The god's words rolled over him, not loud, but impossible to ignore. Like thunder rumbling across mountains, vibrating stone and marrow alike.
"You are… not from around here."
Atlas forced himself to breathe. The air scorched his lungs, tasting of copper and smoke. He lifted his chin, meeting those storm-lit eyes with deliberate steadiness.
"Sharp," Atlas said, his tone level, even faintly sardonic. "Was it the cloak? Or the fact that I don't glow like a sun about to rupture?"
He did not laugh. He did not blink.
Instead, he tilted his head. Lightning rippled across his arms, racing down veins, pooling in his clenched fists until each knuckle glowed molten. The air buzzed and split, and for a terrible moment, Atlas thought the god would strike without further word.
Then:
"Name." A single command, heavy enough to crush an army.
Atlas weighed his options in a flicker of thought. Truth? Death. Lies? Likely worse. Silence? Unforgivable. He chose the fourth path: ambiguity.
