My name is Zelika. I used to have siblings and a mother and a father, and a house. I used to learn and smile and play. I used to have friends and mentors. I used to sit on the roof of my house and watch the sunset with my brothers. I used to have goals, but I never had any worries. I don't have any of those things now. I used to think the world was a peaceful place. I was oblivious to the truth.

My friends are either dead or refugees, empty shells of the cheerful people they used to be. My house is gone, burned to the ground and trampled on by the filthy feet of the Black Army. I can no longer sit on the roof and watch the sunset. My family is dead, my home is gone. Baladh is gone.

I no longer count myself as a living being. I do not yet have the vacant stare of the refugees, but I do not have light in my eyes, as I used to. I do not think about sunsets, I do not think about baked treats. I cannot think about what life used to be because it stabs me, makes me cringe and scream in my sleep, makes my eyes burn and my heart tear. I have only one thing on my mind, and that is to kill the monsters who killed me.