Atlas hovered high above the palace, the sky around him a burnished violet, the clouds melting into gold as dusk approached like a slow, bleeding wound.
He didn't feel the wind anymore. Not really. The cold brushed his skin, but it was like being underwater—distorted, distant, irrelevant. His thoughts were louder than the world. Louder than the heartbeat echoing from his chest into his throat. Louder than the truth Qin had left in his ears.
Claire.
Possessed?
He closed his eyes.
The word wouldn't stop repeating. Like a mantra. Like a curse.
He'd told Qin to pray. That was the best lie he could offer her. Pray. Have faith. In him or in her goddess—did it matter which?
Faith was the only thing left when you had no answers.
But even as he told her that, even as he held her trembling hands and nodded like some holy knight... all Atlas had felt was the guilt of a man who knew he should have seen this coming.
