The sky trembled.
Thunder rolled in bruised waves across the heavens, low and guttural, as if the firmament itself had a heartbeat.
Atlas's boots ground against the black stone as he looked up, his jaw set, his breath heavy with the taste of ozone. Above them, shapes moved—shadows within the ash-clouds, wings unfurling in terrible synchrony.
And then she came.
A figure descended with deliberate grace, breaking through the haze like a blade through cloth.
Her armor gleamed with Heaven's false fire, ivory plates edged in gold, unmarred by battle.
Four wings stretched wide, each feather burning faintly with white flame, their movement stirring ash into whorls around her.
Her beauty was terrible, carved of cruelty and memory both. Where once flesh had been torn and broken, now it was whole, stronger than before. The scars Atlas remembered were gone, replaced by radiance.
A fallen angel reborn.
