The third layer of Hell stank of stone sweat and scorched marrow. Its walls were jagged like teeth, forever damp with an ooze that glimmered faintly under the red glow of torches.
Heat pressed down in waves, not the clean heat of fire but the heavy breath of something alive, something watching. Even silence here had weight.
Atlas walked with measured steps, his cloak dragging shadows behind him. His hand rested briefly on the door of obsidian carved into the rock. Beyond it waited Samiel, the priest. Only one soul within, no choir, no guards, no audience of the faithful. Just two men. Two voices. Two paths that could sunder or unite the future.
He pushed the door. Stone groaned open.
Inside, Samiel stood, clutching the small, timeworn book against his chest. The book was bound in cracked leather, pages yellowed, its spine softened by centuries of trembling hands.
