Veyor’s mind stopped moving forward.

  It did not race. It did not search for solutions. It did not even panic in the way people imagine panic to be. Instead, it rotated in place, stuck on a single point, like a machine spinning without traction. Everything inside him felt dull, blunt, and distant, as though sensation itself had been muted.

  He was numb.

  Not frozen in fear—numb in understanding. Somewhere deep inside, he knew that there was nothing meaningful he could do in that moment. No decision he made would alter what was already unfolding. The world had stepped beyond the reach of individual action, and he was left only to witness it.

  The television volume suddenly rose.

  Not because someone turned it up, but because the reporters themselves were speaking louder—voices overlapping, urgency replacing their practiced calm.

  “Something’s happening,” one of the reporters said, struggling to maintain composure. “Someone just rushed toward the President—possibly his secretary.”

  Another voice cut in, sharper and more alarmed.

  “He’s panicking. You can see it clearly. That’s not protocol behavior.”

  The camera feed shook slightly as the operator tried to follow the sudden movement inside the conference hall. Heads of state who had been standing in carefully arranged lines were now shifting, turning, speaking to one another in raised voices.

  “Oh—look at that,” the first reporter said. “There’s a disturbance. They’re arguing. This wasn’t planned.”

  The reporters’ instincts told them something had gone terribly wrong.

  Years of covering disasters, political collapses, and military escalations had trained them to recognize the signs before official confirmation arrived. They did not need to hear the words being exchanged behind closed microphones. They did not need translations or statements. Infact no one needed to hear it.

  What had happened was already visible to the whole world.

  The secretary—Josh—came running toward the President of Valendor.

  He was not composed. His posture was broken, his pace uneven. When he reached the President, he leaned forward slightly, breath uneven, voice cracking under the weight of what he had to say.

  “Sir,” he said, his tone fractured, restrained only by protocol, “our coastal city has been attacked by Norvia.”

  The President froze for half a second.

  Then he lost control.

  “What did I say?” the President shouted, his voice breaking through the murmurs around him. “I warned you. I said those Norviia bastards could never be trusted.”

  His hands clenched into fists, his jaw tightening as disbelief twisted into anger.

  “I said it,” he continued, breathing heavily now. “I said do not trust them, CALENDON!” he shouts

  He turned sharply toward the president of Caledon , his voice rising beyond diplomacy.

  “Now it is my country that has paid the price because you wanted to play your little peace game!”

  The room erupted.

  Guards from Norvia reacted instantly, forming a protective barrier around their President and escorting him out of the hall before the confrontation could escalate further. Security personnel moved quickly, rehearsed and silent, as if they had always expected this moment.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  The President of Valendor did not wait for assistance.

  He turned away from the conference, face set with rage and exhaustion, and walked out without another word. Cameras followed until the doors closed behind him.

  But it was already too late.

  Far from the conference hall, far from the shouting and accusations, the stealth bomber Obsidian had already completed its mission.

  The bombs had been released.

  By the time the news reached the President, the coastal city was no longer a city.

  It was ruins.

  Collapsed structures. Fire. Shockwaves rolling through streets that had been full of life only moments before. Emergency systems overwhelmed before they could respond. No warning sirens. No chance to flee.

  Only impact.

  Only aftermath.

  Some moments earlier before the bomb landed

  Veyor tried to move.

  The instinct to act surged through him suddenly, violently, overriding the numbness for just a fraction of a second. He turned toward his mother, who was still standing near the balcony, sunlight catching the edges of the clothes she had been hanging moments before.

  He tried to run.

  His legs did not respond.

  He tried again, forcing his body forward, but the signal never completed its journey. It was as if his body had decided independently that movement no longer mattered.

  He tried to shout.

  The sound never left his throat.

  His mouth opened. His chest tightened. But no voice followed. The air remained silent, heavy, unmoved by his effort.

  Mrs. Arigrith did not look back toward the sky.

  Not because she could not see.

  Because she already knew.

  She was not blind. She did not miss the shape in the sky or the unnatural stillness that followed it. She understood exactly what was happening in that moment. She also understood something else—something her son was still struggling to accept.

  There was nothing left to be done.

  She had lived long enough to recognize the difference between danger and finality. Panic belonged to moments where action still mattered. This was not one of those moments.

  She did not scream.

  She did not run.

  She accepted it.

  That was who she was—a woman who had spent her life managing what needed to be managed, facing what needed to be faced. Fear did not serve her now. Resistance would not save her.

  She turned instead toward her son.

  She saw him standing there, eyes wide, body rigid, terror finally breaking through his numbness. She saw how much he was worrying for her, how desperately he wanted to reach her.

  And that was enough.

  She smiled.

  It was not forced. It was not hysterical. It was bright, warm, and steady—the kind of smile that existed to reassure, not to deny reality.

  She raised her hand slightly, a small gesture, more instinct than intention.

  Veyor’s chest tightened painfully.

  He felt something tear inside him, something beyond words. He tried to respond. He tried to mirror her expression.

  Suppressing his cry, forcing his face to obey him, he shaped his mouth into something resembling a smile. His lips trembled , arching up and down , his cheeks quivered, his chin tightened , he was putting all his energy not to cry but to pass down a smile to his mother.

  It was not convincing.

  It was ugly. Broken. But it was all he could give.

  The bomb dropped.

  The explosion consumed the horizon.

  Yet even in that instant, even as light and sound overwhelmed everything else, Veyor saw one thing very clearly, his mother’s smile , her smile was brighter than the explosion surrounding the environment

  For Veyor, In the final moments of his life, there was nothing greater than that image. Nothing louder. Nothing more real.

  That smile made his life complete.

  As everything faded, as the edges of the world dissolved into white and silence, Veyor convinced himself of one last thing.

  He told himself that he was the one who died.

  That his mother was still standing there.

  Alive. Safe. Smiling.

  Smiling under a bright sun, with birds chirping and water dripping from the clothes – saying goodbye to me.

  It was a lie—but it was a merciful one.

  Meanwhile.

  The President of Valendor boarded his private aircraft under heavy security. The engines roared to life as aides moved quickly, speaking in clipped tones, avoiding eye contact.

  Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was thick with tension.

  The President took his seat slowly, shoulders heavy, hands trembling slightly as the reality of what had occurred settled into him. The weight of command pressed down harder than ever before.

  He reached beneath the armrest.

  There was a switch there.

  Old. Dusty. Unused.

  A precaution that no one ever wanted to touch.

  He brushed the dust away with his thumb, exposing the metal beneath.

  Then he looked at his secretary.

  “Inform,” he said quietly, his voice stripped of emotion, “to whoever it may concern.”

  The secretary hesitated only for a fraction of a second before nodding.

  The President stared forward, unblinking, as though the decision had already been made.

  And said

  “We will nuke Norvia.”