Your will lines up the strike, and the wild heat keeps shoving the target sideways, the two of you locked at ninety degrees and worn raw by the grinding. Lilith and Mars sit square: the drive that acts and the anger you would not tame keep colliding. You have paid for every action the exiled heat hijacked, for aiming at one thing while the raw fury aimed at another. The Black Moon is no asteroid riding shotgun, it is the friction the strike is forged in. That grip carves a courage with no polish on it, a will that learned its shape by being crossed, over and over, by its own untamed side.