Kieryan found me, hours later, curled up on my narrow bed. My face was streaked with tears. I had ruined everything; any chances of the others' acceptance, or making my father proud, or even keeping my life. Because I knew what they did to failures. They kicked them out.
And they killed them.
He sat beside me, laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. I shook it off, frustrated. I was not weak. I would not cry. I wiped my tears away, forcing myself to look him in the eye.
"What's your name?" he asked, suddenly.
"Amber." I told him, automatically. He sighed.
"And this is why the others will not accept you. Look at yourself in the mirror."
I turned my head, observing my reflection. Dark hair, framing my face, down to my shoulders. Dark eyes, red from crying. Arched eyebrows and a wide forehead. A spattering of freckles on my nose, and a tanned complexion. My limbs lean and muscled from the many months of training.
Kieryan drew out a photo and handed it to me; my identity photo, from my first year. I remembered them taking these on the first day. We had to line up, and have our photos taken one by one, to be registered into the academy profiles.
The girl in the photo is weedy, narrow-faced, greasy-haired, underfed.
"Who is this girl?" asked Kieryan, slowly. I hesitated.
"Amber." I told him, eventually. He nodded, and pointed at the mirror.
"Who is that girl?" he asked, quietly. I looked at my reflection.
"Clove." I said, equally quietly. He turned to look at me.
"And which one are you? Which one do you want to be?"
The seconds dragged by. Amber or Clove? Sweet, innocent, damaged, scared Amber? Or strong, beautiful, deadly, cold Clove? Who was I? Who did I want to be? Was my name Amber or Clove?
"Clove." I whispered.