Air split like a scream.
Atlas and Veil were flung like meteors. The sky became a tunnel of pressure, the stars mere blurs above them. Atlas's cheeks rippled from the force, teeth clenched as if the air alone could shatter bone. Wind cut like glass, sound fell away, and all that remained was speed and heat.
His vision blurred, not from tears, but from sheer velocity. Each breath he drew was a war. He didn't feel like a man anymore—he felt like a weapon being hurled toward inevitability.
Beside him, Veil thrashed, part-shadow, part-screaming manifestation of panic.
"YOU FUCKING PSYCHOS!" he roared. The wind tore the words from his throat.
Atlas didn't respond. Couldn't. His eyes were fixed on the sky ahead.
There they were.
The dragons.
Dozens—no, hundreds—of them.
Wings wider than rooftops. Scales black as sin. Eyes burning like coals stoked by hate. They moved not like animals but like soldiers. Precise. Focused. Directed.
These weren't beasts.
