The snow didn't fall.
It hung in the air—frozen mid-collapse, mid-shiver, mid-breath.
Atlas stood in the courtyard, one golden eye shaking, the other flickering with white script-light.
The sigils on his body pulsed like a heartbeat that wasn't fully his.
Aurora reached toward him—
—but her hand stopped inches away.
Because reality bent.
A fold tore open behind Atlas like a page being peeled back.
And something stepped through.
A silhouette made entirely of blank parchment, limbs shifting like unfinished sketches, its presence flattening the world into a silent, breathless canvas.
Aurora's knees buckled.
Raphael collapsed to one hand.
Even Michael's wings trembled.
Only Atlas remained standing.
Barely.
The thing had no face.
Just an outline—
—and inside its outline, lines of text drifted like smoke, rearranging themselves with every second.
Raphael gasped:
"Th-That's not the Writer… that's—"
