The next morning arrived like a slap. No fanfare. Just the dull, bitter taste of guilt that clung to the back of Atlas's throat like smoke.
He didn't hesitate. Didn't breathe.
Just transformed.
The shift was second nature now—his spine straightened, his face adjusted subtly with the spell's anchor, and his once-dark hair cascaded into a yellow veil. Eyes sharpened into a warm, yellow hue. Clothes reshaped around him, same cut as before—diplomatic, noble, unthreatening. Familiar.
Viscount Aiden walked again.
And the Emerald Palace, gilded and humming with illusions, welcomed him back like a ghost returning to its unfinished haunt.
He moved through the halls silently, every step rehearsed, every glance calculated. The walls felt colder this time, or maybe he just noticed the cold now that a piece of his warmth was tangled in regret.
Then he saw her.
Daisy.
