Atlas was still at the back. Still hovering. His hands folded, posture unreadable—neither threat nor invitation.
The faint shimmer of his form made the air around him bend, as though even reality was reluctant to crowd him too closely.
Veil stayed at the shadow of his neck, a quiet specter breathing in sync with him, her presence a thin veil of cold.
The smell in the chamber was damp and metallic. Old blood. Rust. And under it, something acrid—burned mana, the kind that lingered after a contract was broken violently. The dust swirled at his ankles though his feet never touched the ground.
As he saw it—Azezal. The crimson demon, standing rigid, the burnished red of his skin catching the dim firelight like cooled embers. His clawed hand raised, finger extended, pointing straight at him. Not with rage, not yet, but with the kind of recognition that digs into the marrow.
