Still in a daze, Arabella lay on the bed, her gaze fixed on the ceiling. Her eyes were heavy, but sleep wouldn't come, her heart was too burdened, her thoughts too loud. Worries crowded her mind, tripping over one another, each demanding her attention. But it was Atlas's words, his story, that lingered the loudest.
Something was amiss.
Utterly, unshakably amiss.
But what?
She couldn't pinpoint the flaw in Atlas's tale. It hadn't sounded like a lie. His voice had been too soft, too pained, too real. And yet, when she held his version beside the others, something didn't sit right.
To Morpheus, Circe was a heartless fool, someone who trusted too easily, who loved humans so blindly that she sacrificed her own people, only to be deceived.
To Lastor, she was cold and unyielding, yet still ruled by her heart. A woman who chose love over reason and paid for it with her life.
