"I don't give a flying fuck about fate," Atlas beloud, the words bursting from him like sparks from a smoldering forge.
And it seemed he had said it aloud.
The priest who had been droning his sermon—his lips wet with sanctimony, his tone steeped in authority—suddenly faltered. His eyes widened, a ripple of confusion passing through the congregation like a tremor under stone.
"Fate?" the priest echoed, his thin voice trembling with offense and bewilderment. "If it is about your own fate today, I truly want you to care, prophet. Care—because this purification ceremony will endow a new life onto you, give you the path you were meant to take."
The word meant twisted like a blade in Atlas's gut.
