The young man who entered the audience chamber the next morning did not look like a threat.
He was twenty at most. Travel-worn boots left faint dust on the polished stone. Dark hair tied back without care for appearance. His robes were plain gray, the crest of the previous Wizard King faded almost to nothing on the shoulder. The guards outside had already noted the lack of retinue, the absence of any visible weapon beyond a simple staff. Most of the court would have dismissed him as another wandering mage seeking favor or forgiveness.
Yet the moment the doors closed, every mage-sensitive in the outer hall felt the shift. Mana moved around him the way deep water moves around a stone—quiet, heavy, absolute. It did not flare. It did not announce itself. It simply occupied the space and refused to yield.
Atlas regarded him from the plain chair at the far end of the chamber. No throne. No raised dais. Just a sturdy wooden seat and a table that held nothing but a single cup of water.
