Beings of immense strength reaching out to him, one after another—Lilith, the high elder, the elder, and now another empress. Atlas felt the weight of that realization sink into his bones like cold water.
A pressure behind his ribs grew, slow and unyielding, as if something inside him was being carved open to make room for a truth too large for a human frame.
He had once thought—hoped—that maybe he was overrated. A name thrown around too easily. A convenient vessel for the Guide. A pawn for some prophecy. A lucky survivor. A loud noise in the right place.
But standing here, in a realm where time wasn't mere time, where space folded like cloth and beings older than suns breathed his name with recognition or hunger…
No.
He wasn't overrated.
Here, in the fourth layer—his value was real. And dangerous.
His entrance into this place… it had sent ripples, and now those ripples were returning as waves.
His arm tingled again. A sharp buzz under the skin, crackling like static.
