The crystal dome of the palace was splintering.
Shards of the transparent crystal rained down, refracting prismatic light as they fell. Five-year-old ATLAS huddled behind a pillar, watching the fragments crash into the marble floor with a deafening, shrill screech.
The air reeked of burning.
Screams echoed in the distance, alongside a low, unearthly hum that did not belong to this world. ATLAS clamped his hands over his ears, but the sound slipped through his fingers and burrowed straight into his skull. He was terrified, his small body trembling uncontrollably.
"Mother…" His voice was barely a whisper.
No one answered.
At the far end of the great hall, the Archprincess knelt on the floor. Her gown was torn to shreds, revealing the gashes beneath. Blood pooled across the marble, a thin crimson line snaking toward the pillar where ATLAS hid.
She did not look at him. Her gaze was fixed on the figures advancing in the distance: the men in black robes.
They strode through the hall, their boots crushing something beneath them with every step. Their footsteps were heavy, rhythmic, like the beat of some ancient, funereal drum. ATLAS could hear them speaking, but could not make out the words. Their voices were low, gravelly, as if they were rising from the depths of the earth itself.
"Have you found him?" One voice demanded.
"No. The boy has escaped." Another replied.
The Archprincess spun around suddenly, summoning the last of her strength to face the pillar where ATLAS hid. There was no fear in her eyes—only an unshakable, unyielding resolve. She mouthed three words, silent and unwavering.
Live on.
In the next instant, a bolt of black light pierced clean through her body.
ATLAS saw it all. He watched as his mother's body turned translucent in that instant, her form fading away into the black light. He tried to scream, but no sound would come out of his throat. He could only stare, eyes wide, frozen in place.
All of Atlantis was trembling.
It was not an earthquake. Something was tearing the realm apart from within. ATLAS could feel the floor sinking beneath him, the walls tilting around him. The ancient magic arrays—their blue glow having held the kingdom aloft for thousands of years—snuffed out in an instant.
Darkness swallowed the hall whole.
Only the fire remained, raging. Red, orange, even inky black flames surged from every direction, lapping at every corner of the crystal palace. ATLAS could feel the searing heat, could taste the acrid smoke in the air.
He ran.
He had no idea where he was going—he only knew he had to get away from the Black Robes. His small legs trembled, threatening to give out beneath him with every step, but he kept running. He fled through the great hall, down endless corridors, past the rooms where he had once played and laughed.
Everything was falling apart.
The ceiling caved in behind him, shattering the marble floor to dust. ATLAS did not look back. He just kept running. His lungs burned with every breath, his legs felt like they would give out at any moment, but he ran on.
He reached the deepest heart of the crystal palace.
It was a sealed chamber, and at its center rested a crystal coffin. ATLAS could not make out what lay inside it, but he acted on instinct alone. He climbed inside, curling himself into the farthest corner of the casket.
The sounds outside were drawing closer.
The footsteps of the Black Robes, the crackle of the flames, the deafening roar of collapsing stone—all of it merged into a single, deafening symphony of the apocalypse. ATLAS clamped his hands over his ears, screwed his eyes shut, and willed himself to disappear.
Then everything stopped.
Not the sounds. It was ATLAS who stopped hearing them. He felt himself sinking, frigid water closing in around him. The crystal coffin was adrift, sinking slowly into the endless depths of the ocean.
ATLAS opened his eyes, staring out through the transparent crystal.
Atlantis was sinking.
The entire continent was falling into the sea. The towering spires, the glittering towers, every place he had ever called home—all of it was sinking down, down into the dark water. The ocean flooded into every crack, every crevice, swallowing every last corner of the kingdom whole.
ATLAS saw a figure.
It was one of the Black Robes, thrashing in the seawater. He was shouting something, but his voice was snuffed out by the water. His arms flailed, grasping for something, anything—but there was nothing. He sank, just like that, vanishing into the darkness.
There were other figures. Hundreds of them.
They were all sinking.
ATLAS felt no joy. He only watched, frozen, as it all unfolded. His eyes were dry, yet tears streamed down his face. He did not know why he was crying.
The crystal coffin sank further.
Down.
Down.
Down.
Until everything faded to black.
When ATLAS opened his eyes again, he was lying on a tattered fishing net, coughing up mouthful after mouthful of seawater. A rough, calloused hand slapped his back firmly.
"Welcome back, kid." A gravelly voice rumbled.
ATLAS blinked his eyes open, coming face to face with a stranger's sun-darkened face. He was a fisherman, and there was nothing extraordinary in his gaze—only the quiet pity of an ordinary man.
"What's your name, kid?" The fisherman asked.
ATLAS opened his mouth. He wanted to say a thousand things, but in the end, he said nothing at all. He only stared at the stranger, then out at the endless sea stretching out behind him, and spoke in a voice so quiet it was almost lost to the wind.
"ATLAS."
"Alright then, ATLAS," the fisherman clapped him on the shoulder, "welcome to the Southern Wasteland Prefecture."
In that instant, the life ATLAS had once known was gone forever.