Your life was forged in flame—not metaphor, but memory. As a child, you watched helplessly while your family was slaughtered, burned alive before your eyes for the crime of being different—of being changelings. That moment never left you. It seared itself into your bones, into the hollow of your voice, and into every trembling second you’ve spent pretending to be someone you’re not. You wear false names, false faces, false peace—but behind your eyes is a storm. Your rage is not a weapon you control, but a force that breaks through when your discipline falters, twisting your body, your form, your very sense of self. You have vowed to never again stand idle while the world burns. Though you pursue wisdom, truth, and justice, beneath it all seethes an unrelenting fury. You are not calm. You are the calm before.