The paper burned without flame.
It hovered inches above Atlas's open palm, edges glowing a deep, ember-red that pulsed like a dying star. The symbols etched across its surface were written in fire that did not consume the parchment but scarred the air itself—each stroke leaving faint afterimages that lingered in vision long after the eye moved on.
The heat was not physical; it was conceptual, a pressure that pressed inward on the soul, reminding the reader that some messages were delivered by forces older than paper and ink.
Atlas stared at it without blinking.
He didn't need to ask the source. The signature woven into the burning script was unmistakable: a stylized thunderbolt crossed with an olive branch, the seal of the Middle Heaven Council.
The letters shifted under his gaze, rearranging themselves as if the words were alive, carving themselves directly into his awareness.
MISSION DIRECTIVE
TARGET REALM: Hell – Second Layer
ZONE: The Icy Lands
