When Atlas awoke, the world was wrong.
The first thing he felt was weight—not the natural heaviness of flesh and bone, nor the ache of exhaustion, but a crushing pull from above.
Sothing invisible pressed upon him, worming through marrow, sinking hooks into his very soul.
He lifted his head, only barely, and saw it.
A halo. But not radiant, not holy. This one was forged of shadow, a dark circlet hovering just inches above his skull.
It flickered faintly, not with light, but with a darkness deeper than midnight, as though a ring of abyss itself had been carved and chained to him.
The mont he realized it, pain surged through his limbs. His strength—gone. His vitality—stripped tenfold. Muscles that once obeyed without question now quivered at the weight of his own breath.
His arms were bound wide. His body slumped against wood. Chains bit into wrists and ankles, and when his eyes focused, he saw the truth. He was crucified.
A cross, iron-forged, mounted upon his back, dragged into the light.
Atlas clenched his jaw, rage flickering like fire, but when he tried to summon power, even the smallest ember sputtered out. He could barely twitch a finger. The halo had devoured him whole.
They carried him out of the dark cell. Days—perhaps weeks—had passed, though he could not asure ti in sleep. When his eyes adjusted to the world beyond, his breath hitched.
The fief of Galiath was gone.
Once, it had been a land drowned in filth: black sludge creeping through the streets, corruption staining stone and soil alike, the stench of sulfur choking every corner. But now—
Temples. Temples everywhere.
Great spires rose where hovels had stood. Silver banners snapped in the foul wind, embroidered with the symbol of a blazing crown.
Priests and zealots thronged the streets, singing hymns in tongues long forgotten. Even the air slled different—less of rot, more of incense and smoke.
Atlas’s eyes narrowed. It wasn’t cleansing. It was madness. The lunacy of religion, painted over ruin.
And then he saw her.
Aurora.
Dragged into view beside him, her form a ruin of flesh. Her silver hair, once bright, now matted with blood. Her arms hung limp, her robe torn. And upon her brow—
The sa dark halo.
Atlas’s chest clenched. Rage tore through the fog of weakness. "No..." His voice was hoarse, broken. He thrashed against the iron, chains rattling, but his body betrayed him. His strength was ash.
Aurora lifted her head just enough to et his eyes. Despite the blood, despite the halo, she smiled faintly. A whisper left her lips, too soft for the priests to hear.
"...you’re alive, don’t worry.."
That smile cut deeper than any wound.
Atlas roared, the sound raw, primal, tearing from a throat near collapse. "Release her! Release ! Do you hear , you fucking bastards?!"
The priests ignored him.
One stepped forward. The sa priest as before—the man who had nad him prophet.
His robes were cleaner now, embroidered with silver threads, his eyes shining with fanatic fire. He lifted his hands to the gathered crowd, voice rising.
"This is not punishnt. This is purification!"
Atlas spat blood. "You call this purification? You chain us like animals!"
The priest turned to him, expression almost tender. "Do not mistake this for cruelty, Atlas. One of God’s most beloved prophets walked this very path—starch halo upon head, cross upon back. To bear this weight is not tornt, but honor.
Consider yourself fortunate. Consider your companions fortunate. You are being cleansed."
Atlas laughed, broken and bitter. "Fortunate? You’re bleeding her dry!"
The priest ignored the rage, as zealots always did.
Instead, he raised a hand and gestured. Atlas and Aurora were dragged to the cliff’s edge.
The world opened before them. Jagged stone fell away into an abyss so deep the eye could not find the bottom. Winds howled like the voices of the damned. Upon the ledges, other crosses had been planted.
Not Demon Kings. Not mighty foes.
Goblins. Dwarves. Minor demons. Creatures of Hell so low they bore no titles, no crowns. Yet they too hung in silence, each wearing the sa black halo, each bound to wood that groaned under their weight.
Atlas’s breath caught. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds, lining the cliffs like grotesque ornants.
"What are you doing to them?" His voice was ragged, each word forced.
The priest approached one of the goblins, no taller than a child. Its yellow eyes stared wide, trembling. The priest touched its brow with two fingers.
The goblin scread.
A blaze ignited, sudden and rciless. Flas devoured flesh, shriveling skin to ash. Its body writhed, but the chains held it fast until the scream broke into silence.
Beside it, a dwarf began to wail, begging, pleading. Another priest stepped forward, torch in hand. With a solemn nod, he pressed the fla against the dwarf’s chest. Fire erupted, engulfing beard, skin, bone. The stench of burning flesh filled the air, thick and acrid.
The crowd of fallen angels knelt, chanting.
"Purification. Purification. Purification."
Atlas’s heart hamred. His teeth ground. "You call this cleansing? You’re slaughtering them!"
The priest turned back, calm as stone. "Fire strips corruption. Pain breaks pride. Through fla, the soul is made clean."
Atlas spat. "Through fla, you’re fucking torturing the soul, not cleaning it."
The priest’s eyes narrowed. "Do you question the way of salvation, Prophet?"
"Stop calling that!" Atlas bellowed, though his voice cracked. "If your God wanted you back, He’d take you as you are. He wouldn’t string you up like cattle!"
The priest smiled faintly, almost pitying. "Even cattle may beco sacrifice. Even sacrifice may beco holy."
Atlas thrashed again, but the halo’s weight crushed him, drained him. He could not break the chains. He could only watch as the next torch was lifted, the next scream rising into the abyss.
Aurora whispered again, faint, broken. "Atlas... don’t waste yourself. Please."
But he could not still his fury. He could not still the fire burning in his chest.
This was no purification. This was madness masquerading as faith.
And Atlas, chained and helpless, was forced to watch it unfold.
" Aurora..."
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