I am Rain Ink.

I was born when the four kingdoms were still united as The Stormwind Empire. Before that, it was known as The Eternal Harmony Empire. Later, when the empire fractured, House Stormwind retreated to the southwest, establishing what would become The Windswept Plains.

I was born the eldest daughter of my family. When I was four, my brother came into the world. Though my grandmother, who lived with us, favored my brother, my parents' love for me never wavered.

My birthplace was a small fishing village along the northeastern coast, now part of The Frostshore Empire under House Whitesong's rule. There was nothing remarkable about our village - our home was much like any other. My father cast his nets into the sea, while my mother's nimble fingers worked her needle and thread as a seamstress. My grandmother, though... she was different. Back then, I never quite understood what she did.

What set our village apart was the temple that stood to the east, built from obsidian stones that gleamed like frozen midnight. Within sat a statue of a woman, her features carved in eternal serenity. Her black hair was gathered in an elegant bun, adorned with a single hairpin, and her hand reached out to the faithful in perpetual blessing. As a child, I desperately wanted to mirror that hairstyle, but my thin, short hair wouldn't cooperate, no matter how my mother tried.

This woman was the Divine Lady of The Stormwind Empire, and our village marked the place of her mortal birth. The Emperor had commissioned this temple to honor her memory. Over time, fishermen would stop to pray before venturing out to sea, believing she would protect them from treacherous waves and grant them bountiful catches.

I once asked my mother about the Divine Lady's identity. "Perhaps she was one of the cultivators," she replied softly, her hands never pausing in their endless mending.

"But what are cultivators?" I pressed, watching her needle dance through fabric.

Mother explained that cultivators were rare individuals born with something called a spirit root. They walked a special path that gradually separated them from the mortal realm. As she spoke, her voice grew distant, as if remembering something from long ago.

"Then why," I wondered aloud, "did the Divine Lady help House Stormwind conquer these lands?"

Mother set down her sewing, her eyes meeting mine. She explained that the rulers of The Eternal Harmony Empire had lost the people's trust. The Divine Lady aided House Stormwind to overthrow them, but her interference in mortal affairs angered the "divine realm." Some said she died for this transgression; others believed she retreated into eternal seclusion.

My young mind struggled with this explanation. The Stormwind Empire demanded heavy taxes from us, just like their predecessors. Why would the Divine Lady support such rulers? Father's fish spoiled quickly in the heat, leaving us little profit after paying taxes. Things grew even tighter after my brother's birth, though we never went hungry - there was always fish on our table.

Mother suggested preserving our catch with salt to make it last longer. But official salt was extravagantly priced, and despite living by the sea, making our own salt meant risking beheading. I remember how her voice trembled when she spoke of this, her fingers unconsciously touching her throat.

The salt smuggling trade eventually reached our village. While selling contraband salt meant execution, buying it only resulted in fines. With preserved fish lasting longer and commanding higher prices at market, the risk seemed worthwhile for many families.

Mother split her time between sewing and preserving fish. I can still remember the sharp, spicy scent that filled our home when she heated salt with peppercorns, sprinkling the mixture over basins of fresh fish. She'd cover each basin with white cloth and hide them in a secret room, fearful of passing officials spotting our suspicious salt stores. The preserved fish brought in significantly more money - people were willing to pay extra for fish that wouldn't spoil within days.

The goddess temple became the center of this clandestine trade. Every few nights, Father would return home in the dark hours with heavy sacks of salt, cleverly disguised under a layer of grain. We'd carefully separate the grain, wash it for cooking, and secretly store the precious salt in the hidden room where Mother preserved her fish.

By the time I turned ten, our fortunes had improved considerably thanks to the preserved fish trade. I wore different clothes for each season - something that made other village girls eye me with barely concealed envy.

Gradually, Father brought home fewer fish but more money. One night, I overheard my parents arguing, their voices carrying through the thin walls.

"You've lost your mind!" Mother's voice cracked with fear.

"Keep your voice down!" Father hissed urgently.

I pressed my ear against the door, their whispers barely audible.

"Just this one deal," Father pleaded, "and River can study in the city."

River - my brother. River Ink. A familiar emptiness settled in my chest. While I attended the village school, Father dreamed of greater things for my brother.

Mother's voice softened with resignation. "Fine. Just this once."

Only later did I understand - Father had become a salt smuggler himself. Some ventures, like grains of salt too light for the scale, seem insignificant at first. Yet once measured, they weigh heavier than a thousand pounds could balance. He was caught alongside several uncles from our village. When Father's sentence was pronounced, Mother's wails tore through the courtyard. I cried with her, feeling helpless in a way I'd never known before. My brother, still too young, couldn't grasp what was happening.

Our family inherited a massive fine. Mother worked from dawn until her fingers bled, but we could barely keep pace with the payments. Soon, we struggled to put food on the table. Grandmother had some savings that kept us alive, and though her aging hands were clumsy with the needle, she tried to help Mother with the sewing.

We never revealed Grandmother's savings to the debt collectors. They believed Mother was our sole provider, taking most of her earnings and leaving us with barely enough to survive. Those officials would visit regularly, their presence casting long shadows over our diminishing hopes.

Grandmother's resentment toward me grew stronger with each passing day. "Why are you still studying? Why are you still eating? Why aren't you working?" she would snap. Though I tried to help Mother, the work proved overwhelming for my ten-year-old hands.

I stopped attending school when my brother started - Grandmother insisted we couldn't afford education for two children. Instead, I learned to cook, at least sparing Mother from having to prepare meals between her endless sewing.

One day, Mother returned from the city with a small box of ashes, her eyes swollen from crying. Father had been executed. We scattered his ashes into the sea, following the coastal tradition of sea burial rather than erecting inland tombstones. I watched the grey specks disappear into the waves, becoming one with the ocean he had known so well.

The turning point in my fate came on my twelfth birthday. After lunch, Grandmother announced she wanted to take me shopping. Mother didn't question it, just nodded absently before returning to her work.

Grandmother led me far from the village, circling behind the mountain that stood at our backs. The trafficker who was waiting there frowned as he looked me over. "She's just a child," he muttered.

"That's precisely why she won't run away," Grandmother explained coldly. "Give her two more years, and she'll be ready for marriage and children."

The trafficker nodded impatiently. "Fine," he grunted.

Money changed hands, and before I could comprehend what was happening, they forced a drugged cloth over my face. The world went dark.

When I regained consciousness, I found myself lying on a cold floor, iron chains binding my feet. A bowl sat nearby with a single steamed bun inside, as if I were a dog being fed scraps. Despite my revulsion, hunger won out, and I ate.

Where was I? As my last memories surfaced, an icy realization spread through my chest - my own grandmother had sold me. Mother had always warned me about traffickers, but how could she have imagined her own mother-in-law would be the one to betray me?

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I choked down the bun. I was so cold, so miserable. I wanted to go home.

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The rattling of my chains drew footsteps. An old woman, as aged as my grandmother, entered the room, her ugly face twisted in a cruel smile. Behind her lurked a one-eyed man of middle age, his appearance equally grotesque.

The man circled around the old woman, studying me. "She's too young. How can she bear children?"

"We'll wait a few years," the old woman cackled, crouching before me. "Young ones are cheap, and easier to break." She grinned, revealing yellowed teeth. "You're part of the Smith family now." She gestured toward the one-eyed man. "Meet your future husband."

Rage and despair burned through me. "I want to go home!" I spat in her face.

The old woman's hand slowly wiped her cheek, her expression turning to ice. "Insolent little whore," she hissed. "Two days without food will teach you manners!"

The days that followed became an endless cycle of hunger, indifference, and humiliation. I prefer not to dwell on those memories. At first, I tried to escape, but they always caught me. Eventually, I began sewing like my mother had taught me, spending most of my time locked in that small room.

Gradually, I lost my sense of self, becoming their slave in both body and mind. After I began menstruating, the one-eyed man raped me. I didn't resist. Soon, I had my first child, Cole - a boy. I was only fifteen.

After the baby, they believed I wouldn't leave. They were right. My spirit had died long ago. My firstborn son resembled my brother somewhat, but he showed me no love. To him, I was just a slave in the Smith household.

When my firstborn was four, I gave birth to my second child, Dove - a daughter. She inherited her father's unsightly features, her face marked by uneven features and a crooked nose.

"Worthless girl," Old Lady Smith sneered at my daughter, her contempt palpable.

I knew in this household, I would be the only one to love her. Yet to my relief, my daughter grew into a gentle soul. Despite her appearance, her heart was beautiful. She loved animals and often helped me with chores, her small hands working alongside mine.

In my deadened heart, she became my only hope. I prayed she would grow up happy and safe, despite being born into this hell, despite having a mother who had endured endless torment. I dreamed she might one day visit my mother and brother for me. Or perhaps, we could escape together.

When she was six, she came home crying. The village children had mocked her appearance, calling her names and pointing at her misshapen features. I pulled her close and whispered, "Their words don't matter, my dear. You have a beautiful heart, and that's worth more than any pretty face."

One day, my nominal spouse, Gareth Smith, brought home a collection of strange stones. They resembled crystals but had rough surfaces, emanating a mysterious blue glow. He claimed they were remnants from a battle between spiritual beasts in the nearby area - not unusual in the southwest where such creatures roamed freely. He believed they would fetch a good price.

The stones sat in our bedroom, untouched. Yet whenever I approached them, something stirred within me. It was a peculiar sensation, as if certain parts of my body were responding to their presence, awakening to an unfamiliar call.

Later, I would learn these were "raw spirit stones," unrefined crystals containing natural aura that leaked freely into their surroundings. This was how I unexpectedly gained my first touch of magical ability.

Gareth took some stones to the city markets, but merchants dismissed them as worthless rubble. After that, he abandoned any interest in them, leaving them to gather dust in our room.

I continued my daily work alongside these quietly glowing stones. Gradually, I noticed changes - the bone-deep exhaustion that had plagued me for years began to lift. Strength flowed back into my limbs. In my ignorance, I didn't question this transformation or even give it much thought. I simply accepted it as a small mercy in my otherwise merciless existence.

I rarely ventured outside. My early escape attempts had taught me that the entire village acted as prison guards. Everyone knew which wives had been bought, and they all worked together to keep us "content" in our cages. The air itself felt thick with oppression, as if the very village conspired to suffocate us with its watchful presence.

That evening, my daughter hadn't returned from playing. As darkness crept in, worry gnawed at my heart. Despite my reservations, I stepped out of the house.

Immediately, hostile eyes turned toward me, like predators spotting wounded prey.

"Where do you think you're going?" A man I barely knew grabbed my arm. His fingers dug into my flesh like iron shackles.

I stood my ground. "I'm looking for my daughter."

"Gareth can handle that," he snarled, his breath hot against my face. "Get back inside where you belong."

I shot him a look of disgust and tried to pull away, expecting the usual futile struggle. To my astonishment, I broke free of his grip with surprising ease. Without hesitation, I ran. All around me, men turned to watch, their faces darkening with the assumption I was trying to escape. Their eyes followed me like hungry wolves tracking fleeing prey.

I ran to the pond where she often played, but found only scattered children making their way home in the dimming light. I stood frozen, my mind refusing to process what this might mean. Several men caught up and seized me, but I didn't resist as they dragged me back to the Smith household.

Walking along the dirt path, my thoughts drifted hazily. My daughter was twelve now - that cursed age that had marked my own downfall. Back at the house, Old Lady Smith was pacing anxiously in the courtyard. Her face lit up with malicious glee when she saw me.

"You filthy whore, trying to run again?" she cackled. "Break your legs and you'll learn to behave!"

I ignored her insults, fixing her with an emotionless stare. "Where is my daughter?"

"That worthless girl? Probably off causing trouble somewhere!" Old Lady Smith's face twisted with contempt. "She wouldn't fetch much even if we sold her!"

"Sold her?" My voice rose sharply as emotion cracked through my practiced numbness. "You sold her?"

Old Lady Smith raised an eyebrow, sneering. "And what if I did? What could you possibly do about it?"

I wrenched free from the men holding me and seized Old Lady Smith's shoulders. "Where did you sell her?"

What happened next shocked everyone present. Under my grip, Old Lady Smith's left arm snapped like brittle wood, hanging by threads of flesh and sinew. Her piercing scream split the air, freezing the onlookers in stunned silence.

Cole, my firstborn, emerged from the house. He looked at his grandmother and me with pure disgust. "What's all this screaming about?" he demanded, showing no concern for his grandmother's agony.

Behind him, several boys gradually appeared in the doorway, huddling close to Cole as they took in the horrific scene. Their eyes darted between me and Old Lady Smith's mangled arm, filled with a terror absent from Cole's cold gaze.

I studied their faces, my voice softening slightly. "Have any of you seen Dove?"

The boys exchanged nervous glances, words dying on their lips. Cole cut through the silence: "None of your business. Go make dinner!"

Something in their demeanor struck me as odd - a guilty knowledge hiding behind their fear. I turned to the group of boys directly. "Where is Dove?"

These children included sons of the men who had dragged me here. One of the men barked out suddenly, "What are you lot doing here? Get home, now!"

"I said it's none of your business," Cole snarled, using a vile slur. "Go make dinner!"

A terrible premonition seized me. I moved forward, and when Cole tried to block my path, I barely touched him before he crumpled to the ground. The boys scattered, clearing my way as I ran into Cole's room. What I saw there would haunt me for the next four centuries.

Dove lay on the floor, bound and gagged, her face ashen. Blood pooled beneath her lifeless body, her eyes frozen wide in terror.

"DOVE!" My scream tore through the air, ripping from the depths of my soul.

I collapsed beside her, my hands hovering helplessly over her still form. No matter how I called her name, she would never answer again. My grief erupted into something primal - a mother's keening wail that shook the very foundations of the house.

Cole appeared in the doorway. "What are you screaming about? She's just worthless goods!"

A strange laugh bubbled up from my throat, high and unnatural. Through my laughter, I asked him, "What did you do to Dove?"

"You know," Cole's voice had already deepened to match his father's brutish tone at sixteen, "having such an ugly sister was embarrassing."

"That's because your father is ugly," I replied, my laughter growing more unhinged. The boys who had followed him took a step back, unnerved by my smile.

"Shut up, worthless woman." Cole pulled out a cigarette from somewhere and lit it, holding it between his lips, “I brought a few buddies along to have some fun, just to prove she’s useful.”

“Have some fun?” I looked at Dove’s bleeding vaginal and forced a smile that was even uglier than a sob. I suddenly understood that when a person is extremely angry, they can laugh, without a single tear shedding.

Cole took a deep drag on his cigarette, then paused, “Oh, I was too big, and she was too small… there. I don’t know how it started bleeding. Then she started squirming around. I told her not to move, but she wouldn’t listen…” He paused again, then added, “But she listened eventually.”

When I noticed the marks on Dove's neck, I understood the full extent of what had happened. My laughter grew wilder, more desperate. This village was hell itself, and everyone here - including my own son - was a demon.

"Stop laughing!" Cole snapped, his composure breaking. He flicked his burning cigarette at me, leaving a scorched hole in my clothing.

"Oh? Is that how you choke someone?" I rose to my feet, placing my hand on Cole's neck. With the slightest pressure, his head detached, blood fountaining upward like a crimson geyser.

Everyone around us froze in horrified silence, except for Old Lady Smith, who unleashed a piercing shriek. "My grandson! You filthy whore! What have you done?"

I cast her a sideways glance. The power within me had become uncontrollable, flowing freely with my emotions. Shadows began spreading from beneath my feet, dark tendrils creeping outward until they covered the entire courtyard like spilled ink.

Those around me finally broke from their stupor, turning to flee. I raised one clenched fist with deliberate slowness, then suddenly splayed my fingers wide. Pressing my lips together, I released a soft, explosive sound: "Pop."

The courtyard erupted in a grotesque display as everyone burst into fragments - the men who had dragged me here, the boys who had participated in the rape, my son's corpse, and Old Lady Smith. Their remains painted the walls in a horrific mural of vengeance.

Surveying the carnage around me, my mind felt strangely empty, yet my purpose was crystal clear. When people gain power, they do what they truly desire. I smiled with a wild joy as I retrieved a wooden beam from the house, lighting it as a torch.

I set the Smith house ablaze first. Standing before the inferno, I began singing a sea shanty my mother had taught me in childhood. The flames danced to the rhythm of my voice, casting writhing shadows across the courtyard.

Gareth, my so-called husband, finally arrived with his companions. They froze at the sight of the dismembered bodies strewn across the yard and the house engulfed in flames.

"What are you doing, you filthy woman?!" Gareth shouted, his face contorted with rage and disbelief. He had no idea what he was facing.

"Oh, I'm not 'filthy woman,'" I laughed softly. "And I certainly don't belong to the despicable Smith family. My name is Rain Ink."

More villagers gathered, drawn by the growing blaze. I stood amidst the flames, shadows growing longer despite the fire's light. They still hadn't realized what was coming. Another explosion rang out, and my nominal husband was no more. I never called him my ex-husband - he was merely a buyer, an abuser, a tormentor, someone unworthy of being human.

I walked through the carnage and pools of blood, singing as I went, setting ablaze every house I passed. An old woman burst out clutching an infant. "Please don't burn my house!" she begged, trying to stop me.

I gazed at the child in her arms. Such an innocent face - how tragic to be born into this hell. I leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to the infant's forehead, then drove my burning torch through its heart, as easily as spearing a fish. The woman's scream pierced the night. Something about her seemed familiar.

Then I remembered. During my first escape attempt, she had offered to help me, promised to hide me in her home. But she had quickly summoned Gareth, who had beaten me half to death.

I smiled softly, then detonated her body. Pulling the infant's corpse from my torch, I set her house ablaze like all the others.

I walked beyond the village borders, flames rising behind me. Who should I burn next? Perhaps myself.

I touched the torch to the hem of my dress. But suddenly, a wind swept past - while it fanned the flames consuming the village, it extinguished both my torch and the fire catching at my clothes.

I stared at the dead torch in bewilderment. A wave of desolation washed over me, and I broke down sobbing. Did the Divine Lady truly exist? Was there really a "Divine Realm"? If so, why wouldn't they let me die? Did they think I deserved to live? And if I lived, what was left for me to do?

I wanted to go home. I desperately wanted to go home. But did I still have a home? Would they even accept me? Tears streaming down my face, I walked aimlessly until I found myself in a mountain cave. I sat down, watching the inferno reach toward the sky.

Would they come to arrest me? Execute me like they had my father? Who would scatter my ashes into the sea? I felt exhausted. Yet I didn't want to sleep - I wanted to watch everything burn to ash.

A woman with a dark veil walked into the cave, followed by a man with sage-colored hair. "Someone's here," the woman said softly.

Were they here to arrest me? I found myself strangely calm, watching them with the stillness of an untroubled sea.

"Hello?" she ventured carefully. "Do you know what happened to that village?"

"I burned it down," I admitted, my voice devoid of emotion.

"What?" Though I couldn't see her expression behind the veil, her voice betrayed her shock. "And the people inside?"

"I killed them all," I continued, my words horrifying yet delivered with unsettling serenity.

"That's quite impressive! Perfect for joining the Abyssal Pavilion!" The long-haired man's gentle tone carried words I never expected to hear.

The veiled woman stood in contemplation, her back to the flames. Suddenly, her silhouette reminded me of the Divine Lady from my childhood - or was it just my imagination?

"Though I don't know why or how you did this," she moved closer and sat beside me, "you must have had your reasons?"

Her words struck me silent. Watching her sit there, an inexplicable sorrow welled up inside me. Like all those who had ever stood before the Divine Lady's statue, silently confessing their secrets, she sat there now, as still as that obsidian sculpture, waiting for me to speak.

Tears reached my lips before words could form. "I was sold here," I whispered. "I want to go home."