager Elf. The story of my first kill is tattooed on my body. This is how my family, my friends and neighbors identified me. What I was for them. A story of murder. My father, a judge, brought me to the human man. He was found guilty of killing one of our own. I considered him a criminal back then. Now I know he only killed to defend his wife – unsuccessfully.
My story of murder is a story of shame, and guilt. And a story of losing who I am. I have lived for decades, killed more people than I can count, and worn more faces than I can remember. My blade had more of an identity than I had.
Until I found this book. I went through the belongings of my last victim, and there it was. A tale of a Ravager Elf woman, Althurya. I was enticed, fascinated. At first I just thought it was a fantastic story. But page by page, it opened my eyes. Made me realize what I had lost. And what I had done.
On the last pages, Althurya wrote about volunteering for the army to attack the new world that had appeared. But she didn’t want to fight. She wanted to escape. And I knew I had to follow her.
My last murder was my father. During the march over the World-Chain, the other half of my face went blank again. And it is to this day. The only face I wear now is the face of the man that turned me into a murderer. A constant reminder of who I do not want to be.
I still fight. Here, in this new world, I have become a defender of the people. Many hate me just for what I am, but who could blame them after we invaded their home? I still fight for them, not just because it is right, but also to atone for my deeds. I will never make up for the lives I destroyed. But maybe I can put the scales a little more in my favor.
And maybe, one day, I can find out who the person behind the blank half of my face is. The person that is neither a story of murder, nor one of atonement. The real me. The person I should have become. The blank page I still have to fill.
It is a hopeful dream, and maybe it will never be more. But what else is life but believing in hopeful dreams, as little or as big as they may be?