The mushroom cloud split the sky.
It rose not like smoke, but like a god’s crooked finger—gnarled and biting, reaching to claw at the sun. The world recoiled. The blue afternoon cracked apart. A black-and-red bloom swallowed the horizon and climbed into the heavens, raking its edges into toothed clouds.
The sun flinched behind them. Shadows bled across the fields. What was once afternoon had been warped into a mockery of dusk.
A silence followed, imnse and unnatural. As if the world itself held its breath.
Then—
"Hold!!"
The Empress’s voice cut through the comms. Clear. Undeniable. It didn’t bark—it commanded.
The pilots behind her relayed the call across the air fleet, one after the other, until the whole armada stilled mid-flight. Dozens of ships, blade-winged and humming with energy, steadied like hawks caught in prayer. Even the lead aircraft—hers—shuddered as its forward montum died.
It was a ’symtrical symphony’. Discipline written in steel and blood and fire.
Earned.
Learned from grueso mistakes. From the black boxes of fallen aircraft. From the remains of Pri Four.
From her own hands, once trembling, now fists of command.
Eli moved before anyone could speak. She left her command seat, walking swiftly toward the cockpit. The doors hissed open, revealing a sweeping glass view of the sky—and the disaster that unfolded below.
She stopped. Her fingers curled against the cold railing.
Smoke. Not the kind that rose. The kind that crawled. Clung. Thick, dense, boiling like tar. It moved like sothing alive, sothing with weight and hatred. It devoured the landscape. Even from their altitude, Eli couldn’t see the ground anymore.
And in that blackness, in that silence—possibility festered.
"...Activate camouflage," she ordered without turning.
Her voice was soft, but it was steel.
The pilots obeyed. And as if gods themselves had heeded the call, all aircraft turned invisible, shrouded in layers of shimred distortion. Only glimrs, slight warps in the air, betrayed their presence. The sky itself seed to ripple as the last ship vanished into mirage.
The world below continued to burn.
Eli leaned forward, eyes narrowing. She activated every sensor, every manual override, every external vision she could access. Her hands danced over the controls with the precision of a killer, the elegance of a queen.
But the smoke—gods damn the smoke—refused to lift.
The explosion was too recent. Too strong.
Chemical traces from forbidden scroll were still alive in the air. A whisper of sothing unnatural. She recognized it: traces of dragonbone residue. That kind of explosion didn’t just kill. It desecrated. It erased. A scroll so expensive. It would even hurt her own covenant.
A slow, maddening breath escaped her nose.
"Fuck," she beloud, slamming her hand against the side panel. The sound echoed like a cracked bone.
A pulse of pain spread through her knuckles—but it helped. It grounded her. Reminded her she was still here. Still real.
Her thoughts turned jagged.
’Atlas...’ It was him. It had to be him. Who else could conceive of sothing this destructive, this theatrical? ’Who else would even dare?’
But where was he?
The thought sliced deep.
She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood.
For a brief, idiotic mont, she wanted to send her ships downward. Wanted to rip through the smoke, find his body—or what was left. Wanted to scream his na through the ash and demand he answer.
But she knew better. Another explosion now could down half her fleet.
And unlike him, she couldn’t afford chaos. Not now.
Her tongue rested against the back of her teeth. Then:
"Lay low," she ordered. "Observe. Do not engage."
She looked out again as the sun began to fall, dragging a dull orange with it. The clouds above twisted into bruised purple. The world hovered between light and dark, caught in a half-death.
Anything could happen now.
Anything.
If it was Atlas... if he was down there... if he’d survived this—
Then they had to prepare. The sky might fall. The ground might scream. Reality itself might shift to fit his madness.
Her hand found the glass. The cold crept into her fingertips.
She rembered sothing, unbidden: the way he looked the last ti they spoke. How his voice cracked not from weakness, but from the weight he carried. As if every word he said built a noose.
And how, even then, she wanted to wrap her arms around that noose. Pull it tighter.
A beeping sound. Radar.
She snapped her attention back.
Then—
Like insects gathering in a silent plague, ’dragons appeared’ on their sensors. Dozens. Hundreds.
Coming from the east. No formation. No allegiance. No flags.
Wild.
Controlled.
Her heart stilled.
She didn’t need confirmation.
Atlas was here.
He was orchestrating this.
She clenched her teeth, but her hands didn’t move. She did not panic. ’That was the ga’ Atlas wanted reaction. Wanted chaos. He built symphonies of panic. Conducted orchestras of despair.
But she would not be his crescendo.
Not today.
The screens lit with red as her soldiers began losing contact.
Pris. Generals. Lives. Gone like embers.
But still—Eli waited.
The pain made her sharper.
The restraint turned into a dagger pointed at her own neck. But she didn’t move.
Until.
BOOOOOOMMMMM!!!!
Another explosion, distant this ti. A different shape. BIGGER. More... precise.
A signature
Her mind sparked.
Observation skills honed over two decades caught the pattern. A rhythm. A gap in the smoke. A lapse in interference. A flicker of sothing—there.
She focused.
There.
Him.
"Atlas."
She saw the outline of his figure, half-covered in ash, moving across the wreckage. Injured. Limping. Glowing faintly.
He was Real.
A breath left her lips like a confession.
"...I see you, Atlas," she whispered, and then laughed. A quiet, choked sound. Her shoulders trembled. Eyes wide—too wide.
Was it glee? Lust? Rage? Love?
She didn’t know.
She didn’t care.
There was only one thing to do now. She had waited long enough.
"Prepare drop units. Heat-capture rounds only. We take him alive."
She moved like soone possessed, and everyone followed without question.
Her hands shook.
Her skin felt too tight.
Her heartbeat kicked like it wanted out.
"...Five’s sacrifice was worth it," she said quietly, not looking at the commander beside her. The words dropped like coins into a shallow grave. Cold. Final.
No mourning. No ceremony.
Five was a tool. A price. And the price was paid.
But inside—inside, her veins hissed.
Every part of her ached to go outside herself. To fly to him. To.....touch ....him. To tear into him and cradle him in the sa breath.
The want was filthy. Sacred.
Her fingers curled into her palm.
"...You are mine now."
The words trembled from her throat—not with weakness, but hunger.
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