The wind was dry and thin, carrying no scent of life. The world stretched endlessly ahead—miles of cracked pavement, pale sand, and towers of glass standing like bones of an ancient god that refused to fall.
Atlas slowed his pace. His boots crunched on the dust-coated asphalt. The silence pressed close, heavy enough that even the air seemed afraid to move.
What was this? Where was he?
He wanted to ask those questions. But deep in his chest, he already knew. He recognized the shapes of the buildings—the angles, the glass, the way the sunlight struck the steel frames. This wasn't some unknown civilization. This wasn't a relic of angels or demons.
This… was his world.
Or what was left of it. He didn't know.
He looked away quickly before the others could read the truth in his eyes. His throat burned, but he didn't speak. Something inside whispered: Don't tell them. Not yet.
Not Aurora, not Merlin, not even Lara.
Nobody.
