Elizabeth and Lilim were seated together in the living chamber — the hum of divine energy filled the atmosphere, but neither spoke; silence hung comfortably between them, both lost in their own thoughts.
Meanwhile, within Luminaria's office chamber — the atmosphere was much different. The room pulsed faintly with the rhythm of Luminaria's divinity: the walls of shimmering crystal, the gentle dance of light, and the warm air that seemed to breathe with life itself.
Atlas sat upon a grand, high-backed chair. On his lap sat Luminaria, her posture relaxed yet intimately close, her arms wrapped around him as though she feared that letting go would make him vanish again.
Her cheek rested lightly against his chest, and the rise and fall of his breathing seemed to soothe the subtle restlessness within her.
For a few moments, neither spoke. The stillness was filled only by the faint sound of her heartbeat — steady, soft, and utterly synchronized with his.
After their family's long-awaited reunion, Atlas finally broke the silence. His tone was calm, curious, yet edged with authority.
"Luminaria," he began, his crimson eyes half-lidded but sharp, "explain something for me. Why does your presence and Lilim's presence feel so similar — almost identical, as if you're two sides of the same coin?"
Luminaria shifted slightly on his lap, her fingers tracing the back of his hand absently as she answered. "Master, it's because Lilim and I share the same soul," she said softly, her voice carrying a melodic cadence.
"To be precise — my soul is only half of what it should be. The other half resides in Lilim. We are bound beyond flesh, beyond divine essence — our existence is the embodiment of balance itself. Life and Death were born as one, and that unity was split into us."
Atlas's gaze narrowed slightly, intrigued. "So," he said, his tone contemplative, "what I do to your soul ultimately affects hers as well?"
"Yes, Master," Luminaria replied without hesitation. "It's the reason Lilim yielded to you so easily. When you claimed my soul, you claimed hers by extension. Even if she doesn't yet realize it fully, your essence already flows through her. That's why her resistance was futile — why her submission felt… natural."
She paused for a moment, her light blue eyes flickering with a strange mix of reverence and satisfaction. "However," she continued, "I can sense that Lilim has not yet fully yielded. Her mind and body are still her own. Her soul recognizes you as its master, but her consciousness still clings to independence — a remnant of her pride."
Atlas smiled faintly at that — a slow, knowing curve of his lips that made Luminaria's heart flutter. "Already offering your own twin sister to me?" he mused, his tone half-teasing, half-predatory.
"Of course, Master," Luminaria answered without a shred of hesitation, her expression serene and devoted. "I want nothing more than for you and Lilim to find happiness. If offering her to you will grant that — if it will complete what was broken between us — then I do so willingly."
She lifted her gaze to meet his, her eyes brightening with almost childlike sincerity, though the devotion beneath it was profound and consuming.
"And worry not, Master," she continued softly, her fingers tracing lazy patterns across his chest.
"Since your being brings warmth and peace to my essence, it will have the same effect on hers. Just as your blood calms my mind and body, it will soothe hers as well. She needs to taste it — to feel you, body and blood alike. Once she does, the link will be complete."
Her voice had grown breathy, full of conviction and reverent awe. Her light blue eyes shone with gentle luminosity, reflecting the divine fervor of her devotion. "She will find peace in you, just as I have," she said, her tone carrying a quiet joy — the kind that comes from unwavering faith.
Atlas regarded her silently for a few moments, his expression unreadable, his crimson eyes flickering with the faintest hint of amusement — and perhaps, curiosity.
The goddess seated on his lap smiled softly, utterly content in the warmth of his presence.
In that quiet chamber, illuminated by the gentle radiance of her realm, Luminaria's obsession felt less like madness and more like faith — a divine fixation born of purpose, binding her tighter to the man she now called Master.
"Luminaria, how do you now feel about killing?" Atlas asked, voice casual as if naming the weather.
The question landed heavier than he'd intended. Luminaria blinked, a brief rippling of light passing over her features as she searched inward.
After a few measured breaths she answered, each word chosen with care. "I still dislike the act of ending a soul. It pains me. But if my Master commands it, I will do it — though it will always be with a heavy heart."
Atlas nodded once, a simple motion of understanding. He brushed a loose strand of her pale hair back from her temple with a fingertip, the gesture almost tender.
"Don't worry," he murmured. "You won't have to kill unless there's absolutely no other choice." The corner of his mouth quirked. "I prefer utility over cruelty...for now."
He let the silence sit for a heartbeat, then a new thought sparked behind his eyes. "Luminaria—when you create mortal souls, are you able to shape them? To give them a purpose they must follow, without choice?"
Her answer came quickly, practised and precise. "Yes. I can weave purpose into a soul's pattern, bind a directive so tightly it becomes their life's axis. Fate forbids me from doing so because it infringes on Free Will—on the natural order she protects. But Master," she added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "you are free to exploit whatever ability I can exercise."
A grin spread across Atlas's face, small and sharp as a blade. Ideas unfurled in his mind like maps — tools, pawns, networks of purpose to be sown across realms. He pushed further. "Can you create the soul of a Deity?"
Luminaria's face dimmed; the light in the room drew taut. "No," she said softly. "I once had that edge of creation, but Fate sealed it. The seal is bound to her life as Guardian of the Loom. It can only be loosened upon her death."
Those words landed like iron in Atlas's chest. For a moment his expression clouded — not with fear, but with something colder: calculation made sharp by resentment. He tasted the implication and felt the engine of a new plan begin to turn.
"Then she must die… or the seal must be broken," he said slowly, and then checked himself, letting the threat hang unfinished. "I'll decide when I have the strength to back it up."
Luminaria reached up to take his hand, her touch light but proclaiming. "We will prepare however you wish," she said, steadiness returning to her voice.
"If Fate cannot be unmade now, we build what we can: mortal instruments with hidden directives, networks of worship that will funnel belief to you, and schemes to undermine the Fate's authority piece by piece." Her eyes shone—not with repentance now but with a fierce, obedient purpose.
Atlas studied her for a long moment, the wheels of his mind spinning faster than the words that left his mouth. "Start small," he decided, voice low, deliberate. "I want to know which realms Fate pays least attention to. Inform me the moment you've found such a realm."
Luminaria straightened slightly on his lap, her eyes sharpening with focus as light began to swirl faintly around her irises. "As you wish, Master," she replied, her tone both reverent and calculating.
"I also want you to send a handful of mortal souls to the world I had been confined in," Atlas continued, his tone now taking on a dark certainty.
"Those souls are to be created with the sole purpose of worshipping me. Grant them great talents and unwavering faith —let their devotion be carved into the very core of their existence. Whether they grow into a cult or a temple does not interest me. Just ensure their activities remain discreet… at least enough to not outwardly temper the threads of Fate." He paused, his expression distant —already lost in the potential of a hidden, divine current pulsing beneath his grasp. "Not yet," he finished, almost to himself.
Luminaria inclined her head, the soft glow around her palms intensifying as she pictured the design forming within her mind —mortal blueprints being etched with loyalty, faith, and greed. "It will be done," she promised, her voice holding both awe and submission.
Outside the office, faint laughter echoed through the corridor —Elizabeth's laughter, bright and fleeting, a sharp contrast to the heavy divinity in the chamber.
Atlas heard it as if it came from another world. He stayed still for a heartbeat, letting the echo fade into silence before he rose. Luminaria clung to him a moment longer, reluctant to lose his warmth, before he gently loosened her hold and stood with deliberate composure.
"Good," Atlas said finally, brushing his hands across the edge of her chin with a calm that was more command than comfort. "Prepare. And send Lilim to meet with me in the library. I need her complete submission for what I've planned… so it's time she's fed."
Luminaria bowed her head, a serene smile curving her lips. "Yes, Master," she said softly, devotion glowing behind every syllable.
Atlas's grin returned —cold, patient, and full of promise. As he turned toward the door, the flickering light of the chamber seemed to darken around him, bending to his intent.