CHAPTER 239: CHAPTER 240: PACK UP

Aurora sat beside Loki, the silence between them raw, like an old wound that refused to scab. Her hands rested limp in her lap, and her back hunched forward with the weight of everything she couldn’t say. The room smelled faintly of burnt ozone, the lingering scent of divine lightning etched into the stone walls and wood panels, like it had marked the air itself with memory.

She looked down at him.

Still.

His skin was cracked, cratered. His arm disfigured in ways that no healing spell could comprehend, like the divine wrath had fused his bones with molten regret. His breath came in shallow wisps, like his soul wasn’t sure if it still wanted to remain tethered.

Aurora blinked slowly.

She remembered the way the sky tore open when it struck him. A jagged, divine fang tearing through clouds. A sky split in fury—like a god screaming in silence.

And he’d taken it. All of it. To protect them.

She would’ve cried, but that river had already run dry. Tears had become memories now. Heavy ones. Her body had wept itself empty in the night he fell.

Instead, she just whispered, voice stripped of drama.

"...Idiot."

Her foot jolted, kicking the wooden frame of the bed with a dull thud. A sharp breath slipped through her teeth. It didn’t make her feel better. But it made the moment real.

She clenched her jaw.

Where was the Amrit?

She knew its name only recently. A whisper from legends. A drink that healed not the body, but the soul. If it existed, if it was real—it was their only chance.

Aurora would’ve gone for it herself, gladly. She’d walk through flame, bleed in sand, drown in salt. It was her burden. Her failure. Her friend.

But the problem wasn’t willingness.

It was knowing.

She didn’t know where it was. Not even her master, who’d lived longer than kings and monsters, had heard of it. He’d flipped through his scrolls and shaken his old, crumbling head. "A myth," he muttered. "If it ever was."

Yet one man—no, one boy—claimed otherwise.

Atlas.

She bit down on her lip, as if just thinking of him was too much. A paradox wrapped in magic and madness. The miracle man. The hero. The pervert. The one who slept with his own stepmother. The one who faced down a god and made it blink.

She could still see the scene in her head—

Ousorous, the devourer god, drunk on arrogance, swallowing magic and light like wine.

Loki’s golden sun crushed like a toy.

And yet, he stopped before Atlas.

Frozen.

Like the cosmos held its breath.

What kind of boy makes a god hesitate?

A soft, gurgled sound broke her thoughts.

"Auloloooaa..."

Loki’s voice, slurred and wet, slipped from his cracked lips.

Aurora’s breath hitched.

She placed a trembling palm on his burnt arm. Skin like shattered obsidian under her touch. Still warm. Still alive.

"...It’s gonna be okay." She whispered, voice cracked like broken porcelain.

"Miracle man will bring upon another miracle. I am sure..."

"...yeah...if it’s anyone, it’s him."

The new voice made her jolt slightly.

She turned and saw Veil, the shadow beast, half-formed and crouched beside her like a reflection. His face a swirl of darkness, his form vaguely humanoid—almost comforting now, in its familiarity.

Veil, the monster that followed Atlas like a second shadow.

Veil, who laughed like death and cared like a brother.

Aurora didn’t know when she’d started trusting him.

But she had.

"...I see..." she murmured, not pulling her hand away from Loki. "...you’ve seen him in action then?"

"Up close." Veil nodded, arms crossed over his chest of smoke. "Very up close. That nuthead ate the damn Life Fruit for god’s sake."

"...He what?"

"The Life Fruit. Forbidden. Untouched by mortals for a thousand years." Veil’s grin spread wider. "He took a bite like it was a mango. Didn’t even blink."

Aurora’s lips parted slightly.

Her throat tightened.

Gods, what kind of person was he?

"...Tell me more," she said.

Veil’s eyes flickered like dying stars. He leaned closer.

"No."

A third voice echoed from the doorway.

Aurora’s stomach flipped.

Atlas.

He stood in the frame like a storm contained in skin. His cloak tattered at the edges, caked with soot and ash. His hair was tousled, and his eyes—his eyes—glowed faintly under the dim candlelight.

The Book of the Damned hovered behind him like a loyal curse, its pages fluttering with invisible wind, bleeding whispers only demons would understand.

Aurora blinked once.

"...That was fast. Took you..."

She checked the dusty clock on the wall.

"...the whole night. Couldn’t keep it in your pants, could you?"

Atlas didn’t respond.

He just stepped into the room, a deliberate quietness to his stride, like the air dared not move until he did.

He held the book in his hand now.

It pulsed faintly, like a dying heart wrapped in old leather—too still to be alive, too heavy to be dead. The Book of the Damned hovered with a breath of its own before dropping into his palm, its weight bending his wrist just slightly.

Then, without ceremony, he tossed it to Aurora.

She caught it mid-air with both hands, the force of it knocking her back a half-step. The cover was cold. Colder than it should’ve been. The leather had the texture of old skin, waxy and lined, and it vibrated faintly, like something inside was still trying to breathe. Her fingers sank into grooves that felt like scars.

It wasn’t just a book.

It was a graveyard.

She stared at it, unsure if she should hold it tighter or throw it out the window.

Atlas’s voice broke the tension.

"Page ninety-six," he said, low and hoarse. Like even saying the number cost something.

Aurora hesitated—just for a breath.

Then opened it.

The pages hissed as they parted, dry and brittle, like they resented being disturbed. Each turn sounded like a whisper, or a warning. And then—

There.

Page 96.

She found the image almost immediately.

Drawn in ink that pulsed violet like veins under skin, a key stared back at her. Not a key—the key. Twisted silver, elongated like it had been stretched through time, and its teeth were shaped like screaming mouths, locked in eternal agony. The kind of design no sane mind would conjure. The kind of thing only Hell would forge.

As her eyes took it in, something in her stomach turned—sharp and sudden. Her gut twisted like her body knew more than her mind did.

The image repelled her.

Made her feel watched.

Made her feel known.

She pressed her thumb to the page and pulled it back quickly, startled. The paper had felt warm—wet, almost. As if the ink had bled into something still alive.

"What of it?" she asked, voice taut. Her eyes narrowed, but her shoulders had already stiffened.

Atlas didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he stepped forward, his boots silent on the old floorboards, gaze locked to hers like they were standing on the edge of something neither could name.

"You know where it is?"

Aurora glanced back down.

Her eyes scanned the key again, as if searching for a clue. And then... something unlocked.

A whisper of memory.

A hallway of flame.

A staircase with no bottom.

Screams. Cold. Silver. Chains.

She swallowed hard.

"...Yeah," she breathed, voice quiet, distant. Like the words were being pulled from the bottom of a well. "At the middle of.....Hell."

Atlas smiled—not with joy, but with grim satisfaction. Like he’d already made peace with what that meant.

"Then pack your bags," he said.

A pause.

A breath.

"We’re going to Hell."

*********

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