Atlas's gaze softened, the sharp edges of his blue eyes fading into something gentler. For a brief moment, he almost looked content, no longer a fallen king, no longer the man entombed in glass, but simply someone remembering a fleeting kindness. Perhaps it was this, just this small memory of affection from the woman he had loved so fiercely, that helped him endure the centuries.
Arabella hesitated before speaking, her voice low, cautious. "You said that Circe loved Rafael…"
He blinked, then nodded slowly.
"But... did you hear that from her?"
There was a pause.
Atlas let out a short, brittle chuckle, the sound not quite reaching his eyes. "Yes," he said, as if rehearsing the answer he had repeated to himself over the years. "I saw them in the garden. Rafael was kneeling before her, holding her hands like she was the last miracle left in the world. I interrupted them, rather foolishly, I suppose. I was angry, just like any man would. But I had to ask her directly."
