The black-flamed torches hissed in the still air of the citadel. Their smoke curled like the breath of sleeping titans, heavy with brimstone and prophecy.
Atlas stood at the center of the great hall, surrounded by his fallen archangels. Their armor was battered and soot-stained, halos dimmed to mere rings of trembling light. The stone beneath their feet still pulsed with faint, residual mana — echoes of the faith that had once kept Hell itself trembling.
"Michael…" Uriel murmured again, her voice uncertain. "If the First truly walks again—"
"Then the heavens will stir," Raphael finished, his tone as sharp as the edge of his spear. "Their silence has lasted too long. Something's coming."
Atlas's gaze drifted toward the shattered windows of the hall. Beyond them, the red horizon trembled faintly, as though some unseen leviathan shifted beneath the skin of the world.
