Asef lay there, unmoving, the weight of his mother's body cradled in his arms.
He didn't want to rise.
Not now. Maybe not ever.
His breathing was shallow, uneven, as if every inhale tried to reject the reality before him.
His mind screamed that this had to be a dream.
Some twisted, cruel nightmare born from exhaustion or fever.
Efsa? Killing their mother?
No. It wasn't possible.
It had to be a mistake.
Asef shut his eyes tightly, pressing his forehead against the almost cold cheek of the woman who had raised him, protected him, and sacrificed everything for him.
Maybe, if he stayed like this long enough, he would wake up back in his bed.
He would open his eyes to sunlight through the window and the scent of breakfast wafting through the air.
His mother would be humming softly, and Efsa would be training outside.
But no matter how tightly he shut his eyes, the smell of blood didn't vanish.
