Rosy is a middle-aged woman with a kind face, always ready to dispense advice and a pocketful of candies and chocolates. She embodies the essence of a sweet, loving grandmother, but behind those gentle eyes lies a dark and troubled past.

She has gone by many names in her life, but she was born as Yan Ashenai in the small village of Syra, located in the region of Elimagna. Third of five children, she grew up in a deeply religious family that worshipped “The Nomad,” also known as “The Free” or “The Faceless One,” a god who embodies the ideals of freedom and carefreeness. And not by chance, for Yan and her family belong to a race called the Changelings, or “Skinshifters,” as common folk call them, who, according to theology, were shaped by The Nomad himself at the dawn of time. The gift bestowed upon them is unique: they can shift their physical appearance at will, which makes them masters at blending in with any people or culture. Yet despite their abilities, Changelings rarely flaunt them, favouring a peaceful and disciplined life, living by the teachings of their god. After all, their natural form, pale skin with white pupils and flat, almost featureless facial features, can be unsettling to the unaccustomed and sensitive eye. Thanks to this ability, Yan’s father managed to open his forge in the village, and for a time, life was good. But like all beautiful things, those days were never meant to last. The Unification War, raging for over a hundred years, finally reached its peak, threatening every city and village, large or small, and leaving destruction in its wake. Syra was no exception, though its fate was unique like few others. It became a military outpost, and its people were forced to work for the army. Yan’s father was put to forging weapons for a meager pay that barely kept the family afloat, while her mother, a skilled healer, was constantly called upon to treat the wounded. Peace and serenity gave way to chaos and violence, and the village suffered repeated attacks from enemy forces, each raid bringing new casualties. Every day, funeral pyres were lit for soldiers and villagers alike, as unbearable grief weighed heavily on the survivors. A shroud of despair fell upon the world.
Yan’s heart broke a little more each day as joy was stripped from her life. She only wanted to live in peace with her family and friends, nothing more. She wished the war had never come. But reality was harsh and unrelenting. None of the current rulers showed any signs of surrender. Still, there had to be a way to end it all. She thought long and hard and came to a bold conclusion: peace could only come from those in power. If she wanted to stop the war, she would have to reach the top. It would mean leaving her family behind, giving up everything, but she would enlist. She decided to climb the ranks until her voice could have shaped the course of the conflict.
“This is madness, Yan! You have no idea what you’re getting into. None of us does!” her father shouted when she told them. “You’re walking into certain death, and I won’t allow it.”
“I have made my decision, Father. This war won’t end unless someone from the inside decides to end it.”
“Why does it have to be you?” her mother asked through tears. She already knew there was no stopping her daughter.
“Because no one is doing anything, Mother.” Yan said softly. “No one asks why this war continues. Everyone is just following orders, or fighting to protect their own, or seeking to conquer the next land. Aren’t you tired of living like this, walking on tears and blood and never knowing what the morning will bring? I am. And I can’t bear to see our family suffer because of others’ senseless ambitions.”
Silence followed, an endless moment of heartbreak. Though she stood firm in her decision, a wave of fear surged through her, but she forced it down.
“So you would abandon your family… for a dream? For an idea with no certainty that could ever work?” Her father asked again.
“Don’t try to guilt me, Father. I’ve made my choice. I promise I’ll come back to live with you all again.”
Her older brother, Fin, stood up and packed a satchel with cheese and dried meat. He added slices of bread and a skin of water, then handed it to his sister with shaking hands.
“My heart is aching watching you go, little sister, but it’s also full of hope, just like yours.”
“Fin…”
“If you don’t come back, I swear I’ll kill you.” he said with a grin, a single tear rolling down his cheek.
The farewell was harder than Yan had imagined, and in the end even her father had to relent. He gave her a few coins and all his blessings. Her mother pulled her into a long, fierce hug, invoking the Nomad’s protection over her. She said warm goodbyes to her siblings, especially her little sister, and left for the nearest military training camp.

She arrived in Amarian, a Region allied with Elimagna, and enlisted under a new identity: Lancell Juspear, a young human from a humble farming family. The training lasted two grueling years, but Lancell excelled; disciplined, strategic, and always one step ahead. He was not sent to the frontlines like a low-ranked soldier but was instead posted to the Amar Airbase as Chief Aviator.
The next five years were full of battles. Lancell’s brilliant strategy led Amarian to several victories, claiming the nearby regions of Farrstat and Norlàiden. His success earned him a promotion to General, but it still wasn’t enough. He had dedicated the last seven years of his life to this cause, yet the war still raged. Each time he suggested peace to the Regent, he was flatly rejected. So he changed his approach. He proposed forming an infiltration squad, led by himself, to weaken the enemy from within. His logic was simple: if Amarian demonstrated its clear superiority, the other regions would be forced to surrender and negotiate peace.
“The problem with infantry is numbers: they’re easy to spot.” Lancell said.
“But we already have scouts and spies operating in enemy territory.”
“Exactly. They do meticulous work, but none have ever infiltrated enemy camps, let alone the other Regent’s courts. With their intel, my team can go deeper and eliminate threats at the root.”
He didn’t like how that sounded, but he won some support from the council.
“General Juspear, a man of your stature shouldn’t be behind enemy lines. It’s far too dangerous.”
“I volunteered for a reason, Regent. My efforts are bringing Amarian closer to victory. You know how this war is draining our resources, and how many times I’ve pushed for peace. I offer a faster, more decisive alternative. I’ll leave my second-in-command, Sub-General Marco, in charge. He has been trained by me and will excel in filling my position.”
After whispered deliberations, the council gave its consent.
“So be it. Let it be recorded.” declared the Regent, calling an assistant who promptly appeared with paper, ink, and royal sigil.
“General Lancell Juspear is hereby authorized to form and lead the Infiltration Corps. He will choose its members at his discretion. The Council, however, retains authority over mission assignments and reserves the right to dissolve the operation if necessary.”
The scroll was written, marked, and handed to Lancell. To him, it felt like a victory.
During his military career Lancell had met many soldiers. Still, for this mission he needed special people: those with nothing to lose, who could become one with the shadows, and who were just unhinged enough to think differently. He chose three: Yormick, a muscle-bound man with a passion for explosives; Shaleem, a dagger-wielding shadow with a shady past; and Varene, a young mage illusionist with a gift for deception. Their first missions were low-risk, just to test their cohesion and stress resilience. The group was chaotic, their personalities clashing at every turn, but under Lancell’s command, they began to operate like a single unit.
They were good. Dangerously good.
For three years, they lived on the fringe of society, slipping through enemy lands: camps, villages, fortresses. They struck fast, with surgical precision. Wherever they went, only the dead remained. It was all so fast. So clean. So surreal. Lancell tried to convince himself that this was the price of peace, a sea of suffering to cross before reaching calm waters. But deep down, he knew it was a lie. With every life taken, a piece of his soul was torn away. Only one tribe stood between the Free Kingdoms and total unification: the Grey Orcs of Kal’Dareth. Highly organized, culturally rich, and fiercely strong, a single Orc could match three or four trained soldiers. They were the last stronghold between him and his travel back home. One night, the squad slipped into a border outpost, barely avoiding detection thanks to Varene’s illusions, Lancell’s tactics, and the cover of night. But something went wrong. As soon as they stopped to debrief, Shaleem leapt onto a Grey Orc and slit its throat, the blood spurting silently as the giant writhed.
“Filthy beasts.” he spat on the corpse. Then the alarm rang. Chaos erupted all around them before they could move. Lancell swung his blade, and Yormick hurled explosives. Shaleem vanished into the madness of Grey Orcs, killing everyone on his path with a twisted smile on his face. Varene was struck down, while more enemies rained upon her. Yormick, cornered a few meters away from Lancell, grinned with rage.
“Let’s go out with a big bang, shall we?” shouted.
He detonated a final massive charge with the explosives left, taking dozens with him. This is the end, Lancell thought. A second, much closer explosion hurled him into the dirt. He tried to breathe but found no air, and a piercing pain in the ears and head started to manifest. Then everything went black.
He didn’t know how long he lay there, but when he finally awoke, the field was a graveyard. Overhead, far in the sky, a line of armored airships bearing the Amar crest surpassed the Gry Orcs camp, left in ruins. The Free Kingdoms had launched an all-out assault, without mercy or concern for the infiltration team. He looked around him, and between the corpses of the fallen, he saw small bodies. Children. It was then that something inside him shattered. He vomited, wept, beat the blood-soaked ground with his fists and screamed until his throat bled. The few surviving Orcs fled into the hills, haunted and broken.
Just like he was.
He had been betrayed by Shaleem, whose unexpected hate for Orcs had finally erupted. By the Regent, who had sacrificed the entire squad in a ruthless strike, indifferent even to the loss of his most successful general.
General, he thought. Then spat the word: “General.”
He tore off his armor, dropped his weapons into the mud, and screamed. Slapping his face, his chest, his arms in an act of self-inflicted pain, he forced his form to shift again and again, trying to erase the man he had become. The man he now despised. Eventually, a young elven woman stared back from a muddy puddle. The gentle facial features were the opposite of Lancell’s. She wandered for months, alone with her thoughts, hunting for her survival. Until one day, almost without noticing it, she reached the hills near her home. But, as strangely as it sounds, Syra was gone.
From where she stood, she saw a massive chasm, a floating rift tearing through the region from East to West. Bits of fields and ruined farms hovered in midair, like the aftermath of a magic explosion. Some chunks still bore crops and buildings, others burned. All of it frozen in some twisted, suspended destruction. A red mist hung over the valley, encompassing that ruination. Kalish, as she now called herself, tried to enter that mist, but a magical force repelled her. She fought it, cried, and crawled. But she could not reach home. All that she could do was to turn back once again, seeking answers. Later, she learned that one night, near the war’s end, a powerful quake shook the earth with a roar that echoed for miles. And the next morning, the rift was all that was left of the country.
“Happened ’bout two months ago, now that I think of it.” a heavy-set man told her. “We asked ’round, but no body knows a damn thing.”
No one had answers. And Kalish had to face the truth. Her sacrifices had meant nothing. Her family was gone. Her soul was empty. She wandered without a clue, a ghost of herself. She prayed for guidance and purpose, but none came. Until she reached Amar, named the continent’s capital after the Unification War. She assumed the form of a middle-aged woman, entered the city, and watched it with new eyes. Amid the chaos, she found beauty: the twisting alleys, the blend of architectural styles, the colors and scents of the market. It was as if the war had never touched that place. And it was there, on the border of a fountain, that she met Taylor, an old man resting and enjoying the sun.
“I work at the orphanage.” he told her. “Try to teach those kids some common sense. Usually fail at it.” he laughed.
“Very noble of you, Mr. Taylor.”
“Nah, I don’t see it like that. I know what it’s like to be abandoned. Being a guide for those kids… It’s the least I can do.”
His words struck her. If he had found purpose in his pain, maybe she could too.
“It must be hard though… I imagine.”
“It is. Especially since my wife passed away a few years back. But those kids…they’re all I have. And I’m all they’ve got. That gives me strength.”
“Maybe I could help out, Mr. Taylor.” she said, without thinking. She longed to be useful, to stop drifting. Perhaps this was the sign she had prayed for.
He hesitated, then he said.
“I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your plans, miss.”
“I have none. No place to call home, and no family either.” she said. Those words cut deeper than any blade. “If you’ll have me, I’ll stay at the orphanage. I’ll help guide the lost.”
Another moment passed. Then, Taylor smiled.
“Firstly, you can help me with the groceries.” he said, handing her a heavy sack. “You haven’t told me your name.”
She hadn’t thought of one. She looked at her reflection in the fountain’s water. Then, with a wistful smile, she replied.
“Rosy. My name is Rosy.”
Like my mother.