They were right in a way.
Atlas hated it—hated admitting it even in the private corners of his mind—but they were right. The curse wasn't just eating his mana. It wasn't eating his skin or blood or bones. It wasn't gnawing at his life force like some mindless parasite.
No.
It was targeting him.
His identity.
Every title, every version of himself stacked like mismatched stones inside a tower that had already begun to tilt under its own chaos.
The Guide.
The son of Lilith.
The prince.
The brother.
The boyfriend.
The weapon.
The mistake.
The miracle.
The walking contradiction.
And then he—fucking idiot—went and dumped another role onto the pile.
Prophet.
A word that didn't feel like a crown. It felt like a collar. A weight clamped around his throat, dragging him deeper into waters that kept shifting tides and temperature as soon as he learned how to swim.
