Atticus dreamt of a place engulfed in intense fire.
The flames roared around him, scorching the very air he breathed. Even though fire was a part of him, the heat here was overwhelming.
His skin burned, his throat was parched as though he hadn't tasted water in decades, and yet he couldn't move.
His muscles felt like lead, rooted to the ground, the weight of the fire pressing down on him, unrelenting.
The thought of death briefly flickered in his mind. Was this how it would end?
"Atticus!"
"Atticus!"
A voice cut through the inferno, calling his name. It was distant, yet unmistakable—a voice that had always brought him warmth, love, and safety.
Mom.
Anastasia's face flashed in his mind—her features twisted in pain, her skin burning in the fire that surrounded them both.
Atticus's heart clenched. The pain was unbearable, the heat suffocating, but he couldn't ignore her call.
He couldn't let her suffer.
