In different to the lizardling's call. Aurora slid from Atlas with the slow satisfaction of someone leaving a warm fire for the cold night. Her hand lingered on him for a breath too long, as if memorizing the heat.
"Thank you," she said—soft, deliberate. There was a faint lift at the corner of her mouth, but her eyes remained unreadable.
From her sleeve, she withdrew a coin unlike anything Atlas had seen in a century—a golden disk with intricate spiral carvings that seemed to fold in on themselves if you looked too long. It caught the dim torchlight like liquid sunlight.
The guard's pupils dilated when it touched his palm. He turned it over once—then with a furtive twitch of his wrist, slid it into his pocket as if afraid the air itself might try to steal it.
Atlas's eyes tracked the exchange. The coin stirred a quiet recognition in him, like a word almost remembered. His mouth almost formed a question, but he kept it coiled behind his teeth. He would have answers soon enough.
