"…you…you are the prophet…aren't you? Son of one above all!"
The priest's voice was trembling, cracked, but it struck harder than any blade. The words unfurled like a storm in the silence—sliding into the ears of the fallens, into the marrow of their bones.
Atlas blinked once.
"…?"
Just that sound—so small, so frail—should have vanished into the chaos. But it didn't. It clung. Echoed. Echoed again. "Prophet." "Son." "One above all." Each syllable struck like a bell toll inside the caverns of hell.
The running fallens froze mid-flight, like strings pulled taut. Feet skidded on the charred soil. Claws dug in. Their breath caught—not from exhaustion, but disbelief.
They turned.
A whisper had cut through their terror and turned it on its head.
It was only a murmur from their priest, nothing more than an old man's quivering prayer. But the words prophet and son of god pierced them like lightning. Their eyes widened. They looked at each other, as if to confirm: Did you hear it too?
