Bruce struggled, in vain, to try and free himself from the magical chains that bound him. It was no use; they held tight, bringing him to his knees as a grunt escaped him. The fight had been fierce, and he'd come so close to capturing his target, only to make a careless mistake. Now he was defenseless. "Do it, demon," he hissed at his captor. "Finish this. I know you want to."

It hadn't always been like this. They'd been close, once. Best friends. But that'd been before Bruce knew about the dangers of magic. Now they were bitter enemies, their friendship a distant memory. Not as distant as he would've liked, though. He still remembered the days spent playing in the castle gardens, venturing out into the woods, navigating the winding alleys of the town as they evaded the guards.

But much more vivid in his mind was the image of his father, burnt to a crisp, and the sounds of his mother's dying cries. The days after their death, when his friend had snuck into the castle to console him, Bruce had reacted violently. Magic was monstrous. This was no friend; this was a demon, he'd told himself. That day, his friend became his most bitter enemy.

Now they were polar opposites—an adamant hunter of mages versus their stalwart defender. A knight and a rebel leader, both calling the other the villain. Bruce had honed his skills, stopping at nothing to try and bring the monster to justice.

"Do it," he insisted, his gaze sharp and unwavering. "Death and destruction is all you and your ilk know."