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.

His will suddenly firmed. Crimson light flickered in his eyes as he struggled against the invisible chains holding him down.

His mother needed him.

Through the blaze, he saw her smile, soft and comforting, and then everything went dark.

Atticus's eyes snapped open, only to immediately squint against the blinding brightness that assaulted them.

The light was too intense, too sharp after so much darkness. He quickly shut his eyes again, breathing heavily as his senses adjusted.

Slowly, he opened them once more, the world around him coming into focus.

He lay in a large king sized bed, the familiar scents of home filling the air.

'I'm in my room?' Atticus could never forget the room he had grown up in.

"Urgh..."

His body felt heavy, drained, but intact.

He suddenly noticed a shadow looming over him, and when his vision cleared, the first thing he saw was Anastasia—his mother, sitting beside him, tears streaming down her face.

She was crying, but smiling, her hands trembling as they reached out to him. "Atticus… you're awake," she whispered, her voice filled with relief.

Atticus blinked, the memories of the battle rushing back to him—the flames, the chaos, the battles, and… his mother.

She had saved him.

His gaze drifted over her, noticing the faint signs of age that hadn't been there before. She had aged slightly, by almost a decade.

Without a word, Atticus pulled himself up and hugged her, wrapping his arms around her tightly.

Anastasia sobbed against him, unable to control her body from shaking as she clutched her son as though she'd never let go.

"You… you were gone for days… I was so scared," she murmured, her voice breaking.

Atticus tightened his hold on her. "I'm sorry, Mom," he whispered. He truly hated making her feel this way. It was never his intention.

After a moment, Anastasia pulled back slightly, wiping her tears but keeping one hand on his.

"You should take it easy," she said softly, trying her best to regain her composure.

"You've been through so much. Rest now."

Atticus shook his head. "I'm fine," he said quietly, but soon regretted it as he saw the darkened look on Anastasia's face. She wasn't taking no for an answer.

With a sigh, he rested his back against the bed, his thoughts momentarily scattered.

His gaze flickered for a moment. "Where is everyone? And where are we?" he asked, realizing that the entire estate had been destroyed during the battle.

Anastasia's expression shifted, the smile fading as a wave of sadness passed over her face. She hesitated, her hand tightening slightly on his.

"There's… something you need to know."

Atticus's heart immediately skipped a beat. "What is it?" With her tone and expression, there could only be bad news.

Without saying another word, Anastasia reached into her robe and pulled out a small, sealed letter. She handed it to Atticus with trembling fingers, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"It's from your grandmother… Freya."

Atticus froze, his breath catching in his throat. He stared at the letter, his mind swirling with questions.

His hand shook as he took it from his mother. "What… what is this?" he asked, despite already sensing the answer.

"She wanted you to have this. I… I think it's best if you read it."

Atticus took a deep breath, steeling himself before he broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

To my dearest grandson, Atticus.

I hope you'll forgive me for not being there to say this in person, but life, it seems, had other plans for me. I've always known you were different, Atticus. You've always been the strangest child I've ever met, but in the best possible way. Watching you grow has been one of the greatest joys of my life. You remind me so much of Magnus— strong, stubborn, always carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.

…

Atticus's grip on the letter tightened, his eyes becoming moist as he kept on reading.

…

It's that same stubbornness and sense of responsibility that made me want to write this letter. I had hoped to see you before I go, to tell you all of this myself, but as you know, not everything goes according to plan.

I don't want you to blame yourself for anything, Atticus. You're only sixteen. It should be us—your family—who protect you, not the other way around. But I see so much of your grandfather in you… always feeling like you have to bear the burden, always thinking you could have done more.

Please remember this: you did nothing wrong. Life is unpredictable, and it was my time. You are a bright flame, just like your father, and you have so much ahead of you. I want you to know how proud I am of you, how proud we all are of you. And Atticus, your grandfather… Magnus will blame himself too. He's like you, after all. Promise me you'll tell him that it's not his fault. Let him know that I never blamed him, not for one second.

…

Tears welled up in Atticus's eyes, his vision blurring as the words on the page became harder to read. He could barely hold the letter steady, but he pressed on. He had to finish reading it.

…

It was a gift from the heavens that I got to watch you grow up into the incredible young man you are. I wish I could continue watching, but, unfortunately, I have to leave now. But know this, I will always be with you, always watching over you.

And when the competition comes, my dear grandson, you better kick some ass for me.

With all my love, your loving grandmother, Freya.

…

Atticus's breath hitched, the tears finally spilling down his cheeks.

The air felt heavy. Despite the abundance of air in the room, none seemed to reach his lungs. His chest heaved as he kept reading those last words.

He crumpled the letter in his hands, his beating fast as the words sank in.

"No…" he whispered, his voice trembling. "No, she can't be gone…"

Anastasia, who had been quietly watching him, reached out, her voice soft. "Atticus…"

But he couldn't hear her.

His body moved on instinct, his legs swinging out of the bed as he stood, his breath ragged.

"Where is she?" he demanded, his eyes filled with tears.

"Atticus—" Anastasia began, but before she could stop him, Atticus bolted toward the door. His body felt weak, his muscles stiff, but he didn't care.

He had to see her. He had to be sure.

Atticus ran through the Ravenstein estate, his feet eventually carrying him to the burial grounds.

As he approached, he saw a lone figure standing in front of a newly erected gravestone—Magnus.

Atticus's steps faltered, but he forced himself to move forward, his heart racing as he finally saw it—a gravestone bearing Freya's name.

Before he knew it, Atticus lost all strength in his legs, the emotions overwhelming him. He collapsed to his knees, tears flowing freely.

"No… No…"