Atlas's eyes burned with exhaustion, his breath sharp and heavy, each inhalation slicing down his chest like a blade. Smoke curled in the distance from the battlefield, a cruel reminder of what had just happened—and what was yet to come. His plan had worked. The impossible had been pulled from ruin. His forces had survived. He had survived.
But it wasn't a victory.
"Protect your land...Burn them... burn them all," he had said earlier, each syllable etched into the air like a scar. He'd meant it. He still did. He'd seen too much suffering. Soldiers turned to ash. Screams buried beneath rubble. Blood boiling on stone. Balance? Balance was the word cowards used when they were too afraid to take a side.
He checked behind him, limping on a leg half-burned and trembling. His army—his people—were marching toward him now, banners torn but upright, wounded but breathing. Alive.
He was alive.
But something was wrong.
{{{...No.}}}
