They had thrown off the shackles of who they had been told they were and were still working on who they had been taught they were. So thorough would the purging have to be that even the word 'they' was merely being used as a least bad identifier. Nothing of what they thought they knew can remain for the despair of entrapment to cling to, lest it refoul the new beginning they seek.
---
One passenger on an Elven ship that visits your museum catches your attention for being younger, more brooding, and better dressed than the Elves you've met before.
They retreat once more, timid as a desert mouse, and you turn back to your work with a smile. You have a feeling that this one will be just as tenacious as the desert mouse; over the years you've developed something of a sense for those touched by greatness, and just as there's something within such people that calls out to you, there seems to be something in you that calls out to them. Destiny is like water: its flow can carve the world, but refusing to obey it forces the entire current to shape itself around you, leaving eddies that others can find shelter in.
---
Ulthuan is the land beloved by the Gods, shaped into a paradise for their favoured children. To live there is to see their fingerprints everywhere you look, to be constantly surrounded by the reminder that the dictate of the Gods outweighs even something as basic as that a continent of stone should not be floating above the surface of the ocean. In such a place, the idea of avoiding a God-touched destiny is barely conceivable.
Aenureir, parched of hope for years, eagerly drinks deep of the poisoned lesson of Nehekhara, where destiny was shattered by Nagash and the shards ground down into powder by Neferata and her coterie. Where ordination had so little remaining hold that a Priest and a Prince, with the blood of the Fourth Dynasty still flowing through his veins, could simply walk away. The place that taught the lesson that all things died; men and beasts, gods and fates, hope and doom. And that in all that death, there is freedom, and that when all things rust away to nothing, that includes the chains and shackles.
Two Princes talk long into the night, and when the Elven ship leaves the next morning, it is without the passenger that it brought to the island.
---
Aenureir, by your measure, is a fifteen-year-old bundle of resentment and potential and doom.
Prince Aenureir of Korumel
That definitely isn't their real name. Whoever they are, their ancestor was Aenarion the Defender, and that means they are of the Line of Aenarion: a scattered bloodline that is the subject of all sorts of disparate and vague prophecies and omens.