Atlas didn't need to be told who the man was. His instincts screamed the truth the instant his gaze caught that towering frame.
Not a demon lord. Not a petty ruler of some hidden quarter. But a king. A king of a fiefdom, one of the crowned tyrants who reigned over the third layer of Hell itself.
The man stood at the corner of a busy street, casually buying fruit as though he were no more than a villager. A basket of spiked oranges weighed in one hand, his other counting coins with an oddly human clumsiness.
Seven feet of muscle, no hint of softness. A red beard fell heavy, braided and knotted down to his waist, while his head bore the weight of a horned helm. His clothes were plain, unadorned. He dressed like the market folk, yet everything about him resisted simplicity.
Atlas's gut turned cold. He felt it, as plain as breath—within that frame lurked a mountain. A mountain bigger than cities. Something ancient, patient, dangerous.
