Atlas did not rush forward.
He did not roar, or threaten, or flare his power like a banner raised to provoke awe or fear. That kind of display belonged to gods who needed witnesses, to tyrants who mistook noise for authority.
He had learned—slowly, painfully—that power which announced itself first often shattered fastest.
So he simply spoke.
{Hold}
The word left his mouth quietly. Almost gently. It did not echo. It did not boom. It did not demand attention.
It assumed obedience.
And the world answered.
Lightning froze mid-descent, a jagged lattice of blue-white veins hanging in the air like a shattered crown suspended above a fallen throne.
Debris lifted by Thor's last strike—stone, ash, splinters of cathedral glass, fragments of statues that once watched over prayer—stopped in place, trembling, suspended between falling and flying.
