Atlas floated above the cracked and slug-slick ground, the stench of rot curling upward in slow, lazy threads. The surface had the consistency of something that had once been alive and was now a half-forgotten carcass—soft in places, brittle in others, always slick enough to make footing a gamble. His boots hadn't touched down in some time. His feet had decided they'd had enough of this ground.
Behind him, the crimson demon padded along in eerie silence. That silence wasn't trust; it was watchfulness, a quiet predator shadowing a slower one.
Veil rode his shoulder, light as breath, tail curling absently. Aurora, however, walked ahead. She didn't look back. Her steps were measured, her posture still proud, but the heat and weight of this place pressed sweat down her neck and spine.
He caught up to her without trying. The air moved slower here, almost like wading through breath that wasn't yours.
