The air itself was being devoured.
Wind howled like the cry of a rising storm, ripping across the scarred plain. Dust and embers spiraled upward, dragged into the vast, black mouth that had torn open the world — the Gate, the gate to the Fourth layer. Its edges pulsed like molten veins, swallowing light, swallowing sound, swallowing hope.
Atlas dug his boots into the ground, muscles locking as the pull intensified. His fingers closed tighter around the haft of his axe — the metal humming, resisting, as if even it feared what lay beyond that yawning abyss.
Lara stood a few feet away, her blue hair whipping violently around her face, the same hue as the child's. The same hue as her mother's once was — that realization flickered through Atlas's mind before he crushed it down.
Her golden eyes locked on his. So much unspoken between them, sharp as glass and fragile as memory.
