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... eace — but a silence that followed awe, as if even the air had forgotten how to breathe.

Atlas hovered above the ruined citadel of Dagon, his white cloak whispering against the dead wind. The black towers beneath him glowed with the reflected fire of the battlefield below.

Every gust carried screams — divine and infernal — and the wet percussion of dying gods. The war of realms unfolded beneath his feet, a tapestry of ruin painted in gold and ash.

And beside him, floating ...

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