Lost and alone, away from my kind, away from my world. The hatred of the Thirteen is the only thing that keeps me alive.

The banished Lord of Smoke, the one that moved through walls, crossed the Barrier on foot, fought One and survived, the smoke I use as blood endlessly leaking from my eyes.

Claws and teeth, rictus grin. Eternal pain and isolation, gift from the Twins. A parting gift fit for a turncoat and traitor. A single rose from the Lord of Life’s garden and a festering wound from a venom-soaked blade. Gifts from the tender of the plants, one out of duty and the other out of friendship. Sometimes I wonder which was which.

I’ve joined a little team opposed to the children. They have no chance, but infinite hope. A madman, an immortal, an idiot, an engineer, three monsters and a child of Pain, a replacement for the family I lost, for the friends that now would kill me or worse. They will never forgive me for growing a conscience.

Oh, and I gave myself a name. Trysk. I am no longer just a number.