Aurora left the chamber of molten light with her steps measured.
The others remained—Atlas brooding over his new scripture, Azazel still groveling like a zealot who found his sun.
The heavy doors sealed behind her with a groan of stone, and for the first time since Atlas had spoken those impossible words, Aurora allowed herself to breathe.
Her breath trembled. Not from fear—she had never feared men, prophets, or kings—but from recognition.
He is dangerous. He always has been. But this....this is something else.
The corridors of Hell's third layer curved like the bowels of a beast. Faint orange light leaked from veins in the rock, painting her silver hair in fire. She walked slowly, her boots striking stone in a steady rhythm, each step echoing her thoughts.
Atlas had stood before her with a calm that was not human. He had spoken way more than he could achieve—fallen and demon united, faith rewritten, allegiance pulled from Heaven and Hell alike.
