Anastasia gently laid Atticus on the bed, carefully pulling the blankets over him. His face was still stained with dried tears. She wiped away the tear tracks, brushing a few stray strands of his white hair out of his face, and gave him a deep kiss on the forehead. "Rest," she whispered softly, staring at him for a few moments, her heart aching.

With a final glance, she left the room. As the door closed behind her, silence descended, broken only by the soft rustle of the sheets as Atticus began to stir. "No…" he groaned faintly, his voice trembling.

His breathing grew ragged as his body jerked sharply, his face contorting in pain as he relived horrors in his mind. The darkness in the corner of the room stirred, and from its depths, Arya stepped out, her eyes heavy. She approached him slowly, her heart breaking as she saw his distress. Without a word, she knelt by the bed, gently wiping the sweat forming on his brow. Her fingers lightly brushed against his cheek. "I'm sorry…" she whispered, her voice barely audible. Tears welled up in her eyes as she placed a comforting hand on his face, silently crying as she watched over him.

She stayed there for hours, wiping his sweat and murmuring quiet apologies, even though she knew he couldn't hear her. At least, she hoped.

Atticus's dream shifted into a nightmare.

He was surrounded by darkness, the world cold and empty. His feet felt heavy as he moved through the shadows. Then he saw her—Anastasia, his mother.

Her face was pale, her eyes wide with fear, as a dark figure emerged behind her, grabbing her by the neck.

Atticus tried to scream, but no sound left his throat.

He tried to run, but his legs wouldn't move. He was frozen in place, helpless as he watched the life drain from her eyes.

The figure tossed her lifeless body to the ground like a broken doll, and Atticus's heart shattered.

Suddenly, the scene shifted. Avalon, his father, stood before him, facing an overwhelming wave of enemies. He fought valiantly, but the tide was too great. In a flash, he was struck down, his body collapsing into the dirt.

"No… no, please…"

One by one, the faces of his family, friends, and loved ones flashed before his eyes, each one being consumed by the darkness while Atticus stood frozen, powerless to stop it.

"No…"

Atticus awoke with a start, gasping for breath, his heart racing as if it might burst from his chest. His eyes darted around the room, expecting to see his body drenched in sweat, but it wasn't.

The room was bright— morning had come, sunlight streaming through the window, casting long shadows across the floor.

He sat up, his breathing still heavy, looking around the empty room. He could've sworn he had felt someone with him while he slept, but now… there was no one.

His mind was still foggy with the remnants of the nightmare, but as his eyes landed on the corner of the room, memories of the past few days came crashing back, and the weight of it all hit him like a punch to the gut. Freya's death. The burial. His failure.

Atticus slumped back onto the bed, covering his eyes with his right arm as tears began to flow once more.

He sobbed quietly, the grief still raw and painful. He had failed. Failed to protect her. Failed to save her. Failed to be strong when it mattered most.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry…" he muttered under his breath, the words a broken plea to the universe, as though somehow, he could turn back time. If only he could.

But then, in the midst of his sorrow, Freya's words from the letter resurfaced in his mind. She had told him not to blame himself. She had told him it wasn't his fault. Atticus wiped his tears, taking in a shaky breath as he tried to compose himself.

He couldn't continue brooding. There was nothing he could do to change the past.

Those words kept on repeating itself in his head.

He realized something then, an obvious fact. Freya hadn't died because it was her time— she had been killed.

Murdered by the Obsidian Order. And there was only one reason he hadn't been able to stop it.

Because he had been weak.

Atticus's fist clenched at his side. If he had been stronger, if he hadn't wasted time in Sector 6, if he hadn't had to make a deal with Seraphina, he could have made it in time. He could have saved her.

Only one thing could change everything.

Power.

His mind raced, replaying the battle in his head, and then he saw it. The face of the woman who had held both Anastasia and Freya by their necks, the one who had siphoned the life out of his grandmother.

His anger simmered, a cold fury settling deep in his chest. He had nearly killed her that day, and now— despite how absurd it sounded— he was glad he hadn't.

A swift death would have been mercy.

His gaze turned cold as his thoughts crystallized into a singular, burning desire for vengeance. His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as the image of that woman's face burned into his mind.

They had caused this. They had killed someone he loved. And they would pay.

Every last one of them.

Atticus's breathing steadied, his resolve hardening like steel. His path was clear now. He couldn't change the past, but he could control the future.

And in that future, he would ensure that the Obsidian Order would suffer for what they had done.

He would make them all pay.

Atticus felt his will become sharper, more resolute, the weight of his recent realizations pressing heavily upon him.

He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and then turned toward a particular shadow that lurked in the corner of his room.

"Arya," he called out.

There was no answer, but Atticus wasn't surprised. He knew she was there. The Atticus of now couldn't be compared to the past. He could sense her, even while she was hidden in the shadows. He sighed softly, understanding what she must have been feeling.

"Are you going to disobey me now?" he asked.

A moment passed before Arya stepped out of the shadows, her head bowed low. "I-I apologize, young master," she said, her voice trembling slightly.