Focus Shift– Atlas's POV
Atlas leaned back in his chair, crimson still glistening faintly along the edge of his forearm where Luminaria's lips had clung moments ago. Her whispered plea still echoed in his ears —"More…"
A wicked grin carved its way across his face. So, the Goddess of Life… the paragon of purity and duty… reduced to begging like a famished wretch. All it took was patience, pressure, and the right poison.
His red eyes gleamed as he studied her trembling form. She sat across from him, shame written in every detail of her expression, her hands clutching at her robes as though to hold herself together. But he knew better. The cracks had already formed —and they would only widen.
This is only the beginning. I've given her calm, relief, the taste of silence against her guilt. Now, I will give her hunger. I will make her need it.
Atlas stood, circling her like a predator admiring his prey. His hand brushed along the back of her chair as he whispered, soft enough to sound tender but sharp enough to cut deep:
"You'll have more, Luminaria… when I decide. That calm you crave? That peace you're so desperate for? It flows through me. And only I can grant it to you."
Her body shuddered at his words, but she did not speak. She couldn't.
Inside, Atlas chuckled. Yes… that shame is festering. But I will twist it, feed it, make her believe her only salvation lies in my veins. And when she finally surrenders her pride, when she asks not as a Goddess but as a slave to her hunger… that's when she'll call me Master.
His mind turned to method. The nightly "restorations" were already effective, but he needed to deepen the pattern —structure it into her existence.
First, restrict her. Don't give her every night. Withhold until she's restless, until she's pacing in her chambers. Let her beg with her eyes before her lips admit it. Then… reward her.
He smirked, flexing his hand as divine energy pulsed at his fingertips. Second, lace each taste with suggestion —not domination, but direction. Each sip will dull her guilt, yes… but also soften her judgment, lower her guard. She won't even see the chains forming until they're shackled tight around her soul.
Atlas's eyes narrowed, glowing faintly as he glanced toward her bowed head.
"And third… I'll teach her dependency under the guise of kindness. She'll believe I'm helping her cope, helping her heal. She'll tell herself it's duty, not desire. But soon enough, she'll need it simply to function. To breathe. To think."
The smirk on his lips twisted darker. "And when that day comes… she'll bind herself to me willingly."
Three Months Later
Atlas's plan had unfolded with flawless precision.
At first, he had been generous. Each night she drank, each night the calm washed through her. She began to expect it, to wait for it —and that was when he shifted his strategy.
The first time he withheld, it was deliberate cruelty masked as neglect. He skipped a session, offering no explanation. Luminaria's composure held for hours, then cracked; by dawn, her quill hovered uselessly above blank parchment as her hands shook.
Her thoughts circled endlessly, unable to focus on her duties. She hadn't asked aloud, but when Atlas appeared the following night, her eyes betrayed her. She drank desperately, longer, her lips clinging until he pried himself away.
The second time, he gave less. Just enough to stir the calm but not enough to drown her guilt. She grew restless again, pacing her office, snapping at whispers of her own mind. And when he finally relented, offering his arm once more, the relief in her gaze was intoxicating —not for her, but for him.
By the third month, Atlas had perfected the cycle: withhold, starve, reward, repeat. He no longer needed to coax her. The anticipation alone bent her. Her shame made her resist with words, but her body betrayed her with every trembling glance at his arm.
During their sessions, he laced each sip with subtle suggestions. Nothing overbearing, nothing obvious. Just whispers beneath the surface: You need this to think. You need this to function. Without me, you will break.
And slowly, she began to believe it.
Atlas watched her unravel with quiet satisfaction. The once-pristine Goddess of Life now sat across from him with shadowed eyes, her voice steadier in duty but faltering in private. When he entered her office, she didn't meet his gaze anymore —her eyes always fell to his forearm first, betraying her hunger.
Every time, he noticed.
Every time, he smiled.
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Three months had passed since Luminaria's craving for Atlas's blood had solidified into dependency, and her decline was nothing short of beautiful.
His stay in her world had now reached five months.
At present, during the second half of the day, Atlas could be found outside on the mansion's great lawn, kneeling among rows of withered flora. Not by choice —never by choice —but as part of his training.
The second spell Luminaria had taught him was the Revitalization Arts: the usage of divine power to revive dormant or decaying lifeforce. Plants, with their simple and fragile threads of existence, made perfect instruments for practice.
Atlas extended his hand over a patch of brittle stems, their leaves curled and gray. His divine energy seeped into the roots, coaxing life back into veins that should have remained dead. Slowly, the stems straightened, green bleeding back into their bodies as the plants revived.
He smirked faintly. "Reviving what should stay buried… ironic, isn't it?"
Hours slipped by as he alternated between restoring lifeless plants and refining those already alive, forcing them to bloom brighter, stronger, unnatural in their perfection. Each exercise sharpened his control, each success fed his pride.
The sun climbed higher, shadows stretching across the grass as he continued his work. And in the back of his mind, one truth pulsed stronger than the divine energy at his fingertips:
With every spell I master, every thread of power I weave, I grow closer to my revenge.