Atlas's Focus
Atlas stirred awake, his body shifting comfortably against the silken sheets. His eyes cracked open, heavy with lingering sleep, and his hands lazily rubbed away the blur. Slowly, the haze cleared, and he found himself staring at a sight so arresting he froze.
A woman stood at his bedside — radiant, serene, and unfamiliar. Her beauty was the kind that seemed crafted by something beyond mortal hands, every movement carrying weight and grace. For a fleeting second, he allowed himself to be captivated, but then the fog of wonder burned away.
Where am I? Atlas's eyes darted across the lavish room, its gilded furnishings and ethereal glow foreign to him. He remembered Selphira's temple. He remembered Corvane's cruel grin. He remembered chains, torment, and blood. And then nothing.
The woman smiled softly, her voice warm and melodic as it cut through his confusion.
"We finally meet."
Atlas's brows drew together. Who exactly are you? he thought, though his lips hadn't parted.
As though she plucked the question directly from his mind, the woman answered, her tone light, as if sharing something intimate:
"I am Luminaria, the Goddess of Life."
The moment the words touched the air, Atlas's body betrayed him. Heat surged through his veins; the very air warped under the pressure of his divine energy, swirling and restless. His vision blurred crimson as anger swallowed him whole.
His blood screamed. His power boiled and clawed its way out, and his voice followed — sharp and venomous, layered with years of agony.
"It's you…" he spat, his eyes narrowing into shards of fury. "You're the reason for all of this! The reason I suffered, the reason I rotted in that bastard Corvane's grip. Do you even know the torment I endured? The pain that never ended?!"
His hands trembled as the words tore out of him, raw and jagged. "Without you, I would've never been thrown into this hell! Without you, I would've never been toyed with, never treated like some divine accessory!" His voice cracked into a harsh growl. "My life was mine — mine! But because of your mistake, it was stolen and twisted into a nightmare."
Luminaria stood there, her serene expression faltering as the weight of his wrath crashed into her. She felt his words like daggers lodged in her chest, each one a reminder of what her hands — even if unintentionally — had taken from him.
Regret, deep and aching, coiled inside her like a familiar serpent. She had replayed that accident countless times across the decade. She thought herself prepared. She wasn't.
"Atlas…" her voice wavered, softer now, laden with sorrow.
"I never imagined the life you would be given in your rebirth would be… that."
Her eyes shone with a grief that reached bone-deep. "I ended your life, even if by mistake. I tried to console myself believing Fate would give you peace. But hearing your pain…"
She pressed a trembling hand over her heart. "I am… sorry. Truly, endlessly sorry. If I could undo it, I would."
Atlas's lips twisted. He didn't want her pity. He didn't want her hollow apologies. But then—
"I am willing," she continued, her voice steadier now, but still soft with remorse, "to do anything in my power if it means earning even the smallest chance of your forgiveness."
Atlas froze. The crimson blur in his vision throbbed once, then steadied. Slowly, a new fire coiled in his chest — not wrath this time, but something colder, sharper.
Anything in her power… His thoughts shifted, calculated and deliberate. He remembered the single drop of blood he had got from the Goddess of Fate, how it had reshaped him, strengthened him, elevated him closer to her world. A drop had done that.
And this woman before him — the Goddess of Life herself — was offering him everything.
True, she wasn't the Fate Goddess. Her power was not the same, but still… she was a Deity. Far stronger than him—a human. Far more valuable. If he could claim her blood, claim her knowledge, claim her —
Atlas leaned back slightly, tempering his expression. His voice softened, though the venom still lingered in its edges.
"Anything, you say?"
"Yes." Luminaria's answer was immediate, unwavering. She had nothing left to hide, no excuses to give.
Atlas tilted his head, studying her with a faint, dangerous smile. Perfect, he thought. So easy… guilt is the softest chain.
"Then listen carefully," Atlas began, his tone carrying the weight of a man laying out his judgment. "If you truly wish for me to even consider forgiveness, there are conditions."
Luminaria stiffened slightly, but she nodded. "Tell me."
Atlas lifted a finger, holding it in the air. "First…" His gaze sharpened. "Your blood. Not a drop. Not a taste. A cup. Every day. Until I am satisfied."
Luminaria's eyes widened, her composure cracking for the first time. "My… blood?" she repeated, hesitant.
"Atlas, my essence is not mortal. My blood carries the weight of creation itself — to give so much, so often—"
"You said anything," Atlas cut in, his words a scalpel aimed at her heart. "Or was that just an empty promise? Another meaningless word to bandage over the life you destroyed?"
His voice rose with controlled fury. "Do you want me to forget what you did? Or do you just want to ease your conscience?"
The Goddess flinched, his words piercing deeper than any blade. Her lips trembled as she tried to speak, but nothing came.
Atlas's eyes narrowed, pressing the knife deeper. "I spent days drowning in agony because of you. Days where every breath felt like fire, every moment a curse. If my forgiveness is worth anything to you, then bleed for it. Every single day. Until I say it's enough."
Silence stretched between them. The room's golden glow dimmed, as if even the air was holding its breath. Finally, Luminaria's shoulders lowered, her resolve breaking under the crushing weight of guilt.
"…If that is what it takes…" she whispered, her voice raw. "Then I will give it."
Atlas smiled inwardly, though outwardly he only nodded solemnly. Good. That's one chain.
He lifted a second finger. "Second condition. You will teach me everything about the gods. Their powers, their weaknesses, their politics. No secrets. No omissions."
Luminaria's lips pressed into a thin line. This condition, at least, was easier. "That… I can do."
Atlas leaned forward now, his crimson gaze fixed on her, fire licking beneath his calm exterior. "Then, and only then, will I think about forgiving you."
Lie, his thoughts purred. The only time I'll forgive you is when you're kneeling, stripped of will, molded into my slave. Not Fate's subordinate. Not a Goddess. Mine.
"Do we have an agreement?" Atlas asked, voice smooth, controlled, but under it all thrummed the wrath he had not yet released.
Luminaria swallowed hard, her chest tight. "…We do."
Atlas leaned back against the pillows, finally letting out a low chuckle — quiet, but edged with venom and victory.
"Good. Then let us begin."