The High Heavens shook with arguments.
Cloud-thrones cracked. Starlight flickered. Even the sacred banners of the Pantheons trembled as the greatest war councils in existence gathered for the same reason:
One mortal had shaken the divine order.
And not just shaken it—
split it clean down the spine.
Gods argued across constellations. Storms born from outrage roared between temples. Golden bridges groaned beneath the weight of a thousand marching hosts preparing for a war no one wanted to name aloud.
War with Hell.
War with each other.
War with something older, awakening beneath the mortals' soil.
And all of it because of him.
Atlas.
A mortal who should have lived and died unseen, whose name should have been washed away by time like any other grain of sand—
Yet now, the name Atlas carried the weight of prophecy in its syllables, fear in its breath, and revelation in its shadow.
He had become the hinge upon which cosmic destiny turned.
He had become the fracture.
.
.
