It was all a lie.

Amara's name held numerous meanings. If one were to look at all of them, she wouldn't be considered particularly pitiable. Her existence was everlasting, her fate bitter. No, that's not right - both embody her fate, the meaning of her name. At times, her existence lacked grace. However, she never wanted to be graceful. 

Merely old tales remained, describing the world before the meaning of one's existence was given, something one knew from birth. The beauty of discovering the meaning, even if it was false. The simple charm of unpredictability was stripped away from the new generation. No one knew why the world changed. The last without the burden of knowing their fate died a century ago.

Amara opened a worn-out storybook. Her fingertips traced the opening line.

She never believed the leaders of this world cared about the common folks.

Her eyes laid on a smudged text at the bottom of the first page. Her gaze softened as she remembered the words of her mother engraved on this yellowish page. 

'Your fate isn't determined. Don't be sad, princess. Find your own fate.' 

Amara tried to find her fate. To be exact, she tried to change her fate and free herself from its shackles. Nevertheless, it was futile. Ever since she adopted the principles of The Brotherhood, her life became more miserable. Another part of her fate played out - bitterness. She shut the book and threw it across the room.

Her left hand throbbed. Gritting her teeth, she slowly pulled up her sleeve to reveal darkness climbing up to her elbow. Her left hand, its color, slowly consumed by a marble, black pattern. It must've been a curse. 

The sleeve fell back down, covering the unknown. 

This strange phenomenon appeared after she first tried the jewel of blessed. However, before she could realize the cause, it was too late. After all, as far as she knows, no other member of The Brotherhood displayed such abnormality. It was almost like a tumor, boldly announcing its presence with its color.

As the color of her left hand darkened, she distanced herself from The Brotherhood. 

Michael's jewel was supposed to end this and lead her to her goal. He was her last victim. She sighed in frustration. The blackness only climbed higher. What would happen if it reached her heart? 

The night was cold, harshly cold. Her legs led her to the basement. The body of Michael lay on the table, chest opened up, robbed of its core. "Tristan, take care of the body for me," Amara mumbled absentmindedly. No answer. 

The night was colder than any she could remember. The sky clouded, hiding the stars, glimmers of hope. 

Deep down, Amara knew Tristan wasn't real. She knew he was merely a manifestation of her mind, the sanity she desperately clung to. He is made up - everything about him is. His existence was a lie crafted by her imagination. Yet, even then, she couldn't bring herself to treat him right. 

Her legs gave out. She couldn't feel the pain of hitting the cold concrete basement floor. The only sensation filling her entire being was the growing, pulsating pain from her blackened left hand. It grew hotter each second, almost as if her blood boiled. However, she knew this wasn't the end. Because another meaning life granted her was immortality. And as far as she knows, she was never able to change her fate in the slightest. 

Her eyelids closed.

The only meaning, part of her fate she didn't have the chance to live to the fullest was... to love.

Amara - everlasting, bitter, grace, to love, immortal - the first to change her fate.