I have completed my next spell—a grudging, paltry work to appease the state—dubbed Hallowing Judgement of Warforged.
The state is too fearful to truly wield this spell, but the wizards will eat it up and wax eloquent about its applications in battle theory.
A most bothersome waif from some impoverished village has been requesting my audience for a week. Why must I be beholden to one so beneath my station? Frustrating.
Today I allowed audience of the waif, after they had implied something of my hand. I had to hear them out, and would make them pay, if need be.
Shockingly, the waif seems to have some manner of second sight. They have begged me to forget this spell—that its very existence is a shadow on the land. I dismissed their fears as confusion, this spell was nothing special.
They pointed out—horrifyingly correct precision—that this spell, once begun, would never end. In this, I saw my error. The army who walked under this banner would scour the earth, ending anyone who would be seen as enemy. Grateful, I entreated the waif to stay as apprentice—for clearly they had talent. Much to my disappointment, they declined. They looked me in the eye and said—with the conviction of the self-righteous—that any who followed my path would, like me, meet their doom. In my anger, I called for the guards, but the waif had disappeared.
I will find him.
Far into the night, I worked to give the spell an ending. In the end, I was successful in mending the flaw, but the will to do so broke something inside me. As an outward sign of my inner being, my right hand cracked fully, falling to the ground and shattering.
I fear I will not complete my task.