The smoke curled like ghostly fingers through the fractured spires of Berkimhum. Dawn broke not gently, but like an apology—soft golden light creeping over blood-soaked stone and scorched rooftops, trying to soothe wounds too deep for light alone.
.
Atlas turned slowly, his Truth Eyes still shimmering. The light of day warred with the spellwork in his pupils, filtering shadows into truth and heat into form. He scanned the sky, the earth, even the ley-lines underfoot.
Still nothing.
No anomaly.
No magical residue.
No predator lurking behind the veil of reality.
And that, more than anything, frightened him.
He exhaled, and the breath trembled.
"Veil…" he called again, this time with more urgency.
But again—silence.
Stillness in his shadow.
Atlas reached inward with his magic, feeling through the bond.
Veil was alive.
But unconscious. Exhausted. Shrunken down into a dense knot of mana, coiled tightly beneath Atlas's feet like a sword returned to its sheath.
