You do not remember your name.
You do not remember what brought you here, to the cold ribbon of road that runs east of Rabad, where the carters say the dust tastes of iron and old prayer. You only know that you are about to open your eyes — and that what you choose to be, from this morning onward, will be remembered by gods who keep their ledgers in fine, patient hand.
The empire stretches far. So does the road.
Begin when you are ready.