The road back to Berkimhum was silent.
Not peaceful—never that—but muted, as if the world itself had not yet decided how loudly it was allowed to breathe after what had happened. Atlas walked at the head of the returning procession, boots crunching over broken stone and scorched soil, his presence pulling reality taut around him like a held breath.
The sky above the kingdom was clearer than it had been in months, clouds thin and high, but the light that filtered through them felt cautious, restrained, as though even the sun was unsure whether it was welcome.
He felt heavier with every step.
Not because of wounds—those had healed—but because of what clung to him now. Faith. Expectation. Story. Each whispered rumor, each half-remembered retelling of the battle with Thor, pressed against his spine like invisible hands. Atlas had carried many burdens in his life. But he let it wash. As the view before him was his palace, his home.
Berkimhum rose ahead of him.
