Aurora drifted ahead, body weightless, her long legs folded neatly beneath her as though she were lounging on the air itself.
Her silver hair swayed as if a current of unseen water carried her. Behind her, Atlas floated too—though his posture was less graceful, more soldier than angel, the stubborn weight of his thoughts clinging to him even in this gravityless abyss.
"Aurora…" His voice carried, low, sharp, heavy with questions.
"Yes?" She tilted her head, eyes glimmering with that mischief that always felt both playful and cruel.
"Where the fuck are we going?"
Aurora's lips curved, laughter hiding in her throat. "...Hehe… Azezal is waiting for us. You'll see."
Atlas narrowed his eyes, though she couldn't see it from ahead. It was always like this. Always.
Since his childhood—or what passed for it in this warped life of stolen memories—it had been her way: speaking in fragments, syllables dipped in riddles, never giving the truth until the very last second.
