Blam's throat rasped against Atlas's grip.
{…noo…I…I…I wa…I was…}
The words bled out half-formed, cracking in his mouth like splinters. He wanted to speak. He wanted to explain. But the sheer intensity of Atlas's gaze shook him apart from the inside.
It wasn't just fear—it was something deeper, something marrow-deep. It ladled into his core, scraping at the sludge of his being, seeping through the cracks of his coward's heart until nothing remained but the raw taste of terror.
Blam knew the truth.
If Atlas wanted—he could burst him like a balloon. Not by claw. Not by spell. Not even by brute strength. No—the man's will alone could detonate him, could crush the very idea of Blam's existence until there was no stain left in the air.
Was he afraid of death? Perhaps. But that wasn't what coiled icy around his chest.
No. He had worse things in mind.
"Unholy death."
The phrase flickered across his thoughts like fire across dry parchment.
