The carriage rolled through the valley in silence.
Not the kind broken by birds or wheels.
The other kind—the kind that thickens between people who have too much to say and no intention of saying it.
Atlas sat across from the woman who'd shot his would-be killer.
She hadn't given her name.
Her cloak bore no crest. Her gloves were scuffed at the knuckles. Her pistol sat holstered at her hip, polished and ready.
She hadn't spoken since they'd left the ruins.
Neither had he.
Not until the trees gave way to stone.
---
The western estate of House Westenra rose like a blade out of the cliffside.
Long black ramparts. Slate-roofed towers. Steel-gray banners half-limp in the wind.
The carriage climbed the winding path like an ant on a sword.
Atlas leaned forward as the gates came into view. The steel was etched with twin sigils: a tiger, baring seven fangs, and a broken sun.
He felt it before he remembered it.
Home.
Maybe.
---
Guards in black plate met them at the gate.
One stepped forward, hand on hilt, eyes narrowed. "Identify the passenger."
The woman didn't answer.
She flicked the reins, and the carriage rolled past him.
The guard opened his mouth—then saw Atlas through the window.
And shut it again.
---
The courtyard was mostly empty. No procession. No servants. No banners hung in celebration.
Just silence.
Atlas stepped out slowly, boots landing on smooth stone still wet from melting snow. He stood still for a moment, staring up at the tower that bore the golden tiger crest.
His hand ached.
The sigil she'd given him—still in his coat pocket—burned faintly against his ribs. Not pain. Just weight.
A door opened on the upper landing.
Boots echoed down a stairwell.
Then a man emerged—broad-shouldered, steel-haired, wrapped in a dark coat lined with fur. His face bore the sharpness of a sword left too long in snow.
He didn't smile.
He stopped six paces from Atlas and looked him up and down.
"You've grown."
Atlas blinked.
The voice scraped something in him.
Not warmth. Not memory.
Expectation.
"I don't remember you."
"I know."
The man nodded once. Not harshly. Just...final.
"I am Varian Westenra. Your uncle."
Atlas didn't answer.
Varian didn't seem to expect one.
He gestured once and turned back toward the manor.
"Come. There are questions. You'll answer what you can."
---
Inside was cold stone, no fireplaces lit.
A servant passed them in silence. Another guard stood at the end of the hall, eyes unmoving.
It wasn't mourning silence.
It was waiting silence.
---
Varian led him into a long chamber with narrow windows and an unlit hearth. A chair was drawn back near a central table covered in maps, sealed letters, and worn books.
"Sit."
Atlas sat.
Varian remained standing, one hand resting on a sheath at his hip.
"I won't waste time. You vanished three years ago. Taken during the siege at Brannar's Ridge. You were nine."
Atlas looked at the map. One corner was ringed in faded red ink. Mountains, rivers. A small banner drawn there. Westenra.
"You were presumed dead," Varian continued. "Burned with the others. There was no body. Just your sword, melted near a crater."
"I don't remember it."
"You remember anything?"
"Pain."
Varian grunted.
"Typical."
---
There was a long pause.
Then Atlas said, "You don't seem surprised to see me."
"I'm not."
"Why?"
"Because no one else could've survived that place. Not without awakening something."
Atlas tilted his head. "Something?"
Varian's eyes narrowed just slightly.
"The sword you carry is not the one you left with."
Atlas didn't answer.
"Where did you find it?"
"In the ruins."
Varian nodded again. "Which ruins?"
"I don't know their name. They looked like a battlefield."
"They are. From the old wars. Before even the Ebon Crown."
A pause.
"Did the sword...speak to you?"
Atlas's eyes flicked up.
"No."
"But it remembered you?"
A slow nod.
Varian didn't smile.
But something flickered across his face.
"Then it's true. You've awakened."
Awakened.
Another word that meant something he didn't understand—but would learn.
---
The door opened again.
A younger man stepped in, golden curls tied back, wrapped in a court robe too rich for his frame.
He looked at Atlas the way one might regard a stray animal brought in from the cold.
"So it's true," the boy said. "You're alive."
Atlas stood.
"And you are?"
"Cassian Westenra," the boy said smoothly. "Son of Varian. Heir. Or...I was."
Atlas didn't flinch.
Cassian smirked faintly.
"Well. Let's see if you're worth the title."
He turned and left, the sound of his boots smug against stone.
---
Atlas didn't speak.
Varian did.
"You'll remain in the south wing. Your old chambers are sealed. The others... may take time to adjust."
"I'm not here for a title."
"No. You're here because you survived. And those who survive—must decide what that survival means."
Another long silence.
Then Varian said:
"There's a war coming, Atlas. One the families pretend won't happen. And our enemies have long memories."
He looked at the boy again. Not warmly.
Not coldly.
Just like a man seeing something being sharpened.
"You'll train. Eat. Sleep. And learn who you are. Because if you don't..."
He turned to the window.
"They'll decide for you."
---
Atlas said nothing.
But inside, something shifted.
A question unspoken.
A name not yet remembered.
A wound not yet healed.
And somewhere behind his ribs, the sword still hummed—quietly. Waiting.