He hadn't noticed it before. Not really. Just a flicker under the surface, a pressure in his veins, a glow in the marrow of his bones. Something burning. Something ancient. Something waiting.
At first, Atlas had dismissed it. Blamed it on the Dark Continent—on the way death rewrites you when it drags you back from the brink. He'd woken up changed, sure. Stronger. Faster. Hungrier. But he figured it was just trauma. The usual scars that don't show.
He was wrong.
"…Yggdrasil seeds," he muttered, the words tasting old in his mouth. Sacred. Dangerous.
Dracula had mentioned them once, back when he was chocking the shit out of him. The cold ghosts still sang in his ears. "Heart of a demon king… blood of Jörmungandr… and Yggdrasil seeds…" He'd thought it metaphor. Poetry. The kind spoken by those too powerful to speak plainly.
But now—
Now it was crawling under his skin.
"System," he muttered, voice dry, hoarse. "Give me information. Yggdrasil seeds. All of it."
