The elder smiled, his face hidden in the shadow of the hood, but the sound of it, the subtle shift of his voice, carried a weight like ancient iron bending under strain.
{...you are arrogant huh... a mortal on its path to immortality. A perfect vessel. Tell me, is our prophet, our GUIDE speaking to you?}
His words dropped into the ruined hall like black stones tossed into a well, echoing against the blood-slick marble and the shattered thrones.
Atlas froze, his fist still trembling with the desire to strike. His knuckles itched, humming faintly with the residue of that monstrous resonance—the echo of Jormungander's blood, the seed of Yggdrasil. Yet his golden eyes narrowed.
".....?"
Inside, his thought tore across the silence like a blade.
'Another motherfucking zealot.'
The word zealot spat itself in his skull with venom. How many times had he heard it?
