"Now we are talking…"
Atlas's grin cracked across his face like lightning ripping the sky. The hall stank of mana and pride, of venom masked as diplomacy.
His gaze raked across the three so-called kings, and he saw them not as rulers but as animals fattened on their own fiefdoms, their egos stitched together with scraps of blood and fear.
They had summoned him here to negotiate. But Atlas knew the truth—kings never came to share. Kings came to take.
Every throne, every crown, every smile across the ages had hidden the same rot. This council was no different. This meeting was no different.
He leaned back, boot still propped on the black table, and thought: They don't want peace. They want to weigh me, measure me, and carve their slice of me before the feast begins.
Aurora, staff tapping softly on the floor behind him, whistled as if she were watching a carnival.
