Darkness. Trapped under rubble, a tub my tomb.

I screamed.

Had he made it? Was my little boy safe??

I screamed, but no one heard.

I couldn't hear him. I should be able to hear him, right? I couldn't hear him.

I screamed, but no one replied.

I pushed, but couldn't escape. I pulled, but nothing budged. I needed to get to my boy. I screamed—

Darkness. Specks of light littered it, but what were droplets to an ocean? The darkness swelled, consuming, and there was nothing I could do. How could an ant fight a god? It gripped me, nicked and bled me, and I screamed to the void for help. Two stars grew closer, and lighthouses on a distant shore. I reached for one, and though I had no hands, it saw me. Glorious and shining, it cast away the depths and filled me, destroyed and rebuilt me, its beacon.

—and the light answered.

I shone with it, and around me the rubble that trapped me was illuminated. I roared, defiant, and lashed out.

Reckless.

My light cut through the rubble in an instant, erased it as easily as it would the dark. The remnants shifted immediately, no longer stable, but I didn't care about that.

My baby boy. Blood and bone, crushed and scorched.

I screamed, and the light answered.

It erased the remnants of our home. Of my William.

But it couldn't erase Behemoth or what it had done. What I had done.