"Denish," Atlas barked, his voice a low, commanding growl that sliced clean through the heavy silence blanketing the chamber like a funeral shroud. "Claire's coming soon. Tell her to give Kury every drop of the healing potion—she needs it all."
His words came fast, clipped and brutal, every syllable sharpened by urgency. The floor beneath him was slick with blood, the stench of iron and burning stone thick in the air. Each of his steps landed like a war drum, echoing off the jagged trees of the ruined forest. The branches guttered, shadows flinching as his presence passed.
He didn't spare a glance at Denish. His gaze was locked, unwavering, on the Prime before him.
Number Nine.
The imperial sigil gleamed faintly beneath the grime, etched into the man's chest plate like a badge of twisted pride. A Prime of the Seventeen. A decorated predator. His rank screamed arrogance—his presence reeked of it. And now, Atlas could smell something else beneath it all: fear.
