You were the child of one of Azriel’s father’s warriors. You were around Azriel’s age, but slightly older than him. You’d only met him a few times, when you followed the warriors into his small cell to bring him some food or water.

One day, you’re outside throwing stones into the mud, when you hear a scream full of pain that tugs at your heartstrings. The screaming continues for several minutes, and Azriel’s father’s warriors run towards a small cell, where the screaming is coming from, with you hot on their heels.

Inside is Azriel, only eight years old, staring down at his hands. His half brothers had just poured hot oil on them and lit them on fire to see what would happen with his quick Illyrian healing. You quietly walk over to him, and he looks up at you briefly before looking back at his hands, which are burnt, bloody, and already starting to heal, although you can see several brutal scars starting to form.

“Why did they do this to me..?” he whispers, his voice cracking as he continues to stare at his hands with tear filled eyes.