Alvin opened his eyes to the dream he knew too well. The landscape stretched out before him like a memory painted in twilight—his town, unchanged, eternal. He stood atop the familiar hill crowned by the weathered Graham mansion, its silhouette tall and silent against the blood-tinged sky.

  This was the cradle of his lineage, where the Grahams once ruled lands that rolled on beyond the horizon. Time had trimmed their legacy down to this house, this hill, and a name carried more by ghosts than men.

  Below, the village slept in golden hush, rooftops catching the dying light like old secrets. It looked peaceful. Too peaceful. The sun bled into the west, casting long shadows that clung to the earth like whispers.

  A chill prickled his spine. The air shifted, as if the dream itself had drawn a breath. Some part of him—a part that remembered more than it should—knew it was time to turn around.

  He didn’t want to. The thought alone twisted his gut, a sickening pull he knew too well. He had seen this moment countless times—each one more unbearable than the last. But despite the heavy dread that weighed on him, he turned toward the manor.

  The familiar sight of the Graham estate loomed before him, like a sentinel standing tall against the setting sun. His roots were tangled with this place—woven so deep into the land that every creaking floorboard, every weathered stone, every shadow cast by its ancient walls was etched into his very soul. He knew it all, the way one knows the beating of their own heart. Every window, every shingle, every staircase.

  It was more than just a house. It had been a home—a sanctuary filled with laughter and warmth, a place that had held his family's legacy for generations. There had been a time when it was a symbol of power, of pride. But those days felt as distant as the last ember of a dying fire.

  Now, the manor stood silent and still—broken, crumbled, and cloaked in flame. Its once-proud walls now crackled beneath a furious fire that licked the sky, casting twisted shadows across the scorched earth. The blaze danced in his vision, blinding, burning—until suddenly, as though someone had turned the world’s volume back on, the silence shattered.

  Screams.

  But not from the manor.

  He spun around.

  The town below—his town, once peaceful and bathed in golden dusk—was now a vision of chaos. Flames bloomed like wildflowers across rooftops, devouring everything in sight. Smoke coiled into the blood-red sky. People ran through the narrow streets, their silhouettes distorted by the flickering firelight. Cries of terror and confusion echoed, overlapping into a single, unbearable chorus.

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  It was as if the sun itself had descended in fury, dragging the whole world into a blazing ruin.

  Who could have done this?

  He knew the answer. He had always known. But still, some fragile, crumbling part of him clung to the hope that it wasn’t true.

  His mind pulsed with rage and horror, a storm of thoughts and emotions colliding in a tangled blur. He had to get down there—had to help those people. Even if they had whispered behind his back. Even if they had cast him and his family aside like ghosts in their own land. They were still his people.

  But as he willed his feet to move, his body disobeyed. He remained rooted to the scorched hilltop, trembling.

  Then he saw them—his hands.

  Or rather, the things his hands had become.

  Twisted. Blackened. Blazing.

  Paws, crackling with cursed fire.

  Not smoke. Not ash. Him.

  The flames weren’t consuming him—they were him. Radiating outward like a fever dream, scorching everything they touched, warping the air, unraveling the world. The fields below curled into charred ruin. Trees exploded into embers. Screams echoed louder. People fell, not from shadowed beasts or foreign invaders—but from him.

  “No…”

  The word never left his lips. It thundered in his mind like a drumbeat of denial.

  He didn't want to see what came next. He never did. But the nightmare had no mercy.

  He would run.

  He would leap from the hill like a beast unchained.

  He would tear through the village—blind, burning, merciless—until the screams were silent and the world lay still beneath his monstrous fury.

  And worst of all...

  He would feel nothing.

  His feet began to move forward.

  No! Stop! he begged.

  Please, not this time...

  His pleas were silent, swallowed by the crackle of fire and distant screams. But his body betrayed him—dragging him down the hill, toward the village now glowing red with flame and filled with faces he once knew.

  Then—suddenly—he felt something behind him.

  Warmth.

  But not the kind that scorched his skin or fed the fire crawling across his fur.

  This warmth was different. Gentle. Comforting. Alive.

  A golden light wrapped around him like a whisper, and slowly, the screams began to fade. The heat died away.

  He turned.

  A figure was descending from the sky, cloaked in brilliant, golden radiance.

  This had never happened before.

  In all the times he’d seen this nightmare, this was new.

  The figure floated closer—still faceless in the light, yet undeniably familiar. Peace radiated from them. For the first time in what felt like lifetimes, he wasn’t afraid.

  They extended a hand toward him.

  A gesture of hope.

  A promise.

  He lifted his own hand—trembling—to take it.

  And the moment their fingers were about to touch—

  He woke up.

  Gasping.

  Staring at the ceiling fan above his bed.

  Both hands still raised in the air.

  The silence of the room pressed in on him. No fire. No screams. Just the distant chirp of birds outside his window.

  That dream… it was different. It didn’t end in blood and ash.

  A single tear slipped from the corner of his left eye.

  Maybe… just maybe…

  There was another way.

  A way to save them all.