Atlas found his shaky feet on the dusted cobblestones. A slate-gray snake, the path slithered between the pitch and roll of grounds once green and tended. Now the hedges grew unkempt, the mahogany substrates had been washed to bare dirt by rain, and, through no fault of their own, the flowers had withered and died. And everywhere the dark grasp of winter was touched by the vibrant hum of Vespera’s being; it all seemed quite stuck in a state of half-darkness. Like moths to a flame they had all come. Like moths, they milled around with their hearts in their mouths for the lengths of their short lifespans.
Secrets and hope. Diving ever into the light from the darkness, moths.
They were all stories in themselves: old ones, his friends Rhone and Bel; ones a little less old, Liam and the two strangers. None of them are new. This had happened to every kingdom across Novus in a short span of time. Only Elena had kept Vespera at bay and now, with her disappearance, the goddess had gathered her skirts and armor and plunged to earth.
Even her dim light was so great that after looking upon her the rest of the world felt faded, desaturated. She speaks unto him-- unto them all-- a warning, but one of guiding. Not a sinister truth but a tool to be used for their advantage. She takes shots at his heart and he feels it, but he also feels a level confidence. “I am not in this alone, blessed Dusklight,” Atlas insists, not petulant and righteous but conversational, if one could ever be to a god. “None of us are in this alone. We have each other, our hearts to string along. And we are all tethered together by you.”
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