Atticus turned to the ground and listened. His expression was somber. He tried hard to keep the hope rising within him in check, opting for a mask of indifference instead.
But as soon as Atticus heard the gentle voice of a woman he grew up loving, his cold expression cracked.
"Grandma," Atticus murmured, and he tried hard to fight the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes.
Beneath the earth, he had just heard the whisper of his grandmother Freya. This had been where she had been buried. Her resting place.
The battle had destroyed it, but Magnus had created another tombstone for her on the hill they resided on now. Still, it would make sense that her remnants would be stronger here.
Remnants. That was what Atticus had termed it in the few seconds he wielded this power.
At first, he had thought he could speak to the dead. Converse with them. He had come here hoping he would be able to speak with Freya again.
