Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Charli Morris, and I am—quite officially— a magical defect.
Almost eighteen years ago my small, skinny, thoroughly unimpressive body arrived in this world. My parents, poor in courage if not in coin, lasted just long enough to realise what kind of child they'd produced. Out of fear, shame, or simple convenience, they dumped me at the farthest corner of civilisation— at a remote shelter with the painfully ironic name Ray of Hope.
You might ask: what's ironic about that? Well… the shelter stands on the border of a hostile kingdom, surrounded by a five-metre wall topped with barbed wire. Hardly the place one associates with a radiant "hopeful" future. And if that isn't amusing enough, here's the punchline: our little orphanage isn't on any map. It simply doesn't exist. Hidden from the world, the place occupies a surprisingly vast patch of land no one seems to know about.
We, the children raised here, aren't prepared for adoption, good manners, or any other ordinary future. No. We are being forged— trained to become the perfect tools of war: sightless, nameless assassins whose existence begins and ends in the shadows.
The ones ruling over us are monks— stern, silent, devoted to discipline and pain. They act as our wardens, teachers, executioners. But even they aren't the true masters here.
Behind the camp stands the Order— a circle of powerful magical families and political elites whose influence reaches across kingdoms. They issue the commands. They decide which monarch must fall, which city must burn, and which of us will be sacrificed to further their plans. To them, this camp is a forge, and we are the metal hammered into shape.
Training began when I turned six. That was the day I learned that my name— the only thread connecting me to the people who abandoned me— was no longer mine. From then on I was addressed as Oro, which in Ancient Iliyan translates to Condemned to Die. Charming, I know.
During the Initiation Ceremony— an unavoidable step toward becoming a full assassin— I'm meant to lose my sight. You can refuse, of course, but the alternative is death. The monks insist that vision clouds judgment, corrupts purpose, and binds us to illusions we don't need.
Over the years I have endured quite a bit: starvation, fainting spells, nights locked in a cell crawling with rats, beatings with sticks, the burning brand of belonging seared into my skin, and—worst of all— the execution of my only friend. When I was fifteen, they cut off Seim Spark's head right before my eyes, as a lesson to me and the others. Love is sin, attachment is weakness, and if I dared think otherwise, I would join him.
Here we aren't divided by gender; in fact, we aren't supposed to acknowledge it at all. We speak about ourselves in the masculine form because softness is forbidden. Why not the feminine? Or a third form? I truly don't know. Questions are discouraged—especially the kind that challenge the camp's rules. And challenging rules here is hazardous to your continued existence.
To prevent the growth of any "dangerous distractions," they feed us elixirs from our earliest days. A pleasant side effect: almost all memories of childhood and life before the shelter are erased. Convenient, isn't it?
So why do I remember my name?
That part is simple. A charmed bracelet is locked around my left wrist, engraved with Charli Morris. Even the High Monk didn't dare remove it—or couldn't. I never learned the truth. But Seim once told me he'd seen such enchanted items only on children from old, noble magical families. Aside from the two of us, I counted only a handful of these artefacts among the trainees. Meaning we were the only ones who knew our true names.
After Seim's death, whatever belief I had in the camp, the monks, or the great Order behind them, shattered. But my hatred toward the ones who executed him grew so sharp, so unbearable, that staying here became impossible. That was when the idea of escape first took root.
According to the Iliyan calendar, today is the third day of the Fire Falcon. That means I have three short months before the Ceremony— before they blind me and finish turning me into a mindless blade.
Three months to run, or die trying.
I promised Seim I would get out. And I keep my promises.