Small. Barefoot. Standing in a room. Blood pooling at his feet, steaming in the terror.
A voice, loud and cruel—yelling a name that did not belong to him. A woman pleading desperately. 'Noah' I remembered that. In the book.
The boy's mouth opened, but no sound came. Just the crack of a whip. The wet snap of breaking bone.
The darkness in his eyes swallowed him whole.
I felt something tighten in my chest. My throat burned. My heart ached for something I didn't understand.
Atlas wasn't born a villain. He was made into one. Shaped by vengeance.
He reeled back, claws curling, six eyes squeezing shut. The chains snapped. The walls lurched, torches flaring wildly—
Something in him. Fear. I felt it, deep in my bones. The little boy inside him was terrified. And the darkness—the curse—it fed on it. Thrived on it.
I should've run. Should've. But I didn't.