The door closed softly behind the stranger.
Too softly.
Atlas felt it immediately—the subtle wrongness in the air. Pressure shifted, not outward, but inward, as if the room itself had leaned closer. Mana curled back on itself like a held breath, every particle suddenly attentive. The corridor beyond the chamber seemed to stretch away, shadows lengthening where no light should bend, as though even Heaven had decided to listen.
The man before him stood tall, broad-shouldered, built like a weapon left leaning against a wall. Lightning crawled faintly beneath his skin, restless veins of pale blue light tracing his arms and throat, flashing brighter when he breathed. His hair was pale gold, cut short and uneven, as if he'd never bothered to care how it looked. His eyes were stormed blue—unsettled, unfixed—never resting long enough to feel alive.
Power clung to him awkwardly, like armor worn too long by someone who despised its weight but refused to set it down.
He smiled.
