Not every story begins in light.
Perhaps there was nothing I could have done differently. The atrocities I committed, the lives that I scorched from existence, the power I wielded with so little regard.
Or maybe it was the love that I lost? The love that my priest father had snuffed like a candle whose flame has been violently blown out.
I have destroyed, killed, manipulated, betrayed, tortured, and I have laughed at it all.
Perhaps I lied. Perhaps every story does begin in light — a cruel and unforgiving one.