After Elias left him with those words, he remained in the clearing, blades resting at his side, eyes locked on the moon until it dipped beneath the horizon. His storm-gray gaze never softened. The doubts, the anger, the gnawing restlessness—they all spun inside him like a hurricane.
When the first torchlight flickered in the distance and the faint rumble of hooves stirred the dawn, Atlas knew what he had to do.
The small convoy assembled at the castle gates—six men, cloaked and armed, their wagons light to avoid drawing notice. They spoke in hushed voices of orders and routes, their faces grim with the weight of secrecy.
Atlas shadowed them from the trees, his steps silent, his storm contained. When the moment came, as they paused to check their gear, he slipped into the last wagon, tucking himself beneath a canvas tarp and crates of grain. His heartbeat was steady, his storm under control, though inside he thrilled at the thought of finally doing something.
The convoy rolled out before the sun had fully risen, carrying the hidden prince away from the castle—and from Marco’s shadow.
The hours stretched long, the convoy weaving through forests and plains toward the allied villages. Atlas kept hidden when needed, but he watched, listened, and—at times—slipped out unseen to walk among the people.
- In the first village, the people were cautious, their whispers sharp. Farmers muttered that Gerald’s sins were returning, that peace with the sea meant bending the knee to their father’s old enemies. Atlas felt their distrust burn into him like fire.
- In the second village, there was more hope. A fisherman praised Marco’s courage, speaking of how sea-trade could save their winters. Children played near the riverbank, laughing at the idea of “a king who swims like a fish.” That pride stirred something warmer in Atlas, though he refused to admit it.
- By the third stop, the reactions split evenly. Nobles sneered behind polite smiles, fearful of losing power to Nerios’s influence. Commoners were divided—some eager for trade and safety, others wary of strange alliances. Atlas saw how fractured the land truly was.
As the convoy prepared to camp after their first full day of travel, Atlas crouched in the shadows of the wagon, his mind heavy with everything he’d seen. The villages weren’t united. Some were hopeful. Some were bitter. Some were already sharpening knives behind their doors.
It wasn’t just Marco’s peace that was fragile—it was the entire kingdom’s foundation.
And Atlas knew, deep down, that the storm wasn’t done building.
Atlas stirred beneath the wagon’s tarp, the exhaustion of a sleepless night and a long day on the road finally dragging him into slumber. His dreams were uneasy, filled with crashing waves and the shadow of his father’s last stand.
Then—
Clang.
His eyes snapped open. Another sound followed, sharp and wet—steel cutting flesh. And then the screams began.
Atlas shoved the tarp aside just in time to see blood drifting like ink in water, torches scattered in the dirt, the once-orderly camp a nightmare. All six men who had set out with the convoy were sprawled across the ground, their bodies broken, their eyes wide and lifeless.
Atlas’s breath caught in his throat. His fists clenched around his Stormtalons, the storm inside him surging, begging to be unleashed.
He forced himself to focus. He had no time for fear—not now. Closing his eyes for a moment, Atlas reached for the current of the air itself. The faint night wind carried with it more than chill—it carried movement, whispers of footsteps, the pull of steel through air.
The storm answered him, tugging at his senses.
Atlas rose, silent but swift, his storm-gray eyes narrowing as he followed the trail through the trees. The bodies of his men lay cold behind him, but ahead—the wind carried him to the killers.
Every step drew him closer to the clash, to the truth, to the enemy who had shattered the fragile mission before it could even begin.
Atlas tore through the night, every step fueled by rage. His Stormtalons crackled faintly at his sides, their edges hungry for blood. The wind carried him like a hunter’s guide, tugging him through the trees until the faint glow of firelight shimmered ahead.
He slowed, slipping into the shadows of the undergrowth. The smell of smoke and iron hit him first, followed by the sound—low, cruel laughter carried on the breeze.
In a small clearing, five men sat around a fire. Their armor was mismatched, dark leathers and jagged steel meant for killing, not defense. Blood still stained their blades, gleaming faintly in the firelight.
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They laughed, passing a flask between them, their voices careless after the slaughter.
“That was easier coin than I’ve seen in months,” one said, wiping his blade on the grass. “Six men, gone before they even drew breath proper.”
Another leaned back, grinning wide. “Aye. And the best part? We’re not even done yet. King David pays well, and he pays in advance.”
The name hit Atlas like a hammer. His knuckles tightened on his blades, breath ragged.
A third assassin spat into the fire, smirking. “The old bastard’s clever. Let the land and sea think they’ve got peace, while he sends us to snuff out any who cheer it on. By the time they realize what’s happening, they’ll be too divided to fight back.”
The others laughed again, toasting with their stolen flask.
Hidden in the trees, Atlas’s storm raged. His father’s memory, his brothers’ faith, Marco’s fragile peace—it all flared within him. His storm-gray eyes burned with the weight of it.
David.
He didn’t step forward yet. Not yet. He let their words sink in, his fists trembling, his blades aching to be unleashed.
Atlas could hold back no longer. The storm inside him broke free.
He exploded from the treeline like a bolt of lightning, Stormtalons flashing in arcs too fast for the eye to follow. The assassins’ laughter died in their throats as the first fell, his body cleaved in two before he could even scream.
The second tried to rise, blade in hand, but a blur of steel cut him down, sparks flashing as Atlas’s talons split his chestplate. A third stumbled back, crying out, but Atlas was already there, moving with the wind itself, a strike severing his throat before his words could form.
The campfire guttered in the sudden chaos, blood spraying across the dirt as the last two assassins scrambled, shouting in confusion. “What is—?!” one cried, but a slash cut him short, his body crumpling lifelessly into the fire’s glow.
Only one remained.
Atlas slammed him against a tree, the edge of a talon pressing against his throat. His storm-gray eyes blazed with fury, his breath ragged.
“Talk,” Atlas growled, his voice like thunder. “Or you die now.”
The assassin’s eyes were wide with terror, his hands trembling as the cold edge bit into his skin. “P-Please—I’ll tell you! Everything!”
Atlas pressed harder, his storm sparking faintly around them. “Do it.”
The man stammered, words spilling from his lips in a rush.
“King David—he’s paying us to turn the villages. To twist them to his side. He’s sending gold, promises of land, soldiers to ‘protect’ them. And the ones who refuse—he’ll burn them down. Anyone who stands with your brother’s peace will be ash!”
Atlas’s grip tightened, rage boiling in his veins. “Where?”
The assassin gulped, tears welling as he nodded frantically. “The next town—the one your convoy was heading to! It’s already falling. The man who hired us—he’s there now, with David’s men. They’re taking it over as we speak!”
The words struck like lightning. Atlas’s storm surged, his talons pressing closer, his heart pounding with fury at the thought of villages falling while Marco sat at tables preaching peace.
Atlas shoved the assassin aside, leaving him trembling and gasping in the dirt. Fury burned in his chest, the assassin’s words replaying in his mind. David’s men. Taking the villages. Destroying those who resist.
His storm roared to answer him. The wind whipped around his body, tugging at his cloak, lifting him with a power he had never commanded so freely before. He clenched his fists, his storm-gray eyes glowing faintly in the night.
“Faster,” he growled, the words more command than plea. “Take me faster.”
And the wind obeyed.
Atlas surged forward, lifted from the earth, his Stormtalons gleaming in the moonlight. Trees blurred beneath him, the forest racing by as he flew, carried on currents that bent to his fury. He moved like a living storm, a streak of lightning in the night sky, his body cutting through the air faster than he had ever thought possible.
Hours blurred into minutes. The rage and the storm carried him across the miles until at last, the flicker of torchlight appeared on the horizon.
Atlas descended, the wind softening his landing as his boots touched the dirt just beyond the village. His heart clenched as he looked ahead.
What had once been a bustling town was now a ruin. Houses splintered, doors smashed from their hinges, carts overturned and burned. The smell of smoke and iron lingered in the air, heavy with despair.
And through the broken streets marched soldiers in King David’s colors, armored men patrolling in groups of three and four, their blades still stained with the day’s conquest. Villagers cowered in corners or were dragged into the square, their eyes hollow with fear.
Atlas’s jaw tightened, his storm raging beneath his skin. But he forced himself still, his blades low at his sides. Charging blindly would kill innocents. This would take precision.
He narrowed his eyes, slipping into the shadows of a broken alley. The wind curled softly around him, masking his movements, carrying him silently into the heart of the occupied town.
Atlas moved like a shadow through the ruined streets, slipping between collapsed carts and shattered walls. His storm burned for blood, but he kept it caged—for now. He needed to see the full picture before he struck.
A patrol passed too close, their torchlight brushing across the alley. Atlas darted into a broken cabin, pressing himself against the wall, his breath silent.
Inside, two villagers huddled close to a dying lantern. A woman clutched her child to her chest, while an older man leaned against the wall, his face cut and swollen. They hadn’t noticed him yet.
Atlas crouched low, his voice barely a whisper. “What happened here?”
The man stirred, his eyes darting toward the sound but seeing only shadow. His voice cracked with weariness. “They came this morning. David’s soldiers. Said we had to pledge loyalty, fly his banners, feed his troops. When we refused…” His voice trailed, eyes hollow. “They made an example.”
The woman stifled a sob, tightening her grip on the child.
Atlas’s jaw tightened, his storm clawing at him, begging to be unleashed. David will pay for this.
He eased toward the window, ready to slip back into the night and strike from the shadows. But just as his body passed through the frame—
CRACK.
A blunt force slammed into the side of his skull. Stars burst in his vision, his knees buckling as he fell sideways into the dirt. The Stormtalons slipped from his grip, clattering faintly against the wood.
His last blurred sight before darkness took him was a figure looming above—armor dark, face hidden beneath a helm—and the chilling sound of boots closing in.