Letter from the Exultant One
To his long lost Mother, Deidre Clinton
December 27th, 2120:

Mother,

I won’t pretend. That title — I would not forget so your gods could remain innocent — it isn’t some tortured poetry. It’s the truth you never wanted to hear.

You taught me to worship mercy, to clutch at lies and call them faith so that your petty pantheon could sleep at night without nightmares. I would not forget the faces, the names, the fractures you polished into myths — not so your gods could remain innocent, but so I could kill the reverence you built like the hollow temple it was. Your gods? Innocent only because you fed them excuses and called them grace.

I remember every snide dismissal, every shadow-whispered verdict that made lesser men bow their heads like cattle. I remember how you clasped your hands and prayed for absolution while letting monsters roam free. I remember so that when I strike — I know exactly who bleeds.

You think I’m lost. You think I’m broken. That’s exactly why I'm not gonna forget. Even for a fucking second. Forgetting makes room for forgiveness — and I’ve buried that corpse six winters past. I remember to make sure your gods stay unmarked — not because they deserve it, but because they render themselves untouchable only when I leave them untouched.

You raised a vengeful thing and called it broken. You raised a weapon and asked for a son. You got both. So don’t even think about pretending now that you’re shocked when the blade I forged in your lessons finds its mark.

No prayers are gonna save you. No gods are gonna plead.
I remember. That is my only mercy.

— Exultant One