The tent's canvas rippled as if breathing, lanterns casting sickly golden halos over bloodstained maps and half-drunk goblets. The scent of iron mingled with the stale musk of adrenaline and sweat. Atlas's fingers curled around the wine glass, not for taste, but as a calculated posture. He was the bait. He had been from the beginning. Every word spoken here was a stitch in a net he planned to snap shut.
The earth shook.
A low growl rumbled beneath the ground, subtle at first, more vibration than sound. The glass trembled. Wine sloshed. Atlas didn't flinch.
Outside, shouts rose. Metal clanged. Horses neighed. A commander barked a command. Someone screamed.
Ggggrrrrrr.
The second quake hit harder. The ground itself seemed to protest, like the land trying to unbury something ancient and foul.
Atlas poured another drink. His hand was steady, his face unreadable. Pain tore through his spine like a saw of fire. [Yggdrasil's healing interrupted. Mana flow irregular. Adjusting.]
