And over these past weeks, Timofey has shown me what it means to keep fighting…even when everything is slipping through your fingers.
This isn’t the end.
Not for me.
The moment we hit the ground, the impact jolts through my body.
For a split second, I see it—
The estate.
Or what’s left of it.
Smoke rising in thick columns. Parts of the courtyard scorched. Bodies scattered in places I recognize too well. The aftermath of a battle still unfolding.
My home.
But I barely have time to take it in.
A rough movement—
Then darkness.
A bag is yanked over my head, cutting off everything instantly. Sight. Direction. Control.
My breath catches, but I force it steady.
Hands grab me again. Harder this time. Dragging.
My feet stumble against the ground as they pull me forward. Gravel. Then something smoother. Then a sharp turn. Another.
I don’t fight it.
I count instead.
Steps.
Pauses.
Voices.
One voice to my left. Another ahead. Accents. Movement patterns. Anything I can hold onto. Anything I can use later.
A door opens.
I’m shoved inside.
The air changes—enclosed now. Tighter. The faint scent of leather and metal.
A vehicle.
The door slams.
The engine starts.
We’re moving.
I stay still.
