"Queen Isabella..." Atlas murmured under his breath, his voice low and venomous as he unfolded the crumpled paper still clutched tightly in his hand. The ink smudged slightly where his fingers pressed into it, betraying the storm raging beneath his carefully controlled exterior.
He stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and the bed where Henry lay propped up like a broken doll. His golden eyes flickered to his father's face—pale, gaunt, yet sohow softer than Atlas had ever seen it before. For all his rage, for all the betrayal seething inside him, there was sothing fragile about this mont that made him hesitate.
[Voice control activated.]
"...Father," he called out gently, his tone deceptively calm despite the hurricane tearing through his chest. "Can you explain to more about this request?" Each word felt like glass sliding across his tongue, sharp but deliberate.
"...You shall call him 'Your Highness' Isabella snapped, her voice slicing through the room like a whip crack. Her green hair shimred with an almost feral intensity, her presence looming larger than life even as she sat perched at Henry's side like a gargoyle guarding a crumbling cathedral.
Atlas didn't blink. Didn't turn. Didn't react. Instead, he kept his gaze locked on Henry, waiting silently for his father's response. "...Father?"
Henry stirred weakly, his half-open eyes finding Atlas's face with surprising clarity. Despite his frailty, there was a spark of recognition—a flicker of pride, perhaps, or regret masked as affection.
"...Atlas," Henry rasped, his voice barely audible over the rain lashing against the windows outside. "It's been a while. How have you been lately?"
Cough! Cough!
"I've heard many good things," he continued, forcing a smile that cost him dearly. "You are using that ring wisely."
"...It's my honor, Father—" Atlas began, his voice cracking slightly under the weight of unspoken emotions.
"Atlas!! Didn't you hear what I said? It's 'His Highness', not 'Father'!" Isabella barked, her anger boiling over as she glared daggers at the prince. But Henry silenced her with a single wave of his trembling hand, dismissing her interruption without so much as a glance.
"...You must have co here because of our decree to send you as a guide to the Dark Continent," Henry whispered, his words carrying the gravity of finality. "You're right to be angry. But listen to , son, when I tell you—it is of utmost importance."
Atlas froze mid-step, his mind reeling as though struck by lightning. The Dark Continent. Those three words alone were enough to send shivers crawling down his spine. He rembered the monsters from the ga—their grotesque forms, their soulless eyes, the way they moved like living nightmares given flesh. Lara had faced them head-on, sword gleaming, armor pristine. But not him. Not this Atlas.
"What do you an, 'of utmost importance'?" he demanded, his voice rising sharply despite his efforts to remain composed. "This isn't so trivial matter, Father. This is sending straight into the jaws of death itself!"
Henry winced visibly, pain flashing across his features like a shadow passing over the sun. "Do you think I don't know that?" he croaked, his voice thick with emotion. "Do you think I want to send my own son into danger? But sotis, it is necessary—for the greater good."
"Oh, spare the theatrics," Isabella interjected, rolling her eyes dramatically. "We're talking about survival here, not so sappy bedti story. If we don't act now, the empire will crush us before those demon kings even get a chance to raise a finger."
Atlas sighed. He knew what was about to transpire. The empire was soon to touch what should not be touched.
'...Did Father know beforehand? This wasn't in the ga—the Berkimhum Kingdom was never involved in any way.
In the ga, from Lara's POV, I was just adventuring and killing beasts to level up. So this is new to . Still, the dangers of the Dark Continent...
Father... what are you planning?' he wondered internally.
"...Yes, follow the decree, child. It's best if you jus—"Isabella Muttered.
"Can we speak privately, Father?" Atlas interrupted, dismissing her disdain as if she weren't even there.
"You dare?!" Isabella bellowed.
"...Too noisy, Isabella. You've spoken enough. Leave us," Henry said, his ears ringing from her constant shouting.
"But... dear."
"Go!," Henry ordered.
Her eyes twitched with annoyance and fury as she glared at Atlas, her footsteps echoing loudly in defiance. Finally, she was gone.
"Haaah... So peace at last," Henry sighed in relief.
"Must be hard," Atlas remarked.
"Not as hard as what you'll face, son. Soon enough, you'll get a taste of won and find yourself as burdened as I am now."
Atlas grinned slightly, recalling the relationships he'd had in his past life. Half had been sowhat good—until he ruined them himself. Others simply hadn't worked out.
'Oh, I know. I really do know.'
"So, Father," he asked jokingly, "why are you sending to my death? I thought only my dear stepmother was after my life."
Henry smiled. "If you'd read it properly, it doesn't say 'go'—it says 'guide.' aning you won't be entering the Dark Continent. Since it's close to our kingdom, you'll only escort them."
"...Them?" Atlas asked.
Henry sat up comfortably, eting his gaze. "Trust , son. I tried to stop this decree, but it seems she used every ounce of her influence to push it through. She forced my hand to sign... but I only agreed after altering a key detail. As I said, you'll be a guide—nothing more."
Atlas relaxed slightly, relief washing over him. The last thing he wanted was to face those damned monsters. But...
"Still, why send a prince? Not that I'm overly important, but we must uphold our standing before the empire," Atlas argued.
Henry smiled at his concern. "Indeed. But here's the real reason I signed the decree." He motioned for Atlas to co closer, and the prince leaned in.
"My sources say that among the mages visiting the Dark Continent... there's empire's oyalty hidden among them," Henry whispered.
.
.
.
"..."
Atlas couldn't digest what he'd just heard. Royalty? aning the prince? One of Lara's romantic options?
The weight of it churned in his gut like acid eating through steel. He left the chamber with more questions than answers, each step echoing louder than thunder in his mind. The story—or the ga—was changing. Or maybe his mory was failing him again. Either way, nothing felt certain anymore.
He returned to his room, seeking solace beneath the cold gaze of the moon spilling through the window. Sansa followed silently, as she always did, her presence both comforting and suffocating. Tonight, though, sothing about her seed...different.
Her skirt—a bold choice, tighter than usual, clinging to curves that hinted at intentions farbeyondd. Her hair cascaded freely down her shoulders instead of being tied neatly behind her head. Even her scent carried an edge today, floral but intoxicating, wrapping around him like smoke from a forbidden fla.
'...she is starting to wear bold skirts now,' Atlas thought bitterly, trying—and failing—to focus on the issue at hand. But exhaustion clawed at him, not physical but emotional. His official duties, Isabella's manipulations, the looming threat of the Dark Continent—it all piled atop him until breathing felt like dragging chains across broken glass. And calling her "stepmother"? The re word left a bitter taste on his tongue, revolting even to think.
"...how is the tea?" Sansa asked softly, interrupting his spiral.
"Best of the best, like usual, Sansa," Atlas replied chanically, leaning back into his chair as he drained the cup. Comforting lies rolled off his tongue easily these days. Lies to others, lies to himself. Anything to keep the chaos at bay for just one more mont.
Rest. That's what he craved. Not sleep—the System kept his body prid—but peace. A fleeting escape from the storm raging inside him. Yet even as he closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling him under like quicksand, his thoughts lingered on Sansa's movents. How she bent to retrieve the tray, her thighs exposed, plump and soft beneath the thin fabric of her skirt. How she turned slightly, offering him an unobstructed view of her round ass.
His pulse quickened, heat pooling low in his abdon. His pants tightened uncomfortably, betraying desires he'd tried so hard to suppress.
"...Sansa," he called, his voice rougher than intended.
She glanced over her shoulder, startled. Her blue eyes t his golden ones, wide and questioning. For a mont, ti froze. Her cheeks flushed pink, betraying nerves—or anticipation.
'...did it work?' Sansa wondered silently, heart hamring wildly against her ribs.
But before she could process further, Atlas yanked her toward him. Tea cups clattered to the floor, shattering into jagged shards that mirrored the tension crackling between them.
Atlas couldn't take it anymore. Every subtle hint, every calculated move—it all clicked into place like pieces of a puzzle finally solved. Why she wore those skimpy maid outfits. Why she let her hair fall loose. Why she bent the way she bent, exposing skin that taunted him rcilessly.
"...why are you doing this to ...?" he growled, his hands gripping her waist firmly, pulling her onto his lap. Her delicate fra trembled slightly, her breath hitching as their bodies pressed flush together.
Her heartbeat synced with his, pounding louder, faster, drowning out everything else. "...I just...I just wanted to be yours..." she whispered, her voice trembling with vulnerability. Cheeks burning crimson, she avoided his gaze, unable to bear the intensity radiating from him.
"....you should have gone and said that first, instead of luring in," Atlas murmured harshly, his lips brushing against her earlobe. His teeth grazed the sensitive flesh, eliciting a sharp gasp from her. "Do you know how much self-control it takes not to tear you apart right now?"
"....aaahhh!" Sansa moaned, half in pain, half in pleasure. She could feel it—his desire throbbing hot and hard beneath her, pressing insistently against her core. It wasn't just lust; it was possession. A hunger that refused to be denied.
"So, are you going to be a good girl and take responsibility...?" Atlas whispered darkly, his fingers digging into her plump buttocks, squeezing possessively. His voice dropped lower, dripping with raw need. "Because if you're mine, there's no turning back. Ever."
".....yes," Sansa breathed, her answer barely audible but filled with resolve.
User Comments
0 comments from readers