The Guide had been with Atlas since the beginning—
since the first clash with the Dreaming,
since the first night the stars dimmed
and the boundary between a mortal mind and divine will blurred.
The voice had whispered, commanded, pleaded, argued.
Sometimes it was a mentor.
Sometimes a tyrant.
Sometimes a shadow wearing Atlas's own shape.
And sometimes, in the quiet between battles,
it had sounded almost… lonely.
Atlas remembered the first time the Guide tried to take his body—
the choking pressure in his lungs,
the weightless pull behind his eyes,
the sensation like a second heartbeat trying to replace his own.
He fought it then.
And strangely, the Guide had relented.
Not in defeat—but in something like respect.
A strange bond had formed between them.
Not trust, not friendship…
but something in between,
a tether forged in blood, war, and shared existence.
But now—
now was not the time for old doubts.
Those memories were rain on a distant window:
