Doom!
Doom!
The sound was not just in the air—it was in the bones, rattling marrow like a drum of war.
Sonic waves split the sky apart, scattering smoky clouds like fleeing beasts. Atlas ripped through the high air as though the heavens themselves were fabric and he, the tear.
His speed was unnatural, the kind of speed that mocked distance and laughed at restraint.
On his back, Aurora sat like a queen refusing to be disturbed, her robes snapping violently in the slipstream, her eyes half-lidded, studying, calculating. She had long since given up trying to imitate his way of flying; whatever laws of the world Atlas bent or broke, they remained his alone.
And then there was Azazel.
Clutched at Atlas's side, the demon whimpered, his black wings flayed raw by wind like a thousand invisible blades.
