Names had weight in Heaven.
Some were prayers.
Some were curses.
Some were warnings whispered too late.
And now—Atlas was becoming all three.
It began quietly, the way avalanches always did.
At first, it was just murmurs in the lower tiers of the coliseum. Demigods leaning close to one another after matches, voices low, eyes flicking toward the man who walked out of the arena without blood on his hands.
"Did you see it?"
"He didn't chant. Didn't invoke."
"The sword broke."
By the second day, it was no longer a rumor.
It was a title.
The Slayer of the Bastard of Hades.
The words carried a dangerous rhythm, a mix of awe and disbelief. Julius had not been weak. He had been blood of the Big Three—death-touched, underworld-forged, trained personally by shades that had once been heroes. His fall was supposed to be a spectacle.
Instead, it had been an execution.
