DOOOM!!!
DOOM!!
The echo of sound-shattering waves rolled and tore through the bruised, low-hanging clouds, making the sky itself feel like a drum stretched too tight. Atlas gripped the demon in one hand, Veil in the other, his body a spear slicing through the air, flying perfectly horizontal.
The pressure warped around them—wind screaming, air hammering—both of his captives twisting and wobbling in his grip, their weight swaying like pendulums in the violent slipstream.
Aurora sat perched on his back as if she were seated on a throne carried by invisible hands.
Her hair, long and ink-slick, didn't whip in the wind. Her body didn't shudder under the force. Not even the edges of her robes stirred. It was like the violence of motion bent itself around her, obeying a private rule that denied her the indignity of turbulence.
A neat little trick of her own.
