Atlas and Asmodeus sat across from one another at the table of light.
The glow that once seemed warm now flickered with the pulse of unease, dimming and flaring like a dying star.
The silence stretched until it thinned into something fragile. One wrong word, one wrong movement, and it would shatter.
Then Atlas spoke. His voice was calm, almost soft, but in that softness there was weight—like the whisper of a blade drawn from its sheath.
"The key."
That was all he said. Two words.
But the moment they left his lips, the entire Mirror Realm seemed to listen.
The mirrored walls quivered. The air grew dense, vibrating with invisible power.
Asmodeus leaned back in his throne, the obsidian of his skin catching the faint reflections of firelight.
His expression did not change, but the stillness of his body carried the weight of recognition.
He already knew which key Atlas meant.
