All I can remember, when I try to think of my parents, is the sound of a child crying. I can see little outstretched fingers trying in vain to lasso them with some invisible force. Someone is carrying me away, someone strong. Someone is taking them away too. Guards, they’re pulling them by chains. My parents are wrapped in chains. Almost comical how many there were, they looked like iron mummies, but they were the most infamous duo in the world then. The husband and wife rouges that pulled off countless cons, hundreds of heists, and innumerable infiltrations. This time they went too far, pilfering an artifact that might have wreaked havoc in the wrong hands. This time there was no dashing escape, no flashy backup plan. Just a child crying, watching his parents leave forever.

The monastery taught me discipline, honor, courage and it gave me the strength to fuel my convictions. I learned about something my parents lacked; wisdom, prudence, and responsibility. I was told about consequences, I was told of the seasons of life, I was told that some things in this world are sacred. My brain was a sponge, I was open to all the concepts, I spent days on the second floor in our quaint library of only three shelves. I read all our books, my brothers furious that I had used so many candles to do so. That, combined with my distaste of physical training exercises, earned me the nickname ‘gentle lamb’. I was easily the least skilled among my brethren, their martial prowess was a sight to behold. Every duel, every exercise was treated with such severity and such grace. To see them work was like watching an artist sculpt her masterpiece. I struggled desperately to catch up. They flustered themselves trying to make me understand, to make me just as strong, they never gave up on me. But as quick as they were, and as heavy as their fists landed, it was I who saw it first. It was subtle at first, a twitch in the face, a soundless scoff, but I was certain it was real. The monastery of the four’s grand master was no more. He was dead. Yet, there he was. Master Roku was replaced; I am still not certain when. A fiend was wearing his skin, masquerading as our esteemed sensei, giving terrible tasks disguised as necessary measures to maintain peace and balance. Who knows how many atrocities my brothers committed in order to appease this new Roku? I could not let it stand. I foolishly confronted it alone one night, I challenged it and told it I knew its secret. It dispatched me in an instant, but before it could devour me, others who had heard the commotion arrived. I was branded a failed assassin, the peaceful monk who did not like the new direction his Master had taken and decided to take matters into his own hands. The best lies are never far from the truth. I was thrown in a makeshift dungeon, all the brothers were ordered to ignore me, to never come near my cell, to forget me. My brethren were nothing if not zealous followers of law. They obeyed, and my family abandoned me again.

My prison became my classroom, I was my own sensei, the rats were my peers, and the shackles they had put on my hands, they would be my new weapons. I would train all day incorporating all I had learned and devising a new technique based on the chains. When I grew weary I would meditate. I drank what water I could find, and I ate the bits of straw and hay that were left there. I continued this practice for thirteen passings of the sun. On the fourteenth day I smelled fire. Someone had put a flame to the monastery and I was left there to be burned alive. I climbed to the only window and through its bars I breathed the pure air, I cried for help as well, but to no avail. I was preparing to break down the cell door when I heard a traveler. I climbed to the window again, smoke now filled my prison completely, and I saw him.

“Belias Fenchuch” he said. “Hold on.” With two quick cuts of his sword the bars fell and the window was open. I squeezed out of the tiny hole and was free. I was amazed that a sword could rend such heavy iron, but even more I was grateful to the stranger for helping me, a man in a prison who could have been a murderer. I thanked him and swore I would aid him to settle my debt. He offered to cut my chains as well, I declined. I said “the shackles are my sword, and they will remind me what has happened here, and what I need to do.”

After the fire had passed we could find no trace of my brothers, no bodies, no sign of violence. I swore that I would find them, that I would rid them of Roku if needed. I would need more training, more experience, but it was my time to help them, no matter the cost.