When night draped itself across the sky, Atlas slipped into Cassius's chamber. The air within was heavy and still, broken only by the dim flicker of candles. At the center of the room lay the glass coffin, its surface so cold it bit at the skin, cold enough to make anyone who dared touch it recoil. Yet it was not Cassius Atlas had come to watch. His vigil was for Arabella, who had refused food and comfort despite the wounds of both body and spirit left by the earlier battle.
Balancing a tray of food in his hands, Atlas stepped quietly across the chamber. He set it aside with care, the clatter of the dishes muffled, and lowered himself to where Arabella knelt beside the coffin. Slowly, reverently, he bent down until his knees touched the stone floor. His weathered hands rose to lift her chin, coaxing her face upward.
