Half a soul. An incomplete vessel. A frail body kept alive by Circe's blood.
Circe… oh, Circe.
Atlas had always believed he knew her, knew everything about her. But now, faced with this revelation, he wondered if he had ever known her at all.
Yes, she had kept secrets. But what woman did not? Secrets were part of a woman's nature; in his arrogance he thought them charming, even sacred. And Circe was a witch, her silence was her weapon, and her mystery her armor. He had never questioned her for it. How could he? She had always stood beside him, unwavering, her loyalty more steadfast than anyone else's.
So he trusted her. More than his court, more than his retainers, more even than his own life.
But had his trust been folly? Had his blind devotion given her the freedom to hide truths that would one day come back like ghosts, tearing holes through his world?
