The city of Lower Heaven never slept, never dimmed, never exhaled the way mortal cities did when night finally came to collect them. Light poured endlessly from the unseen suns of the higher realms, bathing marble streets and broken plazas alike in an eternal, merciless glow. Yet despite that radiance, the chamber Atlas stood in felt dim—heavy with the kind of quiet that followed bloodshed and irreversible choices.
Iris stood a few steps behind him.
She had followed him there without announcing herself, her sandals making no sound against the polished floor. The room they occupied was high above the city, a former observatory meant for demigods who studied the movements of divine constellations. The windows were tall and arched, framing the endless sky like a promise that could never quite be reached.
Atlas stood before one of them, arms folded loosely, gaze fixed outward. He looked calm. Too calm. That was how Iris knew he was anything but.
