There they were.
Atlas, finally clothed for once.
It had been weeks since he'd worn anything remotely appropriate. Just animal skin and torn fur that barely clung to his frame—more a crude covering than an outfit. And none of it helped with his "small brother," which in truth was neither small nor easy to conceal. The palace had better fabric, but his body—chiseled, broad, slightly taller than before—refused to make tailoring easy.
Now, wrapped in a fresh tunic and loose soft pants that hung low on his hips, he sat in the dim glow of the dungeon chamber. Stone walls oozed moisture. Torches flickered, casting amber light on the cell bars and making shadows dance along the floor like specters. The air was cold and thick with the scent of blood, old rust, and sweat.
Across from him, chained and half-naked, was the would-be assassin.
Irene.
