"The Prince of Berkimhum," she roared, "is ALIVE!"
It hit like a hammer.
Gasps.
Cries.
A hundred voices surged, then drowned in their own disbelief.
Even Henry—grey, immovable Henry—staggered. His cane clattered against the marble as he turned, eyes wide, mouth parted.
He didn't speak.
Couldn't.
"AND HE'S COMING BACK!"
That did it.
The dam shattered.
The city screamed.
From the highest terraces to the blood-soaked courtyards, a single name ripped through the haze like prophecy fulfilled in flame:
Atlas.
Not as a boy.
Not even as a prince.
But as a myth reborn.
Lara felt the roar ripple through her ribs like a second heartbeat.
And still, she stood tall.
Unblinking.
Unyielding.
Behind her, nobles collapsed into hysteria.
A marquess dropped his wine. A countess nearly fainted. Someone shouted about warding glyphs. Another screamed that it was treason to invoke the name of a dead heir.
But the streets didn't care.
The people didn't care.
