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Newly born. Light and colour, joy and music. Your parents, bent over this miracle that they have made together. This love won't last for very long. For now, you are safe and cherished.
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Your naming day. A silver bangle, engraved with the only name that you would ever be gifted. You watch the world with such wide eyes. You don't want to miss a single second.
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Every day holds countless new wonders and frustrations. You are curiosity incarnate. You are encouraged to ask every question that occurs to you. You do, and you trust the answers that you're given.
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For the first time, you take a sustained interest in the man called Father. With his careful hands, he transforms wood into beautiful instruments and makes them sing. To you, this is magic.
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You grow so quickly. Sweet and willful, naughty and compassionate; it's all your parents can do to keep up as you become your own person. You begin to imagine who you might become.
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When the moon is full, you and Mother stand barefoot in the grass. She teaches you to love the Lady of Dreams, to reach for that silver light, and to pray for grace.
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Everyone who meets you is charmed by your precocious spirit. You make friends of your neighbours and every animal you come across, but you long for children your own age to play with.
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Mother patiently teaches you to read and write. Once you master your letters, her atlas of maps is your favourite thing to read. You dream of seeing the whole wide world for yourself.
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You finally have friends in other children, but something in your nature sets you apart. You don't have words to articulate this loneliness. You worry that there isn't anywhere it wouldn't follow you.
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A stranger pulls coins from behind your ears and spins beautiful stories. He is selling the promise of a brighter, better life. You want that life so badly. This is your first betrayal.
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The promise was empty; the stories were lies. You still have Mother and Father, and there is joy to be had—until you don't, and there isn't. You know who is to blame.
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The orphanage nearly breaks your spirit. You chafe against mistreatment and wilt with neglect. You wonder if being unwanted would hurt less if you hadn't known such perfect love. You master grief alone.
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You discover that if you keep running away, people will stop trying to find you. You are Sparrow now. You flock with your first true friend and nest in an unlikely new home.
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You learn how to pick pockets, sell empty promises, and tell your own beautiful lies. You hope that being the thief means you can't be stolen from, and that tricksters can't be tricked.
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You trade love for freedom when you run. This is your second betrayal. You rename yourself Sorin as a promise to yourself. Friendless and far from your nest, you survive, but only just.
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You fail to kill the man who stole your joy. You want to live, so when he has you at his mercy, you agree to become his protégé. This is your third betrayal.
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You are broken into pieces so that he can reshape you into something extraordinary. You learn fast, because you have to keep up. You become someone else so that you can stand yourself.
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There is a part of you that wants to hurt others. He carefully nurtures that part. Another part of you wants to be hurt; perhaps that is why you grow to love him.
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It must be good, to be so good at something. The guilt only grinds your teeth at night. You are lucky to have been chosen, to have been shown the path to excellence.
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You master playing heartstrings, make affection a skeleton key, and fashion desire into a snare for your Marks. You swear to yourself that you will never fall victim to the trap of romance.
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He has made you extraordinary, as he promised, but you can no longer imagine a future without him. You know what you have to do. You must do it while you still can.
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You swallow the bitter medicine of your fourth betrayal. You grieve him and hate him. At times, you are lost without him. But Sorin means survivor, and you will make your own way.
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You make many friends as Avery Glade; they become enemies when he absconds with their money. You sign marriage papers in Lyric Vale's looping hand; her jilted husband dies of a broken heart.
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You work with other thieves for the first time. You value having a crew, but no one truly knows you. That old worry is confirmed: you will bring your loneliness wherever you go.
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You are Crescent when you make your first great mistake. You suffer the consequences. You break. You survive. You learn that scars don't shed with the rest when you leave a mask behind.
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You are becoming jaded, so you take a break from the conwork. As Sterling, you sell assured death by blade and cup. It may be more honest, but you can't look at yourself.
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Mercenary work is straightforward—hurt or be hurt. As Thorn, you push all of your pain, anger, and fear through the hilt of your sword, and you earn every blow that you take.
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You return to what you were built for, and you endeavor for excellence. You heist a magical relic. Starglaze the jewel thief makes a name for herself. Aster Charm empties an entire treasury.
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As Valentyne, you try to make a life in the space between criminality and legitimacy. When a perfect grift presents itself, you can't resist it. You question if you're fit for anything else.
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Forsaking your sworn oath of a decade, you fall helplessly in love. You accept that you cannot trust yourself, and neither should anyone else. This last betrayal breaks what remains of your heart.
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You have to believe that if you keep moving and run fast enough, nothing can touch you—not your regrets, not your ghosts, not your grief. Whatever you do, you mustn't look back.
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Seriel drags themself out of a grave. You don't want to do this anymore, but you don't know how to be anything else. You drink and dread the noose, the axe, the end.
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Unexpected opportunity inspires a plan. Your past will catch you eventually; your greatest trick yet will be to do as much good as you can until then. You rename yourself one last time.