For those that wish to know, my name is Ezra, son of Simon. I serve as a scribe for the Crown, as did my father, his father, and his father before him. We strived to give the best of ourselves to the one sitting upon the throne. Pen in hand, we transcribed the day-to-day events of the kingdom of Hatra, everything from military occupations to the rise and fall of the merchant market to the royal family business great and small. Our mission was to create a log of our nation's history for posterity's sake, that those that come after may read and learn from the experiences of those before. With the help of the gods, we have succeeded throughout the generations.

As a short aside, for those interested in a scribe's plight, from the day we take up the pen, we swear an oath, one older than our clan. We pledged, on our father's hands and mother's heart, we will write every event as they happened, removing our own personal feelings from it. In this line of work, each scribe must take great diligence in compiling the information on one piece of parchment. To complete this momentous task, he must seek those with firsthand accounts, so that he may not write half-truths or baseless rumors. Not a single stone must be unturned, the correct chronicle hinges on it. Throughout our lives, we broke our quills and bled our inkwells dry that the stories we leave behind were perfect in their retellings, from the events being described in accurate, concise words to the precise, elegant lettering of each word.

At long last, I have reached the end of my tenure as Scribe. It will only be a few more days until I pass my position down to my son, who will teach his children our ways. Once I lay down my pen for good, I will retire out in the countryside, far from the daily struggles of the inner kingdom. Looking back, I still find myself surprised at how far the kingdom has come since the days of my youth. During the reign of three kings, it has fallen into war-torn poverty, edging closer to destruction, recovering to reach higher heights than anyone believed possible, suffered major setbacks during the Great Plague, picked up the pieces and achieved another golden age of art and literature, and now, at last, settling into a prosperous, but stagnant, society. Many have said that we risk falling back off our peak, plummeting into Hell again. That may be possible, but in my old age, such things do not interest nor worry me anymore. Perhaps that is a deficiency in my character, one I doubt I can change now.

Not so many days ago, my lovely wife discussed the possibilities of what we shall do in our final years. She wondered if the King would permit us to travel with a caravan, seeing the world, entering new territory. I have no such desire, one of our many differences. Living a peaceful, pleasant life as my wife leaves her longing for more while the years of meticulous toil leave me wishing for peace, quiet, and a grassy hill to lie on, sleeping hoping one day, I will pass away into my next life with a smile on my face.

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While that dream brings a tear to my eye, I must admit that it is one that will never be mine. Long ago, my grandfather spoke on a matter, when I was four, and to this day, I remember it. Even if my memory dulled, losing the sharpness of my youthful days, I doubt I could forget. He spoke of a simple matter, a man's peace of mind, "Peace is not for the dishonest," he explained, looking out on the world with dimming eyes. "If a man hides anything in the shadows, keeping it from the truthful light of day, it will fester in his heart, as an unclean wound. The pain will pulse through his chest, creating a never-ending aching, denying the rest he longs for a night. When at last he prepares to give up the ghost, stepping out of his mortal shell, his lies will haunt him into his next life."

In my final days as scribe, these words come to mind more than they have in my entire life. I sought the advice of Barnabas, son of Ephraim. His days as priest long behind him, he could not see me, but his ears were as keen to listen as ever. He heard my worries and gave council. I do what I must, with his wisdom in my heart. While the current state of affairs does not concern me, there lie some beasts of the past which I cannot ignore further. I do not deserve to write another word in the name of the King, nor has that right belonged in my hands these thirty years. My actions have brought great disgrace upon my position as a scribe, my family before and after me, and to my name.

I broke the great rule of the Scribes. Long ago, I used my pen for a sinister purpose. With it, I hid the truth. In the final year of King Li, my hand penned lies, ones kept in the Royal Chronicles, passed down as the infallible truth of those tumultuous days. It is with great shame I admit this wrongdoing and now, near the end of my life, I realize that it must be set right, otherwise my soul will have no rest.

Within the confines of these pages, I will recount the events that transpired in the years of our great King, taking special care to deliver the truth in its original context. For what I was not present to witness, I corroborated through firsthand accounts. My memory serves me as well now as it ever has. These events have burned themselves into my brain with an invisible brand. As a scribe, I must add that to write this down, I will bend our order's one rule, to the point of near breaking. All I write will be as they happened, but I cannot remove my stance in these matters. My heart is too close for my mind to remain impartial. This is not the retelling of past events, through the eyes of a passive observer, but these are the stories of my life, friends, and King. For scholars, this will be an abomination, but I forfeited the chance to transcribe them right the first time. Atonement is the only path I walk, and it is with this in mind I begin my confession.