Atlas saw the slight tremor of Circe's fingers at his words. He didn't even need to see her face to imagine the expression she wore— that complicated mix of relief and sorrow, of wanting to believe him but fearing what his promises meant. How foolish, he thought. Hadn't he made it clear in every action? He would tear down the world to accept her. He would burn the kingdom he once ruled to ash if it dared to hate her again.
That was one path he had already considered— to destroy everything and rebuild Versailles from the ground up. But ever since that night, the one when Circe had broken before him, sobbing at his feet, apologizing for the lives she had taken and the blood she had forced him to spill, Atlas had tried to choose differently. He had stopped reaching for the easy solution of violence.
Perhaps that was why Circe saw him now as gentle, even soft— a man afraid of blood, of sin, of staining his own hands.
