The night split open.
Atlas dragged Ureil with him into the sky, dark wings of flame scorching the dark clouds. The world below shrank, torches and priests reduced to insects crawling on stone.
Higher, higher still, until the air thinned and the cold clawed at flesh, but heat radiated from his body in waves, burning back the void.
Ureil clawed at his wrist, her silver eyes flashing as her wings thrashed against the storm he carried with him.
The strength in his grip was obscene, unbreakable; she could feel bone groan beneath his fingers. Yet she did not beg. Her gaze locked with his, calm even in pain.
"Prophet, huh. But you don't want the title…" Her voice cracked, raw from the choke, but steadied on the second syllable. "But, mortal, You are proving them right...."
His golden eyes flared brighter, molten fury dripping from his voice.
