When night draped itself across the sky, Atlas slipped into Cassius’s chamber. The air within was heavy and still, broken only by the dim flicker of candles. At the center of the room lay the glass coffin, its surface so cold it bit at the skin, cold enough to make anyone who dared touch it recoil. Yet it was not Cassius Atlas had co to watch. His vigil was for Arabella, who had refused food and comfort despite the wounds of both body and spirit left by the earlier battle.
Balancing a tray of food in his hands, Atlas stepped quietly across the chamber. He set it aside with care, the clatter of the dishes muffled, and lowered himself to where Arabella knelt beside the coffin. Slowly, reverently, he bent down until his knees touched the stone floor. His weathered hands rose to lift her chin, coaxing her face upward.
What he saw cleaved into him like a blade. Her eyes, once bright with fire, now seed hollowed, stripped of light— bleak, despairing, as though hope itself had abandoned her.
"I never had children," Atlas said softly, brushing her damp cheeks with the gentlest touch. His voice wavered, tender and weary, yet filled with affection. "But these days... I find myself thinking of you as my own daughter. A part of you was born from Circe’s power. And you... you remind of her. Only far gentler." A strained laugh left him, cracked by the ache in his chest.
Arabella t his gaze, her throat tightening. Sowhere deep within, she realized he was right— she had co to see him as sothing more than protector. A figure steady and constant, the father she had been denied. Unlike the man who had failed her, Atlas had always been there, a pillar she could lean upon, quietly shouldering the weight she thought was hers alone.
And he was more than that. He was also the only man Cassius had ever trusted enough to open his heart to— a fact that spoke more loudly of Atlas’s strength than any blade or spell ever could.
"The demon spoke to you, didn’t she?" Atlas asked then, his voice lowering to a murmur.
Arabella’s breath caught, her lips parting in shock. "You... knew?"
"I guessed," he corrected gently. A sigh escaped him as he shifted back, lowering himself to sit fully on the cold stone floor. His gaze lingered on the coffin, where Cassius lay motionless, as pale as death itself.
The sight must have tornted her, he thought— the illusion of a corpse entombed in ice, and in her mind still echoing the words of the demon that dwelled inside her. That vile creature whose greatest amusent was to pry apart joy, to unravel bonds, to poison love with despair.
And now, Atlas realized, it was Arabella’s heart the demon was circling.
"What did it say to you?" Atlas asked softly, his tone careful, as though prying too harshly might cause her to shatter.
Arabella’s eyes flickered to the coffin where Cassius lay, then back to him. Her lips trembled, the words clawing to be spoken yet refusing to leave her, as if repeating them aloud might anchor the nightmare into reality.
"That Cassius’s life is the price for mine," she whispered at last, her voice breaking. Her throat tightened as tears threatened to spill. "It said it tricked him into a promise—one that if broken will cost him his life. But I don’t know what promise it forced him to make..." Her lips pressed together, struggling to dam the tide of despair rising within her.
"Calm yourself," Atlas soothed, his hand firm yet gentle as it rested on her shoulder. His voice carried the weight of reason. "When he wakes, we can ask him. Cassius is not the kind of man to bind himself with empty words. If he gave his word, he believed he could keep it. Do not place your faith in the tongue of a demon— place it in him. You chose him for a reason, did you not?"
Arabella blinked, stunned by the clarity in his words. Slowly, she breathed in, realizing he was right. The demon thrived on lies and manipulation, but Cassius... Cassius was no fool to be so easily ensnared. Whatever vow he had made, he must have weighed it carefully. She should not trust the demon’s venom— she must trust him.
"That is why, for now, you must eat," Atlas urged, gesturing toward the small table where food still stead gently. "Let watch over him in your stead."
"I’m not hungry," she murmured, turning her face away.
"Then at least a drink. A warm glass of milk." He held it out to her, his eyes kind but firm.
Her gaze fell to the glass— still warm, soft curls of steam rising as though it carried comfort in its very essence. For a long mont she hesitated, caught between grief and exhaustion. At last, she gave in and took it. The warmth spread through her chest with each swallow, loosening the tightness in her ribs, lulling her heart.
Before she realized it, her eyes fluttered shut, the weight of sleep dragging her down at last.
Atlas watched her sink into slumber, a sigh of relief easing from his chest. Carefully, he gathered her into his arms and carried her to the bed placed beside the coffin, laying her down with the care of a father tucking in his child.
He glanced once more at the glass coffin, his expression shadowed. She would rest for now. The herbs he’d mixed into the milk would keep her under, safe from her own tornt. Not harmful— only rciful. At least tonight, her weary body and heart would be given the chance to nd.
And once he was done watching over them, Atlas who sensed presence right behind his chair then felt a pair of hand wrapping around his shoulders.
"Circe," Atlas called and Noah whose red eyes had turned in a daze slowly smiled.
"You fool," Circe spoke, "What have you planned to do? To sacrifice yourself once again for others? Wasn’t it enough that you never once know what it ans to live because you spend all your life trying to protect Versailles?"
"Versailles?" Atlas wasn’t surprised. He had sohow felt Circe’s presence since the afternoon and Noah’s quietness proved that soone else had entered his body.
"I never cared about Versailles," he reiterated, "I only cared about you."
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