He wasn't running from the past anymore. He was walking toward the person he was meant to be, draped in the golden, dangerous light of the magma.
"It’s coming for you," the wind seemed to whisper. "The weight of everything you’ve lost. Run." anton_vishanovs_magma_ne_byagam_im_not_running_...
He said it again, louder this time, his voice catching the wind and throwing it back. The fear that had lived in his chest for a decade didn't vanish—it transformed. It became a searing light. He wasn't standing still because he was frozen; he was standing still because he was a mountain, and mountains do not move for the wind. He wasn't running from the past anymore