Wen remembers her parents. She remembers her father, thick hands steeped in dirt, and a warm smile. She remembers her mother, bent over the loop, a whirl of soft fabric. She remembers her brother, her closet friend. She remembers a small farm, nestled below a foggy mountain. She wakes up some mornings and still remembers the smell of the white pines.

She remembers the stories her parents told her. She remembers her fate. She remembers the curse. She remembers the crimes of a distant ancestor. She remembers little of her patron. She remembers only strange words, cold eyes, and a cheerful promise.

She remembers the village, older than the Empire. She remembers the words the villagers called her. She remembers the fear in their eyes. She remembers their hatred. She remembers the rocks they would throw at her. She remembers the tears that burned at the edge of her eyes.

She remembers the first spell she cast, no more than a simple cantrip, a fiery bolt of arcane energy that set a bale of hay alight. She remembers how they ran from her. She remembers the soldiers that came soon after. She remembers saying goodbye to her parents. She remembers the crying. She remembers the screaming, her own voice. She remembers being taken from the village.

She remembers the Circle of Magi. The buildings carved into the desolate mountains with magic. She remembers the other students. She remembers the way they looked at her. She remembers the disgust of the high born nobles. She remembers the loneliness. She remembers the old wizard. She remembers his words. She remembers his lessons. She remembers his books. She remembers his threats. She remembers his beatings. And she remembers his kindness.

She remembers when she learned to stop fighting. She remembers complex diagrams. She remembers ancient schematics. She remembers the writings of an ancient scholar, dead untold centuries before. She remembers accepting her place. And she remembers her fate no longer pained her.

She remembers when they forgot. She remembers when they forgot to hate her. She remembers when they began to respect her. She remembers when her magic convinced them. She remembers the reluctant smiles. She remembers the muted praise. She remembers their shared suffering. She remembers the long nights. She remembers the purpose that bound them together. She remembers their private oaths. She remembers the Imperial Magic Examination. She remembers embers, embers of pride as they marked her with the Imperial Mark.

She remembers the Northern Province. She remembers the cold. She remembers the hunger. She remembers the elves. She remembers the raids. She remembers strange magic. She remembers being afraid. She remembers war. She remembers a brash officer, a young noble. She remembers a pitched battle. She remembers the elven blade that drew red lines across her skin. She remembers the wounded. She remembers the dying. She remembers the dead. She remembers the soldiers that saved her. She remembers the fighting retreat that followed. She remembers stumbling into the fort days later. She remembers the weariness etched into her bones. She remembers huddling around a fading camp fire, sharing food, drinking with the other survivors, happy to see the sun once again.

She remembers a letter. She remembers arriving in Bei Taiyang. She remembers an interview with a junior minister and a judge of the lower courts. She remembers a mention of her talents. She remembers explanations of her worth to the Imperial Army. She remembers the polite insults woven between the minister's gentle words. She remembers how the judge, the district magistrate, looked at her. She remembers no hatred, no fear, nothing save purpose, nothing save a demand for the truth.

She remembers the slow seasons that followed. She remembers many roads. She remembers many places. She remembers many people. She remembers enforcing the Imperial Law. She remembers protecting the Black Peace. She remembers new purpose, new meaning that unfolded with the shifting winds of progress.