Chapter 309: Chapter 308: Prophet
Atlas thought he had already learned despair.
He thought he had tasted enough of Hell’s cruelty to be numb.
But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for this.
They dragged Aurora forward like a broken doll, her bare feet leaving a smear of blood on the stone. Her head lolled, strands of hair plastered to her cheek with sweat and dirt, her wrists bound in iron cuffs. She had been beaten, starved, dragged through the filth. And yet—when their eyes met—Atlas saw it. A flicker. A shard of defiance still alive behind her exhaustion.
He tried to call to her. But his throat was cracked, his body so weak from days of hanging that the sound came only as a rasp.
Then the priest stepped forward. His wings, black and oily, spread wide as he raised one hand. His face was calm. Too calm.
"Purification begins," he intoned.
His fingers brushed her bare foot. Just a touch, as casual as one might stroke a flame to life.
And then fire.
It began small, curling tendrils of red and orange at her toes. But this was no ordinary flame. It was alive, crawling with purpose. The heat swelled in a wave that reached Atlas even across the gap, scalding his face.
Aurora gasped, her body tensing. Her teeth sank into her lower lip hard enough to bleed. She wanted to be strong. She wanted not to scream. Even in that moment—especially in that moment—she tried to protect him from the sound of her agony.
Atlas’s chest tore open with helpless rage.
"NO!" His voice cracked, breaking into a roar that echoed off the cliffside. He jerked against the chains, every muscle straining, iron biting deeper. Blood smeared down his arms, warm and wet, but the bonds held.
The fire climbed.
The skin of her foot blackened, curling into grotesque shapes. The stink of burning flesh filled the air, acrid and choking, searing Atlas’s nostrils until he gagged. Aurora’s body shook violently.
She turned her face toward him. Her eyes swam with tears, but not just from pain. She was apologizing. Begging him not to hate himself for what was being done to her. Even as the flames ate her alive, she wanted to spare him guilt.
That broke him worse than the sight of her body burning.
Her lips moved, trembling. "Atlas... don’t... don’t watch."
But he could not look away.
The flames devoured her ankles. Then her calves. And then her scream ripped free.
"Aaaaaaa!!!!!"
It was not human. It was the sound of a soul being torn apart, raw and animal and endless. It cut through him like a thousand blades.
"AURORA!" he howled, thrashing against the cross. "Please—please, gods, stop!"
His vision blurred with tears, but he forced his eyes to stay open, to witness her. To not abandon her in her last moments.
Her body writhed, jerking against the nails that pinned her hands. Blood spattered from her palms as the metal tore deeper.
"Atlas! Please—help me!" Her voice cracked, breaking between sobs and shrieks. "Make it stop! Please—Atlas! Please!"
Every plea was a knife in his chest. He strained so hard his shoulders dislocated with a sickening crack. Still he pulled. Still he bled.
But nothing broke.
The flames climbed higher, curling around her thighs, biting at her waist. Her clothing caught, black fabric shriveling into ash.
Atlas could barely see her through the shimmering air of the heat. But he heard her. Every scream. Every sob. Every time she cried his name.
And still he could do nothing.
He hated himself in that moment more than he had ever hated anything. More than he hated Hell. More than he hated the priests. He hated his own weakness, his own powerlessness, his own failure to protect the one person who had always been there for him.
Aurora’s head jerked back, her golden hair igniting in a sudden whoosh. Her face contorted with pain. Her eyes—those bright, laughing eyes he had known since they were children—locked on him through the fire.
"I’m... sorry."
Her voice was thin, trembling, but clear enough to carve into him forever.
And then the fire swallowed her whole.
"Noooo... Aurora, AURORA!"
Atlas screamed until blood sprayed from his throat. His body thrashed so hard the wood of the cross splintered beneath him. His roar echoed across the cliffs, across the abyss, into the black sky.
And then—silence.
Only drifting ash.
Where Aurora had been, there was nothing left.
Atlas sagged forward, limp. His voice was gone. His eyes were wide, unblinking. The world had emptied.
Why?
Why had he come here?
To save loki. To save a friend.
Or to lose someone.
But at what cost? Aurora—his anchor, his constant, the one who had stood by him through everything—was gone. Burned to nothing before his eyes.
Was this fate? Or was this his fault?
The thought hollowed him, a pit gnawing through his chest.
He had been ready to fight, to bleed, even to die. But not to lose her. Not like this.
The priests rejoiced. Their dark wings fanned the air, scattering her ashes gleefully. Their chants rose higher, triumphant, a chorus of madness.
"Purification! Purification! Purification!"
Their eyes glowed with zeal as if this cruelty was beauty, as if this horror was salvation.
And Atlas hung in silence.
The familiar priest approached. His footsteps were measured, deliberate. His eyes burned with conviction.
"Do you see now?" he asked softly, almost tenderly. "From her ashes, from yours soon, the prophet will change and rise. This is baptism. This is holy. You are chosen, Atlas."
Atlas did not respond. His lips trembled, but no words came.
The priest crouched and lowered a torch to Atlas’s feet.
The fire bloomed again.
It seared his skin instantly, a wave of agony that raced up his legs. Blisters bubbled, skin split, raw flesh exposed.
Atlas’s jaw locked. His teeth cracked as he ground them together. He would not give them the satisfaction of hearing him scream.
Not after Aurora.
He would not cheapen her suffering by making his own noise.
The flames climbed higher, reaching his thighs, his waist. The smell of his own flesh filled his nose, bitter and heavy, clinging to the back of his throat.
Still, he was silent.
Because in his mind, she was laughing again. A memory from years ago—her hand tugging his as children, running barefoot across the grass, shouting his name in joy. Her laughter under the stars. Her whisper when no one else could hear: "You’re not alone, Atlas. Not ever."
He clung to that. Even as fire peeled his skin, even as his body screamed in torment, he clung to her voice.
The priest tilted his head, intrigued. "You accept it. You endure. Yes... you are ready."
Atlas closed his eyes. "Sorry," he whispered.
Sorry to Eli. Sorry to Lara. Sorry to Claire. Sorry most of all to Aurora.
The fire engulfed him fully. His body cracked and split. His vision turned white, then black.
And then—nothing.
.
.
.
When his eyes opened again, he was whole.
The cage surrounded him, every bar the same as before. His flesh was unburned, his body intact. His breath came ragged, disbelieving.
Had it been a dream? A vision?
No. The memory of her screams was too sharp. The smell of burning flesh still clung to him.
He staggered, eyes darting. The cage, the chains—it was all as it had been. His movements mirrored what he remembered, as if no time had passed.
And then a voice spoke.
Not from outside. From inside.
{{{{{ My power... is seeping into you... finally. }}}}}
Atlas froze. His heart slammed in his chest.