The sky had already been wounded.
Not split—scarred.
Great rifts stretched across the firmament where lightning had torn through cloud and law alike, edges glowing faintly as if reality itself had been cauterized and left trembling.
The air tasted metallic and hot, heavy with ozone and something older—fear, perhaps, or anticipation. Below, the land lay in ruin: a kingdom reduced to geometry and ash, its history erased in violent shorthand.
At the center of it all stood Atlas.
He did not look victorious.
He looked inevitable.
Blood ran freely down his chin, dripping from his fingers to hiss against scorched stone. His breathing was slow, controlled, but every inhale burned, every exhale rattled with the cost of LAW pressed too hard against a universe that resisted being told what it could not do.
Across from him, Thor straightened.
