CHAPTER 426: WHAT’S THE POINT?-I

Atlas saw the slight tremor of Circe’s fingers at his words. He didn’t even need to see her face to imagine the expression she wore— that complicated mix of relief and sorrow, of wanting to believe him but fearing what his promises meant. How foolish, he thought. Hadn’t he made it clear in every action? He would tear down the world to accept her. He would burn the kingdom he once ruled to ash if it dared to hate her again.

That was one path he had already considered— to destroy everything and rebuild Versailles from the ground up. But ever since that night, the one when Circe had broken before him, sobbing at his feet, apologizing for the lives she had taken and the blood she had forced him to spill, Atlas had tried to choose differently. He had stopped reaching for the easy solution of violence.

Perhaps that was why Circe saw him now as gentle, even soft— a man afraid of blood, of sin, of staining his own hands.

"Stop it," Circe whispered, voice trembling. "Do you really have to suffer all over again? Just to save two souls?"

Atlas let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Two souls aren’t so bad, are they?"

"NO!" Her voice cracked sharp and fierce.

"Come on, Circe," he said, closing his bright blue eyes. "You know how I feel about helping them. At least I don’t want those two— the ones I’ve seen right before my eyes— to suffer what we went through."

"They’re not our children," she snapped. "They’re strangers."

He only shook his head, smiling while he does so.

Her fury rose, sharp and trembling. "Do you want to die a fool’s death again? To throw yourself into ruin for others? Will that finally bring you peace, if it costs someone else everything? Did you forget what I did to save you?"

"Then why didn’t you tell me you were saving me?" Atlas murmured.

Her hands, once looped tight around his shoulders, slipped free. He caught them before they could fall away completely. Those hands— so soft, always fragile, with the faint callus of endless hours writing— now belonged to a young man, Noah. Rough. Bony. Strange.

But Atlas didn’t care. He had never cared. Whether Circe’s face, body, or even her gender shifted, his devotion did not. His love had long since surpassed appearances. To him, giving his life for her was as natural as drawing breath.

"You knew me best," he said quietly. "You knew that coffin— your cure— wasn’t healing me. But still, you forced me into it. Because you believe that you were saving me, that you protected me."

"Is this your idea of punishing me?" Circe’s voice, rougher through Noah’s throat, carried a flash of indignation. "To force me into watching you die when even before my death I would give up everything for your life?"

Atlas only chuckled. He turned his chair and faced those borrowed red eyes— unfamiliar features wearing a gaze he knew too well. A gaze filled with grief, always as though she had lost more in love than he ever could.

"Punish you? No. Don’t be absurd, when have I ever have the heart to do that towards you? When you told me you loved Rafael, wasn’t I so calm as I accepted your words?" His smile was faint, almost tender. "You’re silly, to think that you thought I wanted to punish you, when that could never ever happen. So silly, you’re so silly, do you know that?"

"Then stop trying to throw your life away—"

"—And when this is over, where will your soul go?" His interruption struck like a blade. "Back to Hell?"

Circe’s jaw tightened. Her eyes fell, darting toward the floor, the way they always did when she couldn’t hold a lie or when she was too annoyed upon realizing she wasn’t going to win a debate.

"Will you follow me then? Like a dog?" she spat. She always spoke softly but she also knew that Atlas wasn’t the one to hear her and she had to choose sharper words, words that could leave scar to eternity but at least a scar won’t kill him than what he had made up his mind to do, "Isn’t our love already dead, Atlas? Buried the moment you entered that coffin? I made peace with it a century ago."

"Yes." He rose, clasping Noah’s hands firmly, looking straight into her eyes. "I am a dog. Your loyal hound. Pitiful, isn’t it? I’m a pitiful loyal hound who would rather starve beside you than live without you. Haven’t I shown you it so many times? That my life was worth nothing if it isn’t lived with you? But at least I won’t die for nothing. If helping them means I get to follow you... then it’s worth it."

Her eyes flashed, hatred trembling in her voice. "Follow me and I’ll never acknowledge you again."

"Can you?" His question was soft, almost amused.

She faltered. Then, anger curdled into threats. "Even if you give up your life, you’ll never save them. You won’t be able to."

"Who knows?" Atlas shrugged, his tone deceptively light. "I’m more brilliant than you give me credit for. I might just find a way."

"No!" The word tore from her, once, then again, louder, rawer. "NO!"

And slowly, her fury collapsed. The mask of rage cracked, melted—until only sorrow remained. Her face was drenched with it, her voice quaking with a misery too vast for words.

"Can’t you just listen to me for once?" Tears now dripped from her eyes, unfairness and a sense of loss filled her heart as she knew Atlas wasn’t going to change his mind. She held to his shirt, hitting his chest in anger but it felt nothing to him. "I don’t want you to die. You just lived your life. You... still have a lot of future in front of you. Live your new life, away from the kingdom, away from the responsibility of trying to save me. Just because of one stupid promise you made to a young witchling inside a forest, promising her to a future where she would be accepted by everyone, you have to die... can’t you just for once live a life the way you deserve?"