Morning light came through the shutters in thin lines. Atlas woke to the familiar weight of the circle—Lara against his side, Eli's arm across his chest, Clara's quieter presence completing the shape.
The residual edge of the border and the sharper air of the empire still sat in his chest, but the three bodies around him kept it contained. For a long moment no one moved. The street noise outside remained distant, filtered by pale stone and closed wood.
He lay still and catalogued what he could feel. Lara's breathing was even, her hip pressed firm against his. Eli's arm was heavy and warm, the kind of weight that did not ask permission. Clara's hand rested near his ribs, fingers loose but present.
The room smelled of clean linen, last night's skin, and the faint mineral tang that clung to everything in Alasta. Outside, a cart rattled past. Someone called a price for bread. The city was already working.
