Raze could see Atlas in front of him. No—he knew it was Atlas. That was all.
Everything else was becoming a blur. The world shimmered like heat above desert stone. He couldn't quite make out what was happening—just that the figure before him felt like Atlas. His features were unclear, yet the concern radiating from him was unmistakable.
His head rang like a struck bell. Somewhere in the haze, he sensed Atlas calling to him—though the sound never quite reached his ears. It was as if the voice came from underwater, muffled and distant.
The noise returned in fragments—like shattered glass rearranging itself. Then, suddenly:
"OI!"
A jolt shot through his shoulder.
The voice rang clear now, and Atlas's hands gripped his shoulders with urgency. His face, no longer just a blur of emotion, was carved with furrowed brows so deep they threatened to meet. His eyes were wild, but not with fury—with fear.
"We need to move. You're bleeding out. You can't fight that thing."
Fight? Raze blinked. "What do you mean—fight what?"
Atlas's expression twisted—not with anger or confusion, but something worse. Horror. The kind that digs into the marrow.
And then Raze felt it too.
A presence. Watching.
It wasn't just a gaze—it was a weight on the soul. Cold and damp like grave soil.
"Something's here…" he muttered. "It's watching us."
Atlas didn't answer.
His eyes were locked on something just over Raze's shoulder.
Raze turned.
Crouched in the dust, impossibly tall even in a stoop, was something. Its skin was pale grey—smooth and slick like a hairless creature. It had no mouth, yet it smiled. No lips, no teeth—just a stretched curve where nothing should be. Two black pits in place of eyes stared back at him—hollow, yet watching.
"What is that?" Raze breathed, lifting his sword with trembling arms.
But his feet left the ground before he could take a stance.
Atlas had thrown him over his shoulder, already dashing away in a full sprint.
"Oi! Put me down! Why are we running?!" Raze barked, though his voice was little more than an echo now.
But he didn't mean it. His words betrayed him. Every fiber of his being wanted to run. The truth had already settled in his bones.
He could feel the darkness catching up.
The world shook as Atlas ran. Each pounding step rattled his mind further from clarity, until the edges of his vision rippled—and within that ripple, the creature's smile appeared again. A hallucination—or a memory burned too deeply into his mind.
And then—
CRACK.
A deafening impact.
Raze soared through the air before slamming into the canyon floor. The pain in his shoulder was blinding—it had shattered on impact.
Through the haze, he looked up.
Far in the distance—perhaps a mile—he saw a shape moving fast. No, not moving—fighting.
Atlas.
And the creature.
Raze tried to stand, but his legs trembled. Still, his hand found his sword again. He raised it—his arm shaking uncontrollably. He took a breath.
Another.
Steady now.
The blade extended—piercing across the canyon, streaking through air, and sinking deep into the chest of that unholy thing.
It stopped moving.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Atlas turned, eyes wide with something worse than fear—dread.
And the creature... looked at Raze.
That smile warped, spreading like molten cloth across its face. And then it screamed.
A child's scream. So high, so piercing, it wasn't sound—it was suffering incarnate. Raze felt his own skull quake, his eyes trembling in their sockets. Madness clawed at the edge of his mind.
Then—just as suddenly—it vanished.
The blade grew weightless.
The thing was gone.
Or perhaps it never was.
Raze blinked. He stared at the sword in his hand, now ordinary once more. What had he been aiming at? What was he fighting?
Atlas was sprinting toward him again—but why did he look so terrified?
Raze's thoughts fractured. His head rang louder than ever. His vision turned red—then brighter, too bright.
He coughed—and blood spilled. Thick, hot, endless.
His knees buckled.
The blade fell from his grip.
His eyes, his ears—everything felt like it was collapsing inwards.
And before his vision finally blacked out—he saw it.
A smile.
Hovering in the void.
Raze could feel his legs lift off the ground—hovering, weightless, as if the world had let go of him.
His throat clenched.
His lungs collapsed inward, folding like parchment under flame. He tried to breathe—but the air refused to come. His hands reached out, desperate to find something to hold on to—stone, cloth, anything—but they only grasped at emptiness.
He was drowning in dry air.
A warmth trickled down his cheeks. He didn't remember crying. It just happened—like the body knew what the soul hadn't admitted yet.
His lips parted, cracked and bloodied, barely moving. The words slipped free in a breath that could barely escape.
"Forgive me… Gabbon."
He didn't know if the name reached the wind, or if it died between his teeth.
"Don't you go dying on me now."
A voice cracked through the suffocating air—and then, a flash.
A blade tore through the arm of the Vernagool, the twisted creature that had hoisted Raze into the sky. A shriek erupted from its gaping maw—not one of rage, but of pain... and confusion. It stared at the severed limb, watching as dark ichor spilled from the wound. The limb didn't grow back. For the first time, its featureless face seemed to contort—not just in pain, but in fear.
It looked at Atlas. Truly looked—with those hollow, black eyes locked not on the man, but on the weapon.
The blade.
It was no longer short and worn. It was a different blade, the longer blade, pulsing with a deep crimson hue, veins of glowing red coursing through the metal like liquid blood. In Atlas's grip, it hummed with a presence of its own—alive.
Atlas's eyes burned to match it, glowing red beneath furrowed brows, his breath shallow but unshaken.
The Vernagool didn't hesitate—it lunged.
Its claw slammed into Atlas's shoulder, and the force sent him flying. His shoulder nearly dislocated with a sickening pop. But as he tumbled through the air, Atlas twisted midflight, driving his blade into the earth to break the fall. Dust and gravel scattered.
His feet hit the ground.
And he charged.
So did the creature.
The clash was brutal—steel against sinew. The Vernagool's clawed fingers, razor-thin and sharp as blades, met Atlas's sword with a shower of sparks. Clink! Clang! It parried blow after blow—but Atlas didn't stop moving. He blurred around it, slashing from every angle, cutting at limbs, ribs, joints—any piece he could reach.
Slash. Slash. Slash.
Bits of dark flesh flew through the air, sizzling as they hit the ground. But none of the cuts were deep enough to finish it. The creature shrieked again—this time in frustration—and lashed out. One of its arms wrapped around Atlas's neck like a whip, and lifted him from the ground, strangling the breath from his lungs.
Atlas's vision swam. His grip faltered. His legs kicked once, twice—
And then the creature dropped him.
It staggered backward, trembling.
Its body jerked in unnatural spasms, as though something had invaded its flesh. It dropped to its knees. Its featureless face twitched... then stared at its hand in dazed horror. From its throat came a cry—not monstrous this time, but... childlike. A sound of confusion. Of fear.
A baby's cry.
Atlas didn't wait.
He rose, every muscle screaming in protest, and sprinted toward Raze. He scooped him into his arms and ran.
He didn't think. He didn't speak. He ran.
Through the broken plains, over shattered stones. He ran past the twisted roots and the winds that clawed at his face like ghosts. He didn't dare look back. The only sound he heard was his own breath and the thundering of his heart.
His boots tore open. His arms ached with every step. Still, he ran. For hours.
Until—
"ATLAS! Here!"
A voice. Familiar.
He looked up through blurred vision. A cave. Hidden at the foot of the canyon. And in front of it—a figure waving, shouting.
Munk.
Atlas stumbled toward him.
Munk rushed forward and helped pull them inside. With a groan of effort, he rolled a massive boulder into place, sealing the entrance.
"Let me see him," Munk said without hesitation. He knelt beside Raze and gently laid him down on a bed of old furs and moss.
Atlas collapsed against the wall. The adrenaline drained from his body in a sudden, brutal wave. Every ache and wound he had ignored now surged forward, crashing down on him like a flood. He couldn't move. He could barely breathe.
Munk hovered over Raze, his expression darkening.
"This is bad," he muttered. "I don't know how, but… he's taken mortal wounds, a demigod like him."
Atlas stayed silent.
"This isn't like anything I've ever seen. This isn't just injury. This is undoing."
Munk took a deep breath, placing both palms above Raze's chest. Faint threads of golden light began to spill from his fingers, wrapping around the wounds like slow-moving fireflies.
"I'll do what I can," he muttered, more to himself than to Atlas. "But this... this might be beyond me."
Atlas said nothing. He simply watched the soft flicker of magic, the way Munk's brow furrowed in concentration, how the air itself seemed to resist healing.
Then, with a long, aching exhale, Atlas leaned back against the cold stone wall, his breath steadying. The weight of the hours finally pulled at him—but something stirred in the corner of his eye.
He turned.
There, curled up in a ball on the thick, furry Boink, was Maya.
She was small again—not in size, but in presence. Drawn inward like a frightened creature, tucked beneath her own arms and legs, her form trembling slightly with each breath. Her head was buried into the furs, but Atlas could still see her quiver.
He rose slowly, every bone groaning in protest, and walked to her. The silence between them felt sacred.
He knelt beside her, then gently wrapped his arms around her fragile form.
Maya didn't say a word. She didn't flinch or turn away. She simply melted into his embrace, curling deeper, seeking warmth in the only place she knew it could be found.
And then he saw it.
The headwrap was gone.
Where her forehead had once been covered, now there shimmered a third eye—wide and glistening. It was not monstrous. It was beautiful. A large, emerald green eye, its iris flecked with gold, shining faintly even in the dimness of the cave. It did not blink. It only wept, slowly.
No tears fell from her other eyes. Just the one.
Atlas held her tighter.
And then—like a flower folding into the night—Maya dozed off. First the two, and then the third, closing gently. Peacefully.
All three shut tight.
In that hidden cave, with Munk's magic casting soft light over Raze's wounds and the whisper of the wind sealed behind stone, Atlas sat between them both. Guarding. Watching. Waiting.
The storm had passed.
But the silence after was heavier than any roar.