Atlas stood in the dim hall of the keep, staring at Elizabeth's body on the stone slab. The blood had dried on her chest. Her face looked smaller in death.
He gripped the table edge with his good hand until the wood creaked. The sword arm hung useless at his side, the wound from the square still burning like a brand. Every breath tasted like ash.
Lara entered without knocking. Her boots left faint red prints on the floor. "Council's fracturing," she said. "Two of them already whispering surrender. I handled it."
Atlas didn't look up. "How?"
"Steel across the throat in the main yard. Made the rest watch." Her voice was flat. No satisfaction in it. "Skritch's working on more explosives. Unstable shit, but it'll burn."
They moved before sunrise. Thirty men, the ones who still had fight left. Atlas rode at the front, left hand on the reins, sword strapped awkwardly to his back.
