The first sound was not thunder, but something deeper—a bass tremor in the marrow of the world.
The crystal palace was dying.
Shards cascaded from the vaulted ceiling, ringing like funeral bells as they struck the marble below. The air was thick with dust and divine residue, bright motes that floated like the ashes of stars. Atlas braced himself against a fallen pillar, the air sharp in his lungs, his skin stinging with the leftover bite of celestial fire.
Gabriel stirred beside him. His six wings, once luminous as dawn, were tattered and blackened at the edges, each feather burning faintly like the wick of a dying candle. Still, his voice carried a power that made the air bow to it.
"They're falling," Gabriel whispered hoarsely, his silver eyes fixed on the collapsing spires. "Our brothers. Our sisters. Their chains are breaking.....i can feel it."
