I drive him back with another blow, my fury unrelenting, the weight of centuries crashing down upon his fragile frame. The castle trembles with our clash, stone breaking, dust filling the air, but I cannot stop. I will not stop. Rage is all I have left, a tide that consumes thought, reason, mercy. He dares stand against me, my own son, to bar my vengeance, to chain me with pity.

He falls, his blood splattering across the ruins of my home, and for a moment I see not the enemy, not the traitor, but the boy who once clung to Lisa’s dress, the boy who laughed in gardens I never cared to walk in.

I strike him again. My fury demands it. But with each blow, my wrath is drowned out by another voice, hers. Lisa. Her touch, her voice, her warmth. She begged me to love humanity, even as they murdered her. And here I am, blind in my grief, destroying the last piece of her that still breathes.

My hand trembles as I lift him once more, my shadow blotting out the light in his eyes. His face, bloodied, bruised, defiant, reflects back not fear, but sorrow. Sorrow for me.

“...Adrian.”

The name escapes me like a confession, tearing my chest open. The fire that sustained me, the vengeance that drove me, withers beneath the truth: I am not avenging Lisa. I am erasing her. With every strike I lay upon him, I kill her memory, her gift, her love.