{{{{{ Your choice... and I said...this may go down in history, and change the future in more ways than one. }}}}}
The whisper was a weight against Atlas’ skull, neither voice nor breath but sothing colder—like a vibration that rang behind his teeth.
"...I prefer it to be so," Atlas muttered aloud, though no one stood close enough to hear.
{{{{{ ...I kind of had a feeling. }}}}}
Atlas frowned, his golden eyes narrowing. About what?
{{{{{ I told you before, child of dust, you will reign ten tis—no, a thousand tis—more chaos than I, the first prophet, ever did. }}}}}
A bitter laugh rose in his throat, one he smothered before it reached his lips. Chaos, huh? That’s all I am to you?
Silence answered. The guide had withdrawn. Its absence was heavier than its presence, a hush that pressed on his lungs.
Atlas turned slowly, and Ureil’s gaze caught him. Her golden eyes glowed brighter than usual, like molten tal beneath hamr strikes.
"...He speaks to ," Atlas said at last.
The silence that followed was raw, holy.
Ureil’s wings twitched. Her posture faltered, and the warrior who had faced countless battles recoiled as if struck.
Her lips trembled around words she did not yet trust herself to say. "...He... talks to you?"
Her voice cracked.
For angels, silence from the Almighty had been a sentence longer than any exile.
Centuries piled upon centuries, long enough to turn hope brittle, long enough to hollow their songs.
The one Above had not spoken—not through fla, not through dream—save for that one ti, through the seraphim, promising a prophet would co. A prophet who would guide.
And now Atlas stood before her, scarred by fire yet unburned, mortal flesh wrapped in the weight of the divine. Was it true? Could it be true?
Her doubts battled in her heart, but the scales tipped. Faith outweighed suspicion. Hope outweighed despair. Servitude outweighed reason.
"...What did the... Almighty say?"
Atlas let his lips curve into the smallest smile. A smile sharpened on the edge of a blade.
He looked upward, to where smoke from the hellscape curled like broken prayers. "...I ignored the voices at first. But after the holy fire, I let one echo. And it said—" He paused, letting silence stretch taut as a bowstring. "—he misses you, daughter."
The words struck Ureil like an arrow. Her eyes shone wet. The warrior of fla and steel, tempered into coldness by centuries of war, broke.
Atlas pressed further, weaving thread into tapestry. "He says he is proud of you, Edith Ureil Vlainn Nicuumbus, my fire, my sword, gatekeeper to Eden."
The sound of her full na.... shattered her.
Ureil collapsed to her knees, armor clanging against stone. No one knew that na. To Heaven, she was Uriel only.
But to the Father, once, long ago, she had been nad whole. That mory had been hers alone—and now this mortal spoke it aloud.
"Oh, Father..." she whispered. Her tears fell in hot rivulets, glowing faint in the light of her aura. Her hands clutched the robe draped over Atlas’ chest as if it were altar cloth. "Oh, how glad I am, oh Lord, that You still see us. That You still see ..."
Her voice cracked. She bowed lower, trembling with the release of centuries of silence.
Atlas’ throat tightened. For the briefest breath, guilt flickered in him—what if he had lied beyond redemption? What if his voice beca their ruin?
But he smothered the thought. No prophet before was purely divine. They were chosen, but they bent the word to shape nations. They wrote, they changed, they remade. Why should I be different?
He laid his hand on Ureil’s trembling shoulder. She looked up at him, eyes swimming with devotion.
"Stand, daughter of the One Above All. Stand, fire of the Almighty. He speaks, yes—but He speaks too much. I will pour every word onto the holy palate, so not just , but all may share in His wisdom."
Her lips parted, awe mingling with fear. "You... you will carry His voice?"
"Yes."
Atlas thought of his world before, where holy texts were revised, shifted, reshaped through centuries to et the need of people and kings alike. If their bibles could change, so too would his.
This was not betrayal. It was necessity.
"Tell them," Atlas commanded. "Tell them all. Share the good news with everyone, Ureil."
She nodded, tears still streaming but resolve firm. Her wings unfurled, golden light spilling from her feathers as she flung herself skyward.
The downdraft rattled stone, and her figure cut against the dark clouds as she descended to the waiting armies below.
Atlas lingered. Alone atop the castle.
Slowly, he raised his palm, as though catching falling ash. The air shifted. A sound, sharp and piercing, like air torn open, grew closer and closer. It was not wind. It was sothing older.
And then—
The Book of the Damned fell into his grasp.
Its weight was wrong, heavier than iron, heavier than guilt. The cover was blackened flesh, stitched with seams of scar and vein.
The pearl of the Dreaming glowed at its center, its pulse a rhythm of countless trapped souls.
The stench was raw—copper, rot, old prayers gone sour. It whispered when touched, as if all those imprisoned voices still begged release.
Atlas’ fingers trembled before he tightened them. He whispered: "...Guide. You know what to do."
{{{{{ ... }}}}}
Silence. Not absence, but watchfulness.
And then the Book changed.
The blackened cover writhed. The texture softened, peeled back like bark surrendering to new growth.
Flesh shifted into sothing radiant—not white, not grey, but a weave of gold threaded with black.
The pearl of Dreaming split into facets, reshaped into a single letter etched into its heart:
A.
The mark glead brighter than fla, brighter than stars, reflecting in Atlas’ eyes.
Atlas held the book high. The air thrumd with his voice, rolling like thunder across Hell.
"This will be the start of a new age. An age where I will be lord beyond fate, beyond death, beyond gods. An age of strife. My age."
The echo carried for miles, carving itself into stone, sky, and soul.
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