A sudden gust hit the cave—hard enough to push Atlas one step back.
The lanterns rattled.
Lara gasped, grabbing onto Aurora.
Eli spread his wings wider, shielding the group.
The storm throbbed like a living thing.
Then—
A voice.
Not spoken.
Not shouted.
Exhaled.
Low, resonant, vibrating through the bone of the mountain itself.
"…Atlas..the prophet..."
Lara's blood ran cold.
She grabbed Atlas's arm so tightly her nails dug into his skin.
"H-how does it know your name?"
Atlas didn't have an answer.
Because he recognized the tone.
Not the voice—but the tone.
A tone he heard only once before.
A battlefield of black fire.
A sky collapsing into itself.
A defeated King burning under his own pride.
The moment Asmodeus died—
No.
Not died.
Changed.
The voice carried the same broken regret.
The same desperate hunger for a fight.
The same quiet disappointment at a world that never went the way it was meant to.
Atlas's throat tightened.
"…Seraph?" he whispered.
