"…..Yes, Your Majesty."
Atlas's voice echoed like a blade striking stone—measured, confident, cold. The nobles turned toward him in unison, as if the sound alone confirmed what they had begun to suspect: this was not the same boy who once stood in his father's shadow. He had returned from blood and fire tempered into something sharper.
Taller now, shoulders squared in royal armor, he radiated power. Mana shimmered faintly along his skin—a phantom glow, restrained but ever-present, like a storm behind glass. His golden eyes held a fire none could meet for long.
Across the chamber, the assembled lords stood like statues in ceremonial garb: heavy cloaks, ornate chains, and perfume that masked the stench of fear. Each one represented old money, older ambition—and until recently, they had dismissed him as little more than a relic of royal tragedy. But now?
Now, they saw a king in the making.
