Atlas did not sit.
He paced the length of the sunlit hall, boots striking stone in a rhythm too deliberate to be restless, too uneven to be calm. The palace was alive with distant sounds: hammers on scaffolding as workers repaired the eastern wing, the low murmur of refugees settling in the lower courtyards, the occasional cry of a hawk wheeling over the battlements.
All of it felt hollow.
Claire's last words echoed louder than any construction noise.
'Be careful, Atlas. The world keeps trying to own you. One day you may discover you've been sold without ever agreeing to the price.'
He stopped in the middle of the hall, hands clenched at his sides.
