The balance of all decisions, which are all of life and death, is the difference of the weight of a feather.
It is the fourteenth evening of Ram’s, of the 75th Year of the New Day. I am in the city of Lonireil, in a cell within their Edifice of Truth. Tomorrow or someday soon after, the woman I love will execute me to roaring cheers in their grand plaza. Well the onlookers should cheer. A death like mine they will never witness again.
My name is Raze, but my name as it was given by my mother and father was Heshim il-Naban, and I have been called by many others in many lands. Raze is the name I have chosen for myself, after some thought and time, and it is the name by which I’ve come to be known. It is true. It is destruction, to completeness. It is unmaking.
It may sound pretentious, but I like it, so there you are. Many lay dubious claim to the title of warrior, or other such pretentious names as Archdeacon, or Warlord, or Prime, or some other epithet for The-Best-of-Whatever-It-Is. I am Raze.
I swear to truthfulness, in recording of thought and deed. I am old and have no time for fabrications or exaggerations. When I tell you that I broke the Prime of Avandeil, I broke him. When I claim to have stolen the fleet of Red Kharcos, you may alert her, finally, as to the culprit’s name. When I say I drove the dead out of Silverime, rest assured, it is so. When I say I am still a fool, you may take it as, at least, a very strong opinion.
I am greatest swordsman the world has ever known.
It is the why, which none yet know. When I am dead and my final deed acted out – which should be in a matter of days – those who remain will have their answer. They have asked, but I shall answer in my own fashion. It is buried in what follows.
My life began, truly began, the first time I ended another’s. It was the planting season of my sixth year.
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