Death

The world felt strange.

Atticus's perception was working in complete overdrive, slowing everything, the world down to a crawl. And yet, no matter how fast he moved— at speeds most watching couldn't comprehend— the distance between him and Carius simply refused to close.

Before Atticus could process it, he felt something familiar. A feeling gotten from weeks of constantly standing at death's door.

The feeling of death.

Atticus's body acted before he could think. His mana surged, the ground quaking as he tried to dart backward.

That was the action he intended to take, but to his shock, the opposite occurred— his form instead lunged forward.

Atticus' expression darkened.

A sharp blade gleamed in the otherwise dark world, descending toward him with terrifying force.

Atticus's instincts blared like a warning siren, his body moving straight into the path of the falling sword.