Chapter 42
Lourman's Perspective
----
I stood in a narrow hallway in front of a closed door. I wanted to open it and go in, but I had to wait for permission to enter.
Knock, knock!
"Come in."
I knocked lightly on the door until I heard a voice from inside inviting me to enter.
I opened the door respectfully and entered the room, which was decorated with chandeliers. In the middle of the room was a desk, behind which sat a woman wearing a brown robe with black eyes.
I said quickly as I bowed, "Ma'am, we have received new information about the target."
"Are you sure about this information?" the woman asked me angrily.
The woman sat behind the desk.
She looked about thirty-three years old, with features that combined the freshness of youth and the wisdom of age. Her dark black hair fell like a soft waterfall, long past her shoulders, highlighting her features and looking shiny.
Her dark eyes were deep and mesmerizing, reflecting calmness and contemplation. You could see an intelligent sparkle or a dreamy look in them as if they were windows to a calm and confident soul. Her long, thick eyelashes added to the beauty of her eyes and made them even more attractive.
Overall, she exudes elegance and simplicity at the same time, and she may have a subtle smile that lights up her face and expresses her friendly personality.
"Yes, ma'am, we received information from the spy that they found someone suspicious matching the description of the person we are looking for near the village of Milar."
I bowed lower when I noticed the look in her eyes. It was a look of undisguised disgust, but it didn't hurt me as much as it confirmed a truth that had become an integral part of my existence.
I didn't feel hatred in that look, but rather something akin to hidden respect, respect for what I had been through, for what this ugly face had endured in order to survive.
My face was not just an ugly face, but a map engraved with years of conflict, a silent witness to a brutal battle that had passed.
That conflict left me with deep, permanent scars that tell their story to anyone who looks at me.
I lost my right eye completely in that battle. All that remains is a deep hole, covered with a black cloth, a constant reminder to anyone who sees it.
Across my forehead is an old, thick scar that starts at my hairline and winds its way down, like a dry river running across the landscape. The scar has left the skin tight, affecting the movement of my left eyebrow and giving it a permanent expression of pain or surprise.
My nose also did not escape the brutality of battle; it was disfigured, leaving it crooked and imperfect, making it look strange and different from a normal nose.
On both sides of my mouth, especially on my left cheek, there are deep and wide burns caused by an attack from a high-ranking sorcerer.
These burns left the skin ulcerated and affected the ability of my facial features to express themselves clearly, making my smile, if I smile, appear distorted and forced.
Sometimes, these burns pull part of the corner of my mouth down, giving me a permanent expression of sadness or pain.
Overall, my face appears visibly and frighteningly asymmetrical.
These scars are not physical defects, but a living history that speaks of pain and loss, of resilience and survival. They are the story of my life, drawn on my face, impossible to erase or hide. Therefore, the look of disgust mixed with hidden respect is all that remains of my self-esteem.
"Call Ferma."
The woman in front of me slammed her fist on the table and shouted:
"Aren't you back yet from taking out target 4? Take her with you and two assistants to track down the new target. Don't let her out of your sight this time and make sure you capture the target."
"Yes, ma'am."
I replied and backed out of the room.