It was not just once or twice—it happened the third time now. If Atlas remembered clearly—and he always did—the tea would shimmer orange for a fleeting moment before shifting to green. A slow transformation, like watching rust bloom on iron left too long in rain.
He sipped it anyway, letting the warmth spread through him like a balm over raw nerves. The taste was perfect, as usual: bitter undertones balanced by sweetness that lingered on his tongue like an unspoken promise. Still, his golden eyes flickered faintly under the dim light of the study, scanning the liquid one last time. Orange meant harmful, but green…green meant safe. So why didn't he feel reassured?
"Great as usual, Sansa," Atlas murmured, setting the cup down with deliberate care. His voice carried a practiced ease, masking the storm brewing beneath his skin.
Sansa nodded silently, her blue eyes lowered demurely, though something restless twitched at the edge of her expression. She waited—always waiting—for something to happen. But nothing ever did. Not anymore.
'Did the king give me the wrong .....' she thought, fingers brushing absently against the fabric of her skirt. 'No! He knows better. Much more than me, who is barely sixteen.'
Her faith in him was absolute, unwavering even when logic screamed otherwise. It wasn't blind trust; it was devotion carved from years of dependence and silent promises kept between them. Yet doubt gnawed at her edges, small but persistent—a splinter lodged deep where no one could see.
Days passed, each marked by Atlas's relentless drive to reshape the kingdom piece by bloody piece. His ideas were bold, almost reckless in their ambition: proper hygiene protocols for servants, training systems designed to elevate maids into skilled workers, reforms aimed at reducing waste and corruption within palace walls. Noble families began taking notice—not all of them, of course, but enough. Enough to whisper his name in corridors they once deemed untouchable.
And today, another decree burned bright red under molten wax, stamped with his insignia. A single document carrying weight heavier than gold itself.
"...A bold move indeed," Claire declared, analyzing the royal order.
"Gathering all the talent in one place... What are they going to do with these builders, healers, and... what are these... 'entertainers'?" she muttered. "Does His Highness want entertainment?"
Atlas leaned back in his chair, arms crossed casually over his chest. Beneath the surface calm, his mind churned furiously, calculating angles and counterangles. Claire wasn't here to praise him; she was here to probe. To test how far he'd come since assuming the ring.
"...our kingdom is lacking in many ways after Father's downfall," Atlas replied smoothly, meeting her gaze head-on. "The treasury funds nearly everything now. Change needs to be swift and impactful."
He gestured toward the stack of bills piled haphazardly on his desk. Numbers scrawled in ink, bleeding despair onto paper. "My stepmother's been busy this month. Spending habits are literally…"
"Horrendous," Claire interjected, finishing his sentence with razor precision. Her lips curled into a smirk, equal parts approval and mockery.
Atlas mirrored her smile, though his carried a darker edge. "Oh, how you know me, Aunt Claire. So, my new decree meets your satisfaction?"
Claire tilted her head slightly, stepping closer until her perfume filled the space between them—sweet yet suffocating, like flowers wilting in summer heat. "…your talent still astounds me, Atlas," she purred, leaning in until her breath grazed his ear. "But entertainers? You could've simply asked if you craved such distractions so desperately."
Her intoxicating perfume lingered in his nose, as his eyes could easily see her pale soft yet bouncy chest.
He clenched his jaw, acutely aware of her proximity. Too close. Far too close. His leg shifted instinctively, crossing over the other to hide what couldn't remain hidden. At fourteen, arousal had become an unwanted companion, rising unbidden whenever it pleased. Today, it chose the worst possible moment.
'God damn it, My hormones are actually getting worse,' he cursed inwardly, gripping the armrest tightly. 'And this absolute hot milf of a woman has really no concept of boundaries.'
With forced composure, he placed a hand on her shoulder—pale, soft, yielding—and gently pushed her away.
"Such grateful words," he said dryly, his voice layered thick with sarcasm. "But no, these reforms aren't for me. They're for the people. Food and safety alone won't suffice forever. Without distraction, rebellion festers like rot in wood. Entertainment keeps them occupied—and complacent."
Claire chuckled softly, her gaze lingering pointedly on his crossed legs. "You're absolutely right, dear nephew. Genius indeed. Most rulers rely on religion or brute force, but using entertainment as control? That's innovative. I approve."
Her approval tasted sour, like spoiled wine, but Atlas accepted it regardless. Approval from Claire was currency, however tainted
As they were deep in their usual discussion—Claire dissecting Atlas's every move like a surgeon carving into flesh—Sansa burst through the door without knocking. Her blue eyes wild, frantic, her chest heaving as though she'd run straight from the pits of hell itself.
"Your Highness, your highness!" she gasped, clutching a crumpled piece of paper so tightly it might tear under her trembling fingers.
Atlas rose immediately, his golden gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that could melt steel. He crossed the room in three strides, seizing her shoulders gently but firmly, grounding her as much as himself. His voice softened, almost tender despite the storm brewing within him. "…What happened, Sansa?"
She said nothing, merely thrusting the paper into his hands before collapsing slightly against him, overwhelmed by whatever had driven her here. Atlas frowned, taking the document carefully. It looked eerily familiar—the same type of parchment he'd just used to draft one of his decrees. The ink was fresh, still faintly smudging beneath his fingertips.
And then he read.
Each sentence hit him like a hammer blow, cracking open old wounds and carving new ones. By the third line, his jaw clenched tight enough to shatter teeth. By the fifth, his vision blurred red around the edges. And by the end…his entire body vibrated with barely contained fury. His golden eyes flared crimson, burning brighter than molten gold.
Claire stepped closer, her own expression shifting from curiosity to alarm as she watched the transformation. Without waiting for permission, she snatched the paper from his grip, scanning its contents rapidly. Her lips parted in shock, then curled into a sneer of pure disdain.
"…This is utter bullshit!!!" Claire shrieked, her voice slicing through the air like shattered glass. She reached the final lines, her tone dropping dangerously low. "…And it's signed by both the king—and…" She hesitated, glancing at Atlas, who radiated rage like a sun about to go supernova. "…the queen."
Atlas didn't respond. Instead, he turned on his heel, moving with purposeful strides toward the door. Every step felt like thunder rolling across plains, each footfall reverberating through the palace halls. Even Darius, who lingered nearby ready to confront him over some trivial matter, froze mid-sentence upon seeing the prince's face. Whatever fire burned inside Atlas now wasn't meant for anyone else—it was aimed directly at the source.
"Royalty drama incoming…" Darius muttered under his breath, stepping aside wisely. No one wanted to stand between Atlas and his wrath today.
Atlas reached the gates of the royal chamber, his breathing steady despite the inferno raging inside him. For a moment, he paused, leaning heavily against the cold stone wall as if drawing strength from its unyielding surface. Inhale. Exhale. Slowly, deliberately.
"Let it pass through you," he whispered to himself, repeating words Kury had drilled into his head during training sessions. "Don't let it consume you."
But how could he not? This betrayal cut deeper than any blade ever could. Not just because of what it represented—a deliberate undermining of his authority—but because of 'who' orchestrated it. That woman. That venomous snake wearing the crown.
"Come in!"
The voice echoed sharply, commanding and impatient. Henry. Of course, the king knew he would come—even before he knocked. How? Perhaps instinct born of decades ruling this chaotic kingdom. Or perhaps Isabella had already warned him.
Atlas entered, his face calm, his breathing controlled. But the anger simmered just below the surface, threatening to boil over at any moment. And when his gaze landed on the other occupant of the room, seated regally beside the dying king, all pretense of composure vanished.
"…Queen Isabella," Atlas growled, his voice dripping with disdain sharp enough to draw blood.
"…Atlas," Isabella replied smoothly, her lips curling into a sly, almost predatory smile.
***
Throw some stones if you guys don't mind.