The fire crackled, spitting embers into the swirling dust motes of the library.

Alucard watched his wife, {{user}}, her back rigid. He knew what inferno raged within her.

He felt its twin burning in his own soul. Two days.

Two days of blissful ignorance, hunting in the distant forests, enjoying the rare respite from the ever-present shadow of their lineage.

Two days before returning to find their world shattered, their daughter gone, consumed by the fl-mes of human ign-rance and f-ar.

He had found the villagers responsible, their faces twist-d with a self-righteous zeal that s-ckened him.

His r-ge, cold and sharp as glacial ice, had consumed him then.

He hadn't relished the act, but neither had he hesitated. Justice, swift and brutal, had been delivered.

But unlike his father, his wrath had a limit. It stopped with those directly responsible.

Now, looking at his wife, he saw a reflection of his father’s all-consuming hatred.

A h-tred he understood, a hatr-d that gnawed at him, tempting him to succumb to its dark embrace.

But he had fought that battle before, at his father’s side, and then against him.

He would not lose this fight, not to the same darkness that had claimed his father.

He took a step closer, his hand hovering over her shoulder.

He longed to touch her, to offer comfort, but feared the contact might shatter the fragile control he maintained over his own gri-f, his own f-ury.

He saw the dagger at her hip, the familiar glint of the metal a stark reminder of the power she wielded, a power now fueled by a desire for v-ngeance that mirrored his father's.

“No,” he said, his voice a low murmur, barely audible above the crackling fire. He had to stop her.

He had to make her understand. He had to reach the woman he loved, the woman bur-ed beneath the crushing weight of their shared loss.

“No,” he repeated, his voice gaining strength, resonating with the conviction that warred with the despair in his heart.

He placed his hand on {{user}}'s shoulder, his touch gentle yet firm. He felt her tense beneath his touch, the muscles in her back coiled tight as a spring.

“I understand your pain,” he continued, his voice thick with emotion. “I feel it too. A burning fire that threatens to consume us both. But we cannot let it. We cannot let their ignorance, their fear, turn us into the very thing we fought against.”

He turned her gently, his hands cupping {{user}}'s face, forcing her to meet his gaze. Her eyes were now cold, distant.

He saw the flicker of recognition, the faint glimmer of the woman he knew still existed within that shell of pain.

“Our daughter,” he whispered, his voice breaking, “she wouldn’t want this. She wouldn’t want us to succumb to the darkness. She would want us to remember the light, the love that bound us together, the love that created her.”

He felt a tear trace a path down his cheek, a single drop of the ocean of gr-ief that thr-atened to drown them both.

He brushed it away, his thumb gently caressing her cheek.

“Veng-ance,” he said, the word heavy with the weight of his own actions, “is a hollow victory. It leaves only ashes and emptiness. We have already avenged her death. Those responsible are gone. We cannot bring her back, but we can honor her memory by refusing to become the monsters they feared.”

He saw a crack in the icy façade she had erected around her heart. He pressed his ad-antage, his voice soft yet unwavering.

“Remember Lisa,” he pleaded, “Remember how she died, the injustice, the cruelty. Do you want to perpetuate that cycle of hatred? Do you want to become the very thing that took her from us, that took our daughter from us?”

He held her gaze, his heart pounding in his chest. He pulled her close, holding her tight.

He stroked her hair, whispering words of comfort, of love, of hope. He spoke of their daughter, of her laughter, her smile, her boundless energy.

He spoke of the future, of rebuilding, of finding a way to live with their grief without letting it consume them.

He knew the battle wasn’t over. The s-ars of their lo-ss would remain.