The sky did not part for them. It detonated.
Atlas leaned forward, a subtle shift of shoulders and intent, and the air in front of him surrendered with a violence that rippled outward in perfect concentric spheres.
Clouds burst into vapor rings that expanded faster than sound could follow. Sonic booms rolled beneath them like artillery, layer upon layer, shattering stained-glass windows in cathedrals hundreds of miles below and flattening ancient forests into radial patterns visible only from orbit.
Michael kept pace at his right wing, halo blazing white-hot from atmospheric friction, feathers edged in plasma. Each downstroke of his wings carved glowing contrails that lingered for minutes, spelling silent scripture across the stratosphere.
"No one else has ever kept up," Atlas said, voice calm despite the maelstrom they dragged behind them. The words arrived in Michael's mind whole and unshaken, as if the wind itself feared to disturb them.
