My first memory is when my brother and I turned five, and it was time for the choosing ceremony. My mom kissed my cheek and told me no matter if I was a fighter or a healer, she would love me.

I walked into the central tent and sat next to my brother on the floor. My mom sat on the healer's side, and my dad sat at the front of the tent. My dad stood up and raised his hand, and the tent quieted down.

“My two twin children have reached the age of maturity where they receive their role in the tribe,” my dad bellowed, “Emeri, Evani stand!”

I stood, and my brother shakily rose next to me. I looked at him and smiled. I reached to grab his hand and squeezed.

“Oldest first, Emeri.” My dad said, reaching for the canteen next to him. I stepped forward, and my dad handed me the canteen. I hesitated and looked at my mom, who nodded and smiled. I drank, draining the canteen. I felt my awakened magic surge through me. I closed my eyes, sinking into it, and I felt peace. Then everything turned red, and I felt myself sink to my knees. The pain was almost unbearable. I felt consumed in rage. The rage took shape, a monster inside me. The pain subsided, but the rage stayed.

My dad pulled me to my feet and smiled, “We have a fighter!” I shakily went to the opposite side of the room than my mom, where the other fighters welcomed me.

“Evani, your next!” My dad said, holding the freshly refilled canteen out to him. My brother took it and chugged it. He started shaking, and blue light enveloped him. The smile on our father's face fell.

“A healer.” Our dad said, disdain dripping from his voice. The man next to him handed him a knife, and our dad cut all of Evani’s hair off. Evani’s eyes filled with tears as he walked over to our mom. She smiled and embraced his shaking body.

My dad walked over to me, glowering at my mom and Evani, “Let's go Emari, leave them to their jobs."

My dad’s patience for my mom was already exponentially low. She wasn’t me or my brother's biological mom. Our mom died at birth. My dad took my mom’s hand in marriage a month afterward. They never were truly in love.

What pushed him over the edge is when she snuck into my first hunting party, when I was 7. It was fighters only and she was a healer. I had watched her pull a hood over her stubbled hair and paint war paint over her face. She rode next to me smiling whenever I looked over. She told me it would be like a party, just me and her.

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We slowed to a stop, and my dad hopped off his horse and motioned for the rest of us to follow suit. I hopped off, walked to my mom, and grabbed her hand. We slowly walked at the back of the group. There was a small orc village in front of us. We approached it, crouched low.

I drew my swords out from their holsters on my back. My dad whispered to the group, “Pon Veelan, come here.” I smiled at his use of my warrior name and walked over to him. He nodded toward an orc man at the center of the village, leaned into my ear, and whispered “You know what you have to do.”

I nodded and snuck closer to the man. My swords were raised, but I didn't need them. I narrowed my eyes toward the man and a blood-curdling CRACK shot through the air. He screamed and fell to his knees, his legs now broken in two. Another CRACK came as his head jerked to the side, and he went limp and stopped screaming.

My hearing dulled as I stared at the orc man's limp body. I walked towards it cautiously, scared he was still alive, but the man still didn't move. I stood over the man's body as the feeling of power rushed through me; it was exhilarating.

I turned around and smiled at my dad, and he rushed forward towards me, knife drawn. He scooped me up in his arms.

“Congratulations on your first kill!” He set me down, then reached for my arm, “Now for your first kill mark.” He took his knife and cut a tally on my arm

I felt so proud of myself, I turned to smile at my mom, but her expression stopped me. She was scowling, not at me but at my dad.

I watched her with curious eyes, as she pulled a dagger out of her belt. My mom screamed with rage, rushed forward, and grabbed me, running into the forest.

I looked at her confused. She looked distraught, and I couldn't understand why. I had been trained to kill and torture since the choosing ceremony, and it didn't bother me. Tears were streaming down her face. She slowed to a stop and kneeled, getting eye level with me.

She took a shaky breath. “Honey, we have to run!” she whisper-yelled. I shook my head in response. I wouldn’t, or rather, couldn’t leave all that I knew behind, my family, my culture, everything.

My dad had caught up to us at that point. He ripped me away from her arms, his face red. He started screaming, “I took a chance on you, a human.” He punched her, “ I knew you could never understand our culture,” another punch. “You disagreed with how I disciplined the children, but lashings are our tradition,” and another. “You tried to teach our daughter Common, the language of our overlords!”

l covered my ears, trying to drown out the sound of my mom's bones cracking. She whispered to me something in common when he finally finished punching, “I love you Emari. Protect your brother for me.”

My dad screamed, “Leave! Let me never see your face again.” He pulled me away as I stared at her beaten body. At that moment, I realized how different we were from humans.