It was almost amusing, how similar everything felt.
Centuries ago, Atlas had never once sat among the guests in the court. His place had always been beside the King, his father, where he stood not just as a prince, but as the sword of judgment. When the court rendered its verdict, he would rise, draw the blade sheathed at his hip, and carry out the sentence. His siblings, trembling in the wooden chair reserved for the condemned, would plead and weep and beg for mercy.
But blood always flowed in those sessions. Every sibling judged guilty would meet the same fate, death. The wooden chair, soaked in memory and fear, had claimed them one by one.
And yet, what haunted Atlas now wasn't that cursed chair, nor even the one that once belonged to the King, or to him.
It was Morgana.
