Only a few words were enough for Atlas to understand everything. Centuries ago, it hadn't been Rafael whom Circe opposed, it had been Morpheus.
Atlas clicked his tongue, frustration gnawing at him. He had seen Morpheus's face before, yet now it slipped through his mind like water through his fingers. Why?
Even though they had crossed paths, spoken, even stood in the same halls… the image refused to stay.
When he tried to recall their first meeting, the memory surfaced clearly, sharp as glass.
It had been within the sorcerers' castle, a castle Atlas himself had ordered built before his coronation, meant as a gift to Circe. He had commanded the finest artisans, carving a lake at its center, filled with the purest water blessed by the Ice Forest witch herself.
