The moon cast its solemn glow over Berkimhum, tracing silver across palace towers and marble spires. From the jagged hills beyond, Atlas stood with Veil and Loki. The capital looked like a lullaby frozen in stone, but Atlas knew better. He had seen too much to mistake stillness for peace.
He stood motionless, eyes drinking in the sight he never thought he'd see again. The wind was gentle—too gentle. The kind of quiet that blankets everything before it shatters.
"…Should I have killed her?" Atlas's voice slipped into the air, low, guttural. It didn't echo. It didn't need to. The words sat heavy between him and the moon.
"Wait, what?" Veil's voice came from below, half-formed, a distortion of shadow climbing up Atlas's back until he stood beside him. "You wanted to kill Eli?"
Atlas didn't look at him. His jaw clenched. His heart felt like glass spun too thin.
