He really is a child, lapping at my chin like some blood-hungry pup. I allow it if only because it entertains me, feeding his rage and laying him more and more bare for me to examine. I have learnt a lot from this meeting, no? He is young, ambitious but foolishly angry. He is dominant, wishes to be, and yet he lacks the ability to offer me a single answer as to why I ought to recognize it. Ah, he is an unhoned blade. His parents failed in raising him.
It is a risk, I know, to offer such leniency and yet, through all his foolery, I see a use. For years, I have sought to undermine the others but he? He seeks to overthrow - why not both? Chaos is not fury and hell-like in its essence - it is simply unpredictable. And who, pray tell, would expect the hermit pack to work with a man driven mad by his own blood and delusion? Even Grimoire was a secret, though her plea for chaos had been washed away with her disappearance. I will never be a friend to this boy but our goals converge at a horizon far from here. I will grow old and die but I will not die without leaving something behind.