The storm did not end when Thor fell.
It hung there—ragged, torn, suspended—like the sky itself was unsure whether it was allowed to move again.
Lightning crawled aimlessly through the clouds, thin veins of pale fire tracing meaningless paths, searching for a master that no longer answered. Thunder muttered without conviction, distant and uncertain, like a voice that had forgotten what it wanted to say.
Atlas stood at the center of the devastation.
His boots were half-buried in fractured earth, stone cracked into spiderweb patterns radiating outward from where he stood. Every breath he took tasted of ash and ozone, sharp and metallic on his tongue. His lungs burned—not from exhaustion, but from restraint. He was holding himself together by habit now, not necessity.
