{…BUT… this High Elder… Throne knows him as Demon Saint… the maker of demon lords.}
After a pause.
"....what of it?" Atlas answered, voice steady in the air like steel balanced on a fingertip.
He didn't blink. The question wasn't rhetorical—he meant every syllable, and it hung there, forcing the others to see that he wouldn't step back.
"...whoever he is... whatever he is? I.will.get. that.key," he said, as if the words themselves were already a chain pulling him forward.
Aurora's lips twitched into a smile, the kind that tried to hide its pride and failed.
Veil tilted his head, smirking openly, amused at the sheer absurdity—or bravery—of it. Maybe it was true. Maybe it wasn't. But it didn't matter; Atlas had said it, and now it was part of the room's oxygen.
{...but?} Azezal's voice coiled in the space between them, heavy with something unspoken.
