The road to the cliff was rough stone, jagged and cruel, but the priests dragged Atlas along it as if the rock itself were meant to scour his body into submission.
Chains bit into his wrists, heavy iron etched with symbols old as the Fall itself. Yet one of the priests, sharp-eyed and wearied by countless rituals, noticed what should not have been possible: a fracture in the links, a hairline crack as though the metal had been gnawed from within. His lips parted.
His breath hitched. But in the next heartbeat he hissed the doubt away, drowning it beneath the rising tide of incantation, voice blending with the others until the cliffside trembled with their chant.
"Purification."
"Purification."
"Purification."
The word was not merely spoken—it was devoured, chewed by a hundred throats and spat into the world like smoke. It was a rhythm, a hammer beating iron into doctrine. The air thickened with it, vibrating in the chest, filling lungs until even silence seemed an offense.
