The portal reopened within the quiet expanse of Luminaria's sub-realm.
The air shimmered faintly, scattered particles of celestial residue still falling like dust from the Celestial Board Realm.
Luminaria stepped out first, followed closely by Elizabeth.
Silence greeted them—total, unnatural silence.
The realm, once alive with gentle resonance and bioluminescent warmth, felt hollow. The light that usually bent to Luminaria's mood now stood indifferent. The air itself seemed to hesitate.
She froze.
"He isn't here," she murmured.
Her voice was composed, but something beneath it quivered. She reached out instinctively, her fingers grazing the empty air as though touching absence itself.
For the first time since Atlas had entered her sub-realm, she could not feel him. Not the hum of his presence. Not the warmth that rippled through creation when he breathed. Nothing.
The realization came like a physical ache — soft at first, then sharp enough to make her draw in a breath that felt too heavy for her lungs.
Elizabeth glanced at her mother. "You mean… Atlas? Didn't we already know he wouldn't be here?"
Luminaria didn't answer immediately. Her gaze drifted over the horizon — the luminous expanse that once pulsed gently with his aura.
Now it seemed lifeless, stripped of rhythm. She closed her eyes and focused, reaching through every layer of her divine perception, searching for even the faintest trace of his essence.
There was none.
"Two hours," she whispered. "It has only been two hours."
The words were small, but they fractured something in the air.
"And already," she continued, voice trembling in the stillness, "the realm feels foreign. Wrong. It doesn't breathe with me anymore."
"Mother?" Elizabeth stepped forward. "What do you mean?"
Luminaria opened her eyes. They were too bright—divinity flickering unsteadily, like a flame trapped in a vacuum. She pressed her hand against her chest, steadying her breath.
Luminaria smiled faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "It's nothing. A… reaction. He is normally here, and now he isn't. My body noticed before my mind did." She pressed her hand against her chest as if steadying herself. "It's irritating."
The floor responded to her unrest—light fractured across the marble, splintering into distorted reflections that trembled in rhythm with her pulse.
"You're trembling," Elizabeth said softly.
Luminaria gave a light, humorless laugh. "Am I? Then perhaps it's the realm that trembles with me. It always mirrors its goddess."
Her gaze drifted upward again, as though peering beyond the realm's veil—toward something greater. "Fate spoke of Erebus—a being who consumes balance itself. If such a thing can exist, then Fate can fall… and be replaced."
Elizabeth tensed. "Replaced? What do you mean by that?"
"I mean replaced," Luminaria assured firmly. "And why not? Why should existence always rely on the same axis of power? If Fate can be fall, then she has to be replaced with someone who wouldn't fall."
Her voice changed—calmer, almost reverent. "Someone who restores rather than destroys. Someone who brings meaning instead of hunger. That would be true balance."
Her gaze softened with distant warmth, and for the briefest instant, she smiled. "Atlas."
Elizabeth's heart skipped. "Mother—"
"He could reshape the Loom," Luminaria continued, unhearing. "Not as a destroyer, but as a restorer. He bends reality without effort. Even Fate would yield before that kind of certainty."
The smile faded into stillness—calm, terrifying stillness. Her tone deepened into something sacred. "Master will not serve Fate. He will transcend her."
Elizabeth took a step back, her pulse rising. There was no madness in Luminaria's tone—only conviction. That was what frightened her most.
"Mother… you're talking as if this is already written."
Luminaria turned her gaze to her daughter. "It is written," she said. "In me. Every fiber of my being recognizes him as inevitable. My devotion is no longer obedience—it's law. The more he feeds on creation, the more he creates within me."
Her words resonated like scripture—measured, composed, but drenched in a faith that bordered on worship.
Elizabeth said nothing. Her own thoughts were a storm—too many, too loud, too tangled around one name. Atlas. Even the sound of his name made her pulse quicken, her divine energy spike unpredictably. She tried to push the thought away, but the more she resisted it, the more it filled her.
Across from her, Luminaria exhaled. The tension in the air shifted subtly; the sharp edges dulled. Luminaria finally stilled, taking a slow breath. The rippling energy around her quieted.
Yet her expression betrayed the truth: beneath the serenity lay unrest—quiet, constant, consuming.
"He will return," she murmured finally. "When he does, everything will find its center again."
Elizabeth said nothing. She couldn't. The calm in her mother's tone was worse than panic—it was belief.
The thing is —a Goddess's worship is a terrifying thing.
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Atlas's POV
The vortex split open with a thunderous hum, its spiraling edges laced with molten light. From within, Atlas and Lilith stepped out, their boots sinking slightly into the scorching terrain.
The ground beneath them wasn't merely hot — it was alive, veins of magma pulsing like the heartbeat of the realm itself.
Rivers of molten fire carved winding paths across the landscape, illuminating the horizon with a relentless red glow.
Far ahead stood an obsidian castle, its spires jutting into the blackened sky like the claws of a god. The structure radiated ancient power — both alluring and foreboding.
Lilith glanced over her shoulder, a faint, knowing smile curving her lips.
"You should be honored," she said, her voice smooth, carrying a dangerous melody. "You are the first man to ever step foot before Master's castle."
Atlas raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.
"Does that mean only women have come here before?"
Lilith nodded, her smile deepening.
"Yes. Master certainly loves a harem."
Atlas fell silent for a moment, processing her words. A sigh escaped him as his expression turned into one of dry annoyance.
"I hate that," he muttered under his breath.
But then, as he thought about it, a strange sense of camaraderie crept into his mind — an acknowledgment of shared… taste. His lips curved faintly.
What a cultured fellow, he thought inwardly.
They continued toward the castle. The closer they approached, the more suffocating the air became — not from heat, but from sheer divine pressure. Every slab of obsidian seemed to radiate sentience, as though watching them intrude.
Inside, the corridors stretched endlessly, illuminated by rivers of magma that ran through transparent channels in the floor. The architecture was sharp and angular, sculpted from pure black crystal. The walls pulsed faintly with veins of crimson light — as if the castle itself was breathing.
Lilith led the way without hesitation, her long strides confident and assured. They eventually arrived at a pair of massive double doors forged entirely from volcanic glass. She pressed her hand against the surface, and the doors swung open on their own, revealing the throne chamber.
At its heart sat a man upon a throne of burning stone — a seat sculpted for a king, but radiating madness rather than majesty. He appeared young, perhaps even close to Atlas's age. His sharp features carried an unsettling allure, and though he was undeniably handsome, Atlas couldn't help but note — he was the better-looking one.
Beside the throne sat five women, two on each side, each seated upon lesser thrones that resembled queens' seats in a court. They were all breathtaking — divine beauty manifest — but their eyes bore a glint of fear and reverence toward the man at the center.
Behind him stood another woman, distinct from the rest. A silken veil draped over her eyes, concealing whatever lay behind that calm, unreadable face. Her stillness commanded more attention than any movement could.
Lilith immediately dropped to one knee, her voice steady but reverent.
"Master," she said softly, bowing her head.
Atlas remained standing. His eyes lingered briefly on the man before him, then moved to the surrounding women. Despite the crushing divinity in the air, he didn't kneel. He would not.
He'd knelt before Fate once — and that had been enough for eternity. The man before him didn't even come close.
The seated god tilted his head, his grin widening as he observed Atlas's defiance.
"Oh?" he said, voice laced with amusement. "So you've chosen defiance."
He leaned forward slightly, his tone turning playful yet edged with danger.
"That's more interesting than submission. I don't fancy men kneeling before me anyway — I prefer them dead."
A crazed smile crept across his face, sharp and radiant as a blade.
Atlas didn't flinch. His eyes were half-lidded with boredom.
"Why am I here?" he asked plainly.
The man — Erebus, though Atlas did not yet know his name — chuckled lowly, his amusement obvious.
"Well, aren't you dull?" he said, almost pouting in mock disappointment.
He turned slightly, whispering something inaudible to the woman who stood behind him, the one with the cloth over her eyes.
She leaned closer, massaging his shoulders, her expression emotionless. Whatever words passed between them vanished into the crackling hum of the chamber.
Erebus's grin returned as he shifted his gaze back to Atlas.
"Since I'm boring you," he said, voice dropping into something colder, "let's keep this brief."
He straightened in his throne, divine power subtly rippling through the air.
"I am Erebus, the God of Destruction," he declared. "I brought you here to propose an alliance. You'll help me conquer the Realms of Fate — and in return, I'll spare your life."
The arrogance in his tone was suffocating.
Atlas's expression darkened. Arrogance without knowledge… His jaw tightened. Idiocy.
Still, he didn't lash out. Not yet.
"And if I decline?" he asked calmly.
Erebus's eyes glimmered, his grin stretching wider — too wide.
"Then you die," he said with cruel delight. "After which, I send Lilith to kill Luminaria before she can revive you. Or better yet—" his tone turned almost casual, "I'll kill Lilim, which would, of course, kill Luminaria as well, since their souls are connected. Or perhaps I'll make you watch as I slaughter them both first — and your precious Elizabeth — before I finally kill you."
The words struck like venom, but Atlas didn't recoil. His eyes only narrowed slightly.
Still, deep within, a flicker of surprise stirred.
He knows… about my resurrection plan.
Erebus's grin widened at Atlas's silence, mistaking composure for fear.
Atlas raised his head slowly.
"I'll admit, I didn't expect you to know," he said evenly. "But what difference does it make?"
He stepped forward once, his tone dropping into something cold and final.
"Do you really think I care about Luminaria? She's a tool I molded for my revenge. As for death—"
He opened his arms, head tilting slightly, expression unreadable.
"—I've died before. It's easier and more peaceful than you'd think. So kill me. I'll embrace the abyss."
The chamber went still. Even the magma rivers seemed to pause.
Erebus's laughter faltered, his expression freezing. This wasn't defiance born from arrogance — this was a man unshaken by the concept of death itself.
A psycho… Erebus thought. Just like me.
He sat back, studying Atlas with renewed intrigue. The grin returned, slower this time — genuine.
"Alright," he said finally. "You've proven yourself. I need someone as insane as I am if this alliance is to mean anything."
His tone softened into mock generosity.
"So here's the real offer: help me conquer the Realms of Fate — we'll share the spoils, fifty-fifty. And as a token of partnership…"
He lifted a hand, and the air shimmered.
"I gift you Lilim."
A rift opened beside the throne, and from it emerged a woman who looked eerily familiar. Atlas's eyes narrowed immediately.
Lilim.
Her resemblance to Luminaria was uncanny — the same perfect symmetry of divine beauty. But there were clear differences: her hair wasn't white, but obsidian black, flowing like silk ink. Her eyes glowed a deep, blood red, mirroring Atlas's own.
She walked toward him with grace, her expression unreadable but tinged with something fragile — a shadow of sorrow.
Atlas studied her for a long moment before speaking.
"She's beautiful," he said plainly. "But she's tainted. I prefer women who are pure."
Lilim flinched, hurt flashing across her features, though she said nothing.
Erebus laughed, unbothered.
"Don't worry — I've never touched her. I don't touch women I haven't conquered," he said. "And I'll admit — she's the one woman I failed to conquer."
Atlas's gaze drifted back to Lilim. For some reason, he believed her.
"Did he touch you?" Atlas asked directly.
Lilim shook her head slowly, her red eyes unwavering.
Atlas nodded.
"Then I trust you."
He turned back toward Erebus, his expression calm again.
"Thank you for the gift. I wasn't prepared for this," he said. "But I hope for a splendid partnership… and a victorious conquest.
The two deities locked eyes — not as allies, but predators circling the same prey.