Atlas thought he had already learned despair.
He thought he had tasted enough of Hell's cruelty to be numb.
But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for this.
They dragged Aurora forward like a broken doll, her bare feet leaving a smear of blood on the stone. Her head lolled, strands of hair plastered to her cheek with sweat and dirt, her wrists bound in iron cuffs. She had been beaten, starved, dragged through the filth. And yet—when their eyes met—Atlas saw it. A flicker. A shard of defiance still alive behind her exhaustion.
He tried to call to her. But his throat was cracked, his body so weak from days of hanging that the sound came only as a rasp.
Then the priest stepped forward. His wings, black and oily, spread wide as he raised one hand. His face was calm. Too calm.
"Purification begins," he intoned.
His fingers brushed her bare foot. Just a touch, as casual as one might stroke a flame to life.
And then fire.
