I was not born into the world.
I was placed into it.
That is the only way I can explain the absence of warmth in my earliest memory. No arms pulling me close. No voice breaking with joy or fear as it called my name. There was no celebration, no hesitation, no love disguised as concern.
Only distance.
Cold stone beneath my skin. The stench of incense mixed with iron. And the feeling—clear even then—that my existence required justification.
They stood in a half-circle around me. Men in robes, armor, and expressions carefully carved to hide uncertainty. Some looked at me like a disease. Some like a puzzle. One or two looked away entirely, as if refusing to acknowledge me would undo what had already happened.
I did not cry.
Not because I was strong, or calm, or special—but because no one waited for the sound.
That silence became my first companion.
The mark appeared before I learned to walk.
Dark, unnatural patterns spread across my skin as though something beneath me was writing its name over and over, refusing to be forgotten. I remember hands gripping my arm, turning me this way and that, prodding, whispering, arguing.
Their words meant nothing to me at the time. But their fear did.
Fear has a shape. It tightens shoulders, sharpens breath, pulls weapons closer without drawing them. Even as a child, I understood it instinctively.
They were afraid that I would live.
They did not give me a name.
Names are promises—proof that someone imagines a future where you remain. I was given a label instead. Something easier to discard if necessary. I heard it repeated so often that it replaced everything else.
Demon.
I learned what it meant by watching their hands reach for steel whenever the mark pulsed.
My childhood did not unfold in years. It unfolded in trials.
Every expression I made was watched. Every stumble analyzed. If I laughed too loudly, they flinched. If I sat too quietly, they whispered.
They were looking for signs.
So was I.
At night, chained to a stone ring carved into the floor, I would stare into the darkness and listen to my own breathing. Sometimes I imagined it wasn't mine—that something else lay beneath it, matching the rhythm, waiting.
People like to believe monsters announce themselves.
They don't.
They wait.
The first time blood was spilled because of me, I was six.
They told me later it was a precaution. That it was necessary. That no one wanted it to end that way.
All lies.
If they truly wanted me dead, they would have done it sooner. They waited because they wanted proof. They wanted certainty. They wanted to look at my corpse and say, We were right.
They took me outside before dawn. The air was cold enough to sting. The sky hung low and colorless, undecided about whether it would permit sunlight at all.
Someone asked if last rites were necessary.
Another voice answered no.
The spear trembled in the man's hand. I remember that clearly. Not his face, not his voice—just the way his grip shook despite the armor and prayers.
When the blade pierced me, pain bloomed across my chest, bright and overwhelming. For a moment, everything narrowed into that singular truth: I was dying.
And then something moved.
It was not a voice. Not a thought. It was a reaction—raw, instinctual, violent in its simplicity. Like a muscle flexing for the first time after years of confinement.
The mark burned.
The world snapped sideways.
I don't remember screaming, but someone did.
When clarity returned, the man who had held the spear lay crumpled at my feet, his blood soaking into the dirt like an accusation. The weapon lay in my hands, slick and heavy, as though it had always belonged there.
No one moved.
They stared at me not with horror, but with certainty.
That was the moment they decided what I would be.
Not a child. Not a mistake.
A weapon.
They bound my wound before tending to the dead man. I noticed that detail. It taught me where I stood in their priorities.
From that day on, my life followed a structure they could control.
Training replaced questions. Discipline replaced compassion. They taught me how to fight without thinking, how to move without hesitation, how to strike before mercy could interfere.
I learned quickly.
Not because I wanted to please them.
Because failure meant pain.
The spear was chosen for me.
They said it was practical. Efficient. That it allowed distance. In truth, it reflected something they understood about me long before I did.
A blade is intimate. A sword demands commitment. A spear is purpose. It points. It decides direction. It makes killing feel like a task rather than an act.
I preferred it that way.
Every lesson reinforced the same truth: restraint was for humans. I was something else.
And yet—every night, when my body ached and the training ended, I felt it. A quiet weight in my chest. A longing I couldn't name.
I wanted to be tired from playing, not from killing.
I wanted someone to ask if I was hurt, rather than how efficiently I bled.
As the years passed, the thing inside me grew clearer. Not louder—sharper. It did not argue with me. It agreed.
When I was angry, it calmed. When I was afraid, it focused. It never demanded blood, but it never refused it either.
That scared me more than rage ever could.
I grew into my strength the way iron grows into a blade—through pressure, heat, and repetition. The Order watched with satisfaction as my movements became faster, cleaner, more precise.
They praised results.
They ignored the way my eyes dulled.
By the time they sent me into the world, they believed they had succeeded.
I was stable.
Contained.
Useful.
The first village I saved did not thank me.
They stared.
Children hid behind doors. Adults whispered prayers under their breath as if proximity alone risked contamination. One man offered payment with shaking hands, never meeting my eyes.
I took none of it.
Not out of pride—but because accepting something felt too close to belonging.
Belonging requires permission.
At night, I slept outdoors, even when offered shelter. Stone walls reminded me too much of cages, of chains, of expectations carved into floors. I preferred the cold and the stars. They judged no one.
Sometimes, alone beneath the sky, I wondered what would happen if I simply stopped.
If I laid the spear down. If I let the world deal with its own monsters.
The thought never lasted long.
I had seen what monsters left behind.
I sharpen my weapon every morning, not because it dulls, but because routine anchors me. If my hands are busy, my mind is quiet. If my mind is quiet, the questions don't surface.
What am I, if I am no longer useful?
Would anyone remember me?
Do I deserve to be remembered?
The world does not need heroes who hesitate.
It needs results.
So I move forward. I fight what they point me toward. I take lives that threaten others because it is easier than facing the one I might take if left alone with myself.
They say I am dangerous.
They are right.
Not because of what I can do—but because of how easily I have learned to endure doing it.
I was born from something the world rejected. Raised by hands that feared me. Shaped into an answer for questions no one wanted to ask aloud.
If that makes me a monster, then I will wear the name.
But I refuse to be simple.
If I must exist as something unnatural, then I will decide what that something becomes.
Not for them.
For me.