Atlas smiled.
That voice. That oh-so-familiar rasp that carried both defiance and desperation. It cracked against his ears like a whip and yet—he savored it. A shard of recognition in the abyss.
And within the span of a heartbeat, he moved.
No hesitation. No ceremony.
A streak of gold tore through the palace halls, faster than the chandeliers could rattle, faster than the demon guards could even blink. His hand clamped around the demon lord's throat. Her velvet-red hair whipped back from the sheer violence of his speed.
Then they were gone.
Atlas blasted past the walls, carrying her like a ragdoll, his grip unrelenting. Stone cracked beneath his boots, and the city below blurred into smears of rust-red roofs and broken towers. The air seared against his skin, dry as bone and heavy with sulfur.
