"This is great and all, but if we really want this alliance to work, you need to grow stronger," Erebus said, emphasizing the last word like a scalpel.
"Something like the strength of an ant right now — and that's the kind of strength I don't need. So I'll show you some of my ways before you go."
Atlas registered the comparison with the stillness of a man who collects insults like information. Erebus was not wrong; there was a gulf between them — raw, terrible potential on one side, and the trained momentum of conquest on the other.
"Lilim, go back to your chambers while your master and I deal with something," Erebus ordered.
Lilim did not move at once. She lingered, eyes fixed on Atlas as if trying to read him. Atlas watched her for a long heartbeat. Then that small, terrible smile—his favorite expression, half charm and half threat—traced across his face.
He closed the gap and placed a hand on her chin, holding her gaze. "You know," he murmured, voice soft, "you remind me of Luminaria — loyal, shaped to serve."
His words were a caress and a command all at once. He pulled his hand away. "Go to your chamber until I say otherwise."
Lilim bowed and left without a sound.
Erebus laughed then, a hollow, bright sound. "Hahaha. Who would have guessed Lilim would show such genuine loyalty? That's a sight to behold."
He rose from his throne and paced forward, the throne chamber rattling faintly with each step. "Now that's sorted, let me show you something that will help you gain unimaginable strength — and gain it fast."
He turned, palms open, and the air around him warped. With a motion like folding a curtain, he opened a dimensional portal—its rim a ring of violet flame braided with black. It hung in the air like an accusation.
"Observe," Erebus said. "This is how we harvest power."
He gestured; the portal widened, revealing a world already crippled by conquest. The surface visible through the rift was a scarred landscape: collapsed cities, dying oceans, skies veined with ash. Sentient wails — distant and muffled as thunder — passed through the opening.
"There are two methods," Erebus explained, voice even, clinical. "Both yield faith, both yield power. The difference is speed and cost."
He stepped through the portal and beckoned Atlas after him. Together they descended into the ruined world. The ground was warm and brittle underfoot; remnants of structures smoldered at the horizon. As they walked, Erebus outlined each choice.
"Option one," he said, "is force and annihilation. Destroy the world until its vulnerability manifests. When a world's core gives itself up — it does so in a form the mortals can recognize: a spirit, a guardian, a core-spirit.
When that spirit appears, you make the kill yourself: plunge your fist into its chest, tear the core free ,and swallow it. The core is condensed belief, pure power. It refines and multiplies a god's strength immediately."
He looked at Atlas steadily. "This method demands great strength. Destruction is defended. The spirit guardian is not easy to kill; it will fight to the end. You need the power to raze a world and the power to rip a core from something that defends itself with the last of its being."
Erebus' lips curled. "But it is fast. Brutal. Absolute."
He turned, the ruined wind catching his cloak. "Option two is subtler. You do not annihilate. You force surrender. You bend their faith toward you. That takes strength and patience — armies, displays of power, calculated mercy, symbols. You make the people choose you as their center, willingly or under pressure. Over time their belief becomes yours: richer, more cohesive, often higher-quality than what you scrape off a dying world."
Atlas listened. The difference was tactical: one harvests quantities quickly but crudely; the other cultivates quality that compounds.
Erebus continued, laying out his counsel as if reciting a lesson. "Use the first option on weak worlds — those whose guardians are fragile, whose people fall easily. Smash them, take the core, move on. It's efficient. Use the second on strong worlds — worlds with resilient guardians and proud, stubborn inhabitants. Their faith, once turned, gives you not only raw power but a durable, high-grade source."
He paused, letting the lesson settle like ash. "If you have Lilim, use her. Send her to lead the assault on weaker places; let her crush the defenses. You take the core or take the result. For stronger domains, you lead with influence — display power where it will be seen; break a culture's pride publicly so they bow inwardly. The rewards are worth the patience."
Atlas watched the ruined horizon, cataloguing the logic. The lesson was practical, ruthless, and simple: shape conquest to fit the yield. The method suited Erebus — and it fit the kind of slow, structural hunger Atlas intended to cultivate.
Erebus smiled, the expression of a teacher who'd revealed a practical truth. "Remember: weak worlds give you speed, strong worlds give you depth. A wise conqueror uses both."
Atlas inclined his head. He felt the mechanics of the strategy slot into place beside his own designs — how to exploit faith, how to seize cores, how to accelerate growth without dying for it. He thought of Luminaria and Lilim, of leverage and leverage's cost. He felt, too, the cold weight of the choice: to raze, or to bend — and the knowledge that either path would change him.
They stepped back through the portal as the ruin's wind howled behind them. The throne chamber came back into focus, obsidian gleaming like a new wound.
Erebus leaned close, voice low and conspiratorial. "Now you know the way. We take what we need, Atlas. We do it with precision."
Atlas's grin was slow and unfathomable. "Precision," he echoed. "And profit."
Erebus laughed softly, pleased — a predator's amusement hidden beneath the sound. "Good," he said. "Now leave my castle. My castle is for women only."
Before Atlas could respond, Erebus snapped his fingers.
Instantly, the floor beneath Atlas ignited in swirling black fire. The flames coiled upward, devouring his form like serpents of molten night. There was no pain — only heat, disorientation, and the sensation of being swallowed by power itself.
Then, as quickly as it began, it ended.
Atlas found himself standing once again within Luminaria's sub-realm — the familiar celestial mansion looming in the distance, surrounded by streams of radiant light and tranquil gardens of eternal bloom. The air shimmered gently around him, as if the realm itself had sighed in relief at his return.
Next to him stood Lilim, silent, regal, her obsidian hair catching the soft glow of the sub-realm's sky.
The moment his presence registered, two radiant flashes appeared before him — Luminaria and Elizabeth, both emerging through portals of light, their divine energy rushing forward like a wave.
"Master!" Elizabeth gasped, excitement overtaking her restraint. She was just about to throw herself into his arms when Luminaria reached out swiftly, holding her back with a firm hand.
Luminaria bowed deeply, her voice smooth but trembling slightly with emotion she couldn't hide. "Welcome back, Master," she said reverently, forcing Elizabeth to follow her example. The younger goddess, though reluctant, obeyed and bowed as well.
Atlas regarded them with calm satisfaction, the faintest smile curving his lips. "I'm glad to be back," he said simply, his tone steady but warm enough to send ripples of relief through both women.
Luminaria and Elizabeth rose, their faces brightening — and it was then that they noticed the figure standing quietly beside Atlas.
The air seemed to still.
Luminaria's breath hitched. Her eyes widened in disbelief, the color draining slightly from her face before warmth flooded back in waves. "Li…Lilim," she whispered, her voice cracking mid-syllable.
The next moment, the proud goddess — the one who rarely showed affection — threw herself at her twin sister, arms wrapping tightly around her.
Lilim stiffened for a heartbeat, caught off guard, before her own composure shattered. She returned the embrace, just as fiercely, her hands trembling against Luminaria's back.
"I've missed you so much," Luminaria whispered, tears streaking down her face — crystalline drops of light that evaporated into motes as they fell. "I've missed you so much, sister."
Elizabeth watched in astonishment. To see her mother — the one thought to have hated her sister — break down in open affection to her sister was something she had never thought possible. The sight left her momentarily speechless.
Luminaria tightened her embrace, as if terrified that letting go would make the moment dissolve. Her composure cracked further with each word. "I'm sorry," she breathed, her voice shaking. "For everything. For the last century… for being so hard on you. All I did was try and push you away."
Lilim blinked rapidly, tears pooling in her crimson eyes. Her lips quivered, caught between sorrow and relief. "You don't need to apologize," she whispered softly. "You were right to be harsh. I was the reckless one..."
Luminaria shook her head stubbornly, her forehead resting against Lilim's. "No, I was cruel. You deserved understanding, not punishment. I should have been your sister, not your warden."
The air around them pulsed — divine energy resonating between the twins, two halves of one essence finally realigned.
The glow around their forms intertwined: Luminaria's silver light blending seamlessly with Lilim's dark crimson aura, spiraling upward like twin ribbons reconnecting after an eternity apart.
Elizabeth took a tentative step forward, smiling faintly despite the lump in her throat. "It's… beautiful," she murmured.
Atlas stood silent, watching the exchange with a rare stillness in his eyes. The reunion was not his to interrupt — but even he could feel the weight of it, the centuries of separation dissolving in a single embrace.
Lilim pulled back slightly, her hands cupping her sister's face. "You haven't changed," she said softly, smiling through her tears. "Still radiant, still the same stubborn goddess I remember."
Luminaria laughed weakly, wiping her eyes. "And you're still as dramatic as ever," she replied, smiling back through her tears. "But I'm glad… you're here now. We're whole again."
The two twins shared a long, quiet moment — the kind that existed outside of time, where words became unnecessary.
The sub-realm's skies shimmered brighter above them, reflecting their union, while Elizabeth watched — and Atlas, though expressionless, could not deny the faint stir of warmth that flickered somewhere deep within his chest.
At last, Luminaria turned to Atlas, still holding her sister's hand.
Atlas only inclined his head slightly, the faintest glint of satisfaction passing through his crimson eyes.
Despite the bluntness, Luminaria smiled faintly. She understood — beneath the harshness, there was acknowledgment, perhaps even consideration.
Lilim squeezed her sister's hand, the warmth of reunion still glowing between them. "Then it seems," she said quietly, "that we've been given another chance."
And for the first time in a century, both sisters — the twin lights of creation and destruction — stood side by side once more, whole in body, heart, and divinity.
"And it's all thanks to you, master," Luminaria said.