The valley held its breath.
Veil raised one shadowed hand, fingers elongating as the darkness around him thickened, curling like smoke caught in a slow vortex. The sky dimmed by degrees, sunlight strangled into a bruise-colored haze. The rules were being written—not on stone or parchment, but into the marrow of the land itself.
"Three," Veil said.
The word rippled outward. Shadows rooted themselves into the earth, crawling along Atlas's boots, climbing the fractured rocks like veins seeking a heart.
Atlas exhaled through his nose, shoulders rolling once. He felt it immediately. This wasn't just a duel. This was binding. Intent mattered here. Desire mattered. Even lies mattered—especially lies told to oneself.
"Two."
The valley tightened. Wind died. Sound collapsed inward. Atlas's heartbeat grew loud enough to count the seconds by it.
He told himself again: I'll lose. End it clean. Say what needs to be said. Walk away.
A lie—but a necessary one.
"One."
The world snapped.
