Atlas did it, he had won.
The battlefield was quiet save for the drip of blood onto blackened stone, each drop a fragile heartbeat against the silence.
His chest rose and fell, ragged, his arms trembling from the fury of what he had unleashed.
Around him, the demon kings gathered their breath, their wounds gaping but their pride intact.
Aurora's staff still smoked from its last clash, her body quivering with restrained exhaustion. Even Azazel, irreverent and cruel, leaned on his staff without another quip.
They all believed it. The impossible was finished. Ureil, the mighty fallen angel who had once brought them to the edge of ruin, lay broken on the ground.
Relief was a dangerous drug. For a moment, even Atlas allowed himself to taste it. His jaw unclenched. His fists lowered. His mind whispered,
'Finally....'
They had voiced, she was strong, and it was true, she was strong, very very strong.
But then—
A sound. Not of victory, but of rupture.
