Atlas stepped out of his room, the weight in his chest still pressing down like a stone—an ache that hadn't lifted since witnessing Milo's memories.
And right there, waiting for him, stood three figures.
Milo was in the center. He wasn't hunched or hiding behind his lashes like before. His eyes were wide open, posture upright.
To his right stood Karian, arms folded as always. On his left, Edrik rested a hand on Milo's shoulder, as if silently affirming the moment.
Atlas came to a halt, breath catching in his throat. The echoes of Milo's past still haunted him. Blood-stained walls, desperate cries, the hollow quiet that followed.
But the Milo standing before him now... he wasn't the same.
Then, he spoke. "My Lord…"
And there was no tremble in it.
"Milo?" he murmured.
The man bowed. Deeply, lower than he ever had.
"Forgive me for not saying this properly until now," Milo said. "But thank you. Thank you for summoning me to this island... and for giving me a second chance."
