"Poison apple, poison drinks, venomous snake in the bed, small traps. What in the fuck is this woman doing?" Atlas muttered under his breath, his golden eyes flashing with a mix of irritation and paranoia as he hurled the glass of juice across the room. It shattered against the wall, spraying shards of crystal and sticky liquid that clung to the gilded surfaces like an omen.
From now on, Sansa would handle everything—his meals, his tea, even the damned water he washed his hands with. No one else. Not a single soul but her.
He activated Truth Eyes again, their glow intensifying until they burned brighter than torchlight. Simple colors bled into existence around him—red for deadly, orange for harmful, green for safe. Black remained elusive, lurking just beyond comprehension. He didn't dwell on it; black was something you avoided unless you wanted to wake up dead or worse.
Red flickered faintly at the edge of his vision, tainting the rim of the discarded pitcher where the juice had come from. Poisoned. Subtle enough to slip past most people, but not subtle enough to fool his rudimentary skill.
"Fucking Isabella," he growled, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. "Playing games while Henry's still clinging to life by threads thinner than spider silk."
The irony wasn't lost on him. In another timeline—one he remembered all too well—he'd run away, fled the palace walls to escape this madness. And where did that get him? To the Demon Queen's doorstep, begging for scraps of power before being strung up like a puppet and discarded when Lara came calling. Dead by her hand, no less.
Atlas stopped mid-step, his jaw tightening as memories of the game clawed at the edges of his mind. Running away wasn't an option anymore. Not when staying meant facing Isabella—a woman drunk on ambition and cruelty—and the alternative was bowing to demons who saw mortals as nothing more than insects to crush beneath their heels.
"No," he said aloud, shaking his head sharply. "I'll take the crazy bitch over Hell's court any day."
His fingers twitched involuntarily, brushing against the ring on his finger—the same sigil ring Henry had thrust into his palm mere days ago.
Atlas sank into his chair, flipping through the worn pages of the notebook he'd filled with frantic scribbles earlier. Every detail of Lara's journey sprawled out before him, ink smudged where sweat dripped during feverish writing sessions. Five acts spanning years of political intrigue, forbidden romances, betrayings, battles fought not just with steel but with words sharper than daggers.
And smack dab in the middle of Act One? His death. Quick, unceremonious, brought about by none other than Isabella.
But not this time. Oh no, Atlas had stolen enough of Lara's plotlines to ensure survival thus far. The king's ring? Check. Alliance with Aunt Claire? Check. Underworld gifts tucked safely away in his inventory? Check. Each theft chipped away at Lara's narrative armor, leaving cracks wide enough for him to wedge himself inside.
Yet something gnawed at the back of his skull, insistent and relentless. Something big loomed on the horizon, threatening to swallow them whole if he didn't prepare properly.
"The empire…" he murmured, scanning the notes again. "They're planning moves near the Dark Continent soon. Mistakenly provoking one of the Demon Kings holed up there."
The thought sent a shiver crawling down his spine. If the storyline repeated itself, the Demon King wouldn't discriminate between borders. Berkimhum's proximity to the Dark Continent made them prime targets for retaliation. Retaliation that would likely arrive in the form of fire raining from the skies and armies marching across scorched earth.
"When does this happen again?" Atlas mused, flipping pages rapidly. Dates blurred together, vague timelines sketched hastily in margins littered with exclamation points and question marks. Finally, his gaze landed on a hastily scrawled note:
> _Summer. Right after Lara returns from adventuring._
"Shit," he breathed, leaning back in his chair. Summer was months away, give or take. Plenty of time to solidify his position, right?
Wrong. Time wasn't on his side. Henry's health deteriorated daily, each cough rattling louder than the last. Two years max, according to the doctors. Maybe less. By then, Atlas needed to be untouchable—not just a prince playing catch-up but a king ruling with iron fists and sharper wits.
"Aaaaaaaa…..I don't mind her having the hero title, let her defeat one of the demon king," Atlas muttered, his voice low and bitter as he turned another page in the notebook. "She'll take care of that nonsense. I'm more politically aligned than battling fucking giant terrifying monsters."
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples roughly. His golden eyes flickered toward the window, where sunlight streamed weakly through heavy velvet curtains. It did nothing to warm the chill crawling up his spine.
"Why the fuck does the empire even approach the monsters at the Dark Continent?" he growled under his breath, shaking his head. "They were already graphically scary in the game."
His thoughts spiraled into memories—pixelated horrors from late-night gaming sessions, creatures so grotesque they haunted dreams. Lara would march into battle against them without hesitation, sword gleaming, armor pristine. She'd face down demon kings, ancient beasts, gods themselves if she had to. But not him. Not this Atlas.
"The previous Atlas would go with Lara eventually," he whispered, almost choking on the words. "But not meeeee. No, sorry. By God Jesus in heavens, I don't want to face those monsters…."
He paused, glancing upward instinctively. Praying—not sure whether Jesus existed here or not. Probably not. This world ran on magic, mana, and bloodshed, not divine intervention. Still, it felt good to hope someone might hear him.
"God, sometimes I feel like I'm the only normal human in this godforsaken magical world," he murmured, his voice cracking slightly.
A soft knock interrupted his prayer. Sansa entered silently, carrying a tray laden with tea. Today, she looked different—her long blond hair cascading freely around her shoulders instead of tied neatly behind her head. Her maid outfit clung tighter than usual, hugging curves he rarely allowed himself to notice.
Atlas froze mid-thought, his gaze lingering just a moment too long before snapping back to reality.
"...Sansa, you look different today," he said casually, forcing a smirk onto his lips. "Looks good on you, actually."
Her reaction was immediate—a sharp intake of breath, cheeks flushing pink as she quickly lowered her gaze. "Th-thank you, Your Highness. Here's your morning tea."
Atlas reached for the cup absentmindedly, bringing it to his lips. Then—
Orange.
His 'Truth Eyes' flared, detecting something harmful in the liquid. Harmful—but not deadly. Just enough to unsettle, perhaps weaken. He set the cup down carefully, exhaling slowly through clenched teeth.
"..."
Sansa stood frozen behind him, hands clasped tightly together. Her breathing hitched ever so slightly, betraying nerves she couldn't fully suppress.
'It's not red,' Atlas thought, his mind racing faster than lightning. 'Did somebody tamper with Sansa's tea? No. She's no fool. She knows better.'
He glanced at her character sheet again in his memories. 'Faithful to the prince, not to anyone but him.' That line glared back at him like an accusation.
Then…what the hell was going on?
Atlas remained silent, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his desk. His fingers drummed rhythmically against the wood, each tap echoing louder than thunder in the stillness of the room.
Sansa shifted uncomfortably, sensing the tension crackling between them like static electricity. She opened her mouth to speak but closed it again, unsure of what to say. Instead, she focused on keeping her breathing steady, though her pulse raced wildly beneath her skin.
"You've been loyal," Atlas finally said, his tone deceptively calm. "To me. Only me."
"Yes, Your Highness," Sansa replied softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Always."
He turned to face her fully, golden eyes boring into hers like twin suns threatening to burn away every secret. "You made this tea, correct?"
Her knees nearly buckled at the question. For a moment, panic surged within her, clawing at her throat like a wild animal desperate for escape. But she forced herself to remain composed, meeting his gaze steadily despite the storm raging inside.
"Y...yes, my lord," she stammered, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. "I prepared everything myself. Nobody else touched it. I swear."
Atlas studied her expression carefully, searching for cracks in her facade. Her trembling hands, the slight quiver in her voice—all signs pointed to genuine fear. Yet doubt gnawed relentlessly at the edges of his trust.
"If it wasn't you…" he began slowly, standing up to pace the room. "And it wasn't me…then who?"
The implications hit him like a battering ram slamming into castle gates. Someone close. Too close. Someone who knew how much he relied on Sansa, how deeply he trusted her. Someone willing to exploit that bond to sow discord.
As Atlas paced, Sansa watched him from the corner of her eye, heart pounding erratically. She hated seeing him like this—tense, suspicious, distant. She wanted to reach out, to pull him close and hold him until the weight pressing down on his shoulders eased even slightly. But she didn't dare move. Not now. Not when his anger simmered dangerously beneath the surface.
Instead, she let her gaze linger on him longer than necessary, drinking in the sight of his broad shoulders, the way his jaw clenched tightly as he thought. There was something undeniably magnetic about him—his raw intensity, his unyielding determination. Even in moments like these, when he teetered precariously on the edge of fury, she found herself drawn to him like moths to flame.
"Your Highness," she ventured hesitantly, stepping closer despite the warning bells ringing in her mind. "If there's anything...…"
Atlas stopped mid-step, turning to face her abruptly. Their proximity startled her—she hadn't realized how near she'd come. Now, mere inches separated them, close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off his body.
"Forget it," he snapped, his voice harsher than intended. "Just…stay safe. Stay close, stay mine."
The possessiveness in his words caught her off guard, sending a shiver coursing through her veins. Was this jealousy speaking? Or something else entirely?
Before she could respond, he grabbed her wrist, pulling her flush against him. His grip was firm yet gentle, a paradox that left her breathless.
"Sansa," he breathed, his voice dropping lower, darker. "Tell me you're mine. Tell me You are really really with Me."
Her pulse skyrocketed, cheeks flushing crimson as his piercing gaze bore into hers. She swallowed hard, struggling to form coherent words. "I—I am, my lord. Always."
For a moment, their faces hovered impossibly close, breaths mingling in the charged air between them. Then, abruptly, Atlas released her, stepping back as if burned.
"Good," he muttered gruffly, turning away to hide the turmoil swirling within him. "Don't forget it."
Sansa exhaled shakily, clutching her chest as though trying to steady her racing heart. Whatever had just transpired, it left her shaken—and yearning for more.