Atlas stood where the sky thinned into nothing.
Above him, clouds stretched like torn veils, luminous and distant, pale with false serenity. Below him, the world burned—not in fire, but in fear. He hovered at the highest altitude mortal air could sustain, where breath grew thin and thoughts sharpened like blades. The wind screamed around him, yet within his chest there was only stillness. Not peace. Not calm.
Stillness—the kind that came before something irreversible.
He closed his eyes.
And listened.
Not with ears.
With LAW.
Voices flooded him from every direction, bleeding through the weave of reality like cracks in a dam.
"They say Hell has returned."
"The gods are angry."
"Heaven abandoned us."
"The demons walk openly."
"Angels demand obedience."
"We're doomed."
