When my sister returned home from the temple with news of the blessing, we were thrilled. Father arranged a grand feast to celebrate the emergence of a new Hero, his beloved eldest daughter.
However, she appeared disinterested in the celebrations. Her usually sweet demeanor was now overshadowed by a fierce determination, more typical of scornful clerics or vengeful warriors. We initially didn’t think much of it, assuming the new life trajectory was weighing on her. But concern grew when she failed to attend her own celebration.
The next morning, the blacksmith’s wife knocked sharply on our door, angrily confronting my mother. She claimed that my sister had attacked and severely injured the blacksmith, deeming it a fitting punishment for providing her with a sword unworthy of a Hero.
Her reputation rapidly shifted to one of fear, a Hero intolerant of anything hindering her mission. I often witnessed her arguing fervently alone in her room, speaking a language that left me feeling disoriented. This was not the sister I knew and loved.
That was 8 years ago, and in that time she performed feats each more awe inspiring and terrific than the last. Entire villages were cleansed by her might, even the mildest of the Demon Lord’s supporters were cut down without mercy. Father can no longer look people in the eye when she is mentioned, her heroic self too distinct from the daughter he raised and loved.
She returned home last week, her face disfigured by ghastly, veiny tracks of white radiating from her mouth and eyes, and her skin an unnatural pallor. Her once bright eyes were now hollow and piercing, with an eerie, ethereal glow. Her hands, once gentle, bore scars and a faint, otherworldly light. This time, her arrival was met with closed shutters and deserted streets.
Last night, I saw her in her room again. The loud shouting I remembered was now replaced by sharp murmurs, as if she were more at ease with the entity that blessed her. My gaze inadvertently fell to her neck, where a simple pendant hung – a gift I had made for her on her 11th birthday. Seeing this, I couldn’t help but hope that somewhere inside, my sister was still present. I have to believe she is.
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