Atlas stood alone in the hollow of stone and fire, the echo of the crowd's acclaim still pulsing in the marrow of the halls. The Book of Acclaim lay sealed in the hands of others now, but its weight had not left him. It clung to him like chains of light, like a crown he had not asked for yet could not set aside.
The silence pressed heavy, but it was not empty. It breathed. It whispered.
{{{{{{"You play a game you cannot win."}}}}}}
Atlas's jaw tightened. The voice was familiar now— the Guide, the shadow that had walked beside him since the veil was torn. It was not a presence of comfort, not a friend. It was a reminder.
"I have won nothing," Atlas muttered, his voice low, more to himself than to the stones. "And yet they follow."
{{{{{{"Faith is fire. It warms. It burns. It consumes. Already they hold your words as law, already their souls bend like reeds. You think this is your weapon. But faith is no man's weapon—it is its own master."}}}}}}
