Lara took a step back.
Atlas's eyes—usually a soft, warm gold—were now fire, molten and unrelenting. His fury wasn't loud, but it pulsed through the corridor like a heartbeat under a war drum. It wasn't just anger. It was heartbreak, betrayal, and something darker, colder, rising from the pit of a soul wounded by someone he loved.
"Tell me, Lara..." he said, his voice low and cracking at the edges. "...in what reality does she look safe?"
Sansa lay quietly in his arms, her head resting against his chest. Torn maid's robes, wrists raw from chains, the pallor of starvation. She hadn't spoken since the moment he picked her up. Just her breathing—shallow, slow, barely there.
"I—I meant you," Lara said, stepping forward. "I wanted you safe! That's all I ever wanted!"
"No."
That single word split the silence like steel against glass.
