"'Choose?'" she echoed, her laughter hollow and edged with something ancient. "You think this is a choice, Atlas? You think I 'wanted' this?"
Her mental voice cracked, raw as exposed bone.
"I was born into this role. Chained to it before I could walk. Do you know what it's like to have your entire life mapped out in blood and treaties?"
Atlas stepped back, his spectral form falling back. The chill of her anger seeped through him like a curse, cold enough to remember. It felt like home, if "home" was a coffin lined in frost. His hands twitched, fingers curling inward—reflex, defense, denial.
"What are you saying?" he asked, though he already knew. He knew. He just couldn't breathe it in yet.
"Do you really think I'm just a spy? Just a captain soldier of the empire?" she said quietly, each syllable sharp as ice splinters. "No… that was never enough. Not strong enough reason for two collasal party to wage war."
