The Elder sneered within his hood, his white, spiked teeth flashing for just a heartbeat inside the shroud of darkness. It was not the sneer of victory nor confidence—it was the sneer of one who believed patience would serve better than force.
Atlas had accepted his words, not with belief, but with something else, something hidden. The Elder knew it. He had seen that flicker—the way Atlas's silence held weight, not emptiness. That silence was not trust; it was calculation.
And calculation meant use.
Aurora looked down at the floor around them. Three demon kings sprawled broken, their once-mighty bodies now little more than heaps of twitching ruin.
Their armor was cracked, their horns splintered, their blood thick and steaming, seeping through the blackened stone.
Once feared names, now pathetic whispers at the edge of death. Pride had been their shield, and Atlas had shattered it like pottery.
