Atlas returned to the mountain in a single blink of existence, the shift so abrupt that his lungs burned as if he had fallen from a great height. The cold air slapped him hard—thinner, sharper than he remembered—and the scent of pine and frost clung to his tongue as his body reclaimed itself.
He was right where he had been standing just moments ago. Or moments for him.
To the world, it seemed he had never moved at all.
People stared.
Dozens of eyes widened with confusion, fear, and the quiet kind of hope only the desperate could carry. They formed a loose half-circle around him, anxiety rippling through the group like a muted tremor.
"What happened to you?" someone asked.
"Why were you shouting for Lady Fate?" another voice pushed through, cracking under pressure.
Atlas didn't answer. Not yet. His mind was still stuck between realms, still choking on the aftertaste of Fate's anger, Death's cold certainty, and Dracula's unnerving calm.
He forced his gaze downward.
