Odin stood at the high terrace of the Great Tower, his gaze sweeping across the vast, glittering expanse of Atlantis. The city stretched beneath him in concentric rings, a perfect design that had stood unchallenged for millennia. Its waterways gleamed in the morning light, a delicate latticework of precision, civilization at its peak. From up here, the city felt untouchable—unchanging, eternal.

  A cool breeze drifted through the open archways, carrying the scent of fresh water from the canals, mingled with the distant tang of the ocean beyond the hills. It was a day of tranquility, the kind of day that had always soothed him.

  But not today.

  Today, Odin found no peace in the wind’s embrace.

  His sharp eyes locked onto the eastern hills, where a disturbance marred the perfect symmetry of Atlantis. His gaze was locked eastward, beyond the city’s final waterway, where something grotesque was taking shape. Even from this distance, the framework of a rising structure could be seen. Workers moved with tireless dedication, carrying materials, reinforcing foundations—Bergelmir’s tower.

  A bitter taste filled Odin’s mouth. He still builds.

  Bergelmir, ever the righteous fool, had thrown himself into this grand delusion, convinced he could somehow shield Atlantis from the catastrophe foretold by Aryabhata. Even after all the scrutiny, all the questioning looks by the Atlanteans, he persisted with building the tower with unknown function. That alone was infuriating. But what enraged Odin most was that, despite everything, people still respected him and did not stop him.

  They should have abandoned him by now. They should have seen his folly for what it was.

  And yet, there he was, commanding men, giving orders with that same unwavering certainty that had made Odin loathe him for eons.

  Odin’s grip tightened around the edge of the terrace.

  What does he think he’s preparing for?

  There was no cataclysm. No impending doom. No force on earth capable of breaking Atlantis. The city was eternal.

  Bergelmir, however, threatened to unravel that certainty. He was gambling everything—his reputation, his position, even his son’s support—on this absurd belief.

  Odin almost pitied him. Almost.

  But in truth, Bergelmir’s blind conviction had given Odin the opportunity he had long craved.

  For centuries, the city had been stable. Too stable. Power did not shift in stability. Bergelmir had been untouchable, his influence woven too deeply into the fabric of the city, the trusted patriarch of Atlantis. His wisdom, his strength, his damned charisma had kept the people bound to him in unwavering loyalty. So long as life remained predictable, there was no room to challenge him.

  Odin had hated every second of it.

  There had been no way to disgrace him. No way to dismantle his legacy. No way to take from him what Odin had always deserved.

  But now?

  Now, he was vulnerable.

  Odin’s lips curled into a small, satisfied smile. You handed me this chance on a silver platter, cousin.

  Yet beneath that pleasure lurked a thought he dared not voice.

  What if he’s right?

  What if, against all reason, against all logic, Bergelmir’s paranoid endeavor actually saved the city?

  That fear gripped Odin with an intensity that made him feel ill. It was the thought that robbed him of sleep, that had made his hands tremble when he wasn’t looking.

  He could not allow it.

  He could not let Bergelmir be proven right.

  If that happened—if he saved Atlantis—then Odin would be nothing more than a footnote in his legend. Just a jealous rival cast aside.

  His heart pounded with rage.

  “Damn you, Bergelmir,” he thought loud while gritting his teeth, his fingers curling into fists. “I will not let you become the hero again. I cannot endure another lifetime beneath you, hearing your praises, watching the people look at you as if you were the only light in this city.”

  The words slipped out before he could stop them.

  He stiffened, glancing around, but only the wind and the seabirds bore witness to his outburst. That was good. No one could ever see this side of him.

  He exhaled, forcing his hands to unclench. He had to remain composed. His mind had to stay sharp.

  Bergelmir had to be dismantled before he could convince others to believe in Aryabhatas warning.

  For that, Odin had needed the council to act. And so, he had conspired with Lyras to ensure that Haldor, Bergelmir’s own son, would be sent to investigate.

  A smirk curled Odin’s lips.

  It must hurt, doesn’t it, Bergelmir? Seeing your own son doubt you?

  Haldor was an upright man. Too principled for his own good. He had inherited Bergelmir’s charisma, his love for the citizens—but he had not inherited his father’s leadership.

  Odin had only needed to remind Haldor of his duties as the head of the great council.

  At first, his plan had been simple. He would force the council’s hand, use their authority to halt the construction outright. But then Ilyria had whispered doubts into his mind. What if I could not dislodge him from his construction project? What if Bergelmir has unseen support? What if stopping him now only makes him stronger? Odin had dismissed such notions at first. But then, the thought had taken root and he hesitated.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Damn you, Ilyria.

  Was direct confrontation the right move? Would the council’s interference give Bergelmir the Plattform to convince others with his Charisma?

  If Odin pushed too soon—if Bergelmir could find support, then everything could backfire. The uncertainty infuriated him. Odin flexed his fingers, ensuring they remained steady.

  Fine.

  He would follow Ilyria’s plan for now. He would not go after Bergelmir directly. He would go after Aryabhata first. It made sense since Aryabhata was the root of this madness. It was he who had first spoken of the cataclysm. It was his warning that had shaken the city’s peace. If he could be discredited, then Bergelmir’s entire mission would crumble alongside him.

  Lyras had already been working behind the scenes, ensuring the city was primed for this. Her men—the same workers currently erecting Bergelmir’s tower—would abandon the project at the right moment.

  The image of a half-finished tower standing uselessly against the skyline was almost poetic.

  A monument to failure.

  Odin exhaled slowly, the edges of his lips curling.

  Yes. Let it stand unfinished. Let it mock him when nothing happens.

  Soon, Aryabhata would be put before the people. Soon, they would see the “Wise Sage” for what he truly was and then, when the time was right—Bergelmir would fall. Odin remained at the high terrace of the Great Tower. His gaze was still locked onto the city, but his mind was already several steps ahead, calculating, adjusting, maneuvering. The waterways shimmered beneath the afternoon sun, their precise concentric rings reinforcing the notion of a city untouched by time. The soft sound of approaching footsteps drew his attention. He did not turn. He already knew who it was.

  Lyras.

  The man stopped beside him, standing with his hands clasped behind his back in his usual self-important pose—an affectation meant to suggest control. But Odin had known Lyras long enough to recognize the barely restrained eagerness beneath his mask. His fingers twitched slightly, his stance too rigid. He was a man hungry for power but did not have the confidence to take it by himself.

  “The city is restless,” Lyras said after a long pause, his gaze following Odin’s across the sprawling avenues and waterways. “The people murmur more than usual. It seems they are beginning to ask the right questions.”

  Odin allowed himself a small, knowing smile.

  They are asking the questions we wanted them to ask.

  The plan was set into motion the moment the council meeting adjourned. Rumors, meticulously sown, began to spread like tendrils of smoke, weaving through the city and seeping into every crevice of public conversation. Whispers grew into murmurs of concern, and concern blossomed into fear. With each retelling, the words twisted, becoming sharper, more urgent, more dire. What began as a faint murmur of “impending doom” soon echoed through the streets, a prophecy unearthed by the Elders and transformed into an inescapable fate. By the time the whispers reached every Atlantean ear, Aryabhata had already been tried and condemned in the court of public opinion. His crimes? Withholding knowledge. Sowing unrest. Undermining the stable order Atlantis had preserved for millennia. Odin and Lyras never needed to lift a finger to confirm the accusations—the people had done that for them. When questioned, Odin remained elusive, neither denying nor affirming the claims. He let them hang in the air, unresolved, festering. And as uncertainty lingered, fear tightened its grip.

  And fear always demands a scapegoat.

  Aryabhata had made that easy.

  And Aryabhata had made it all too easy.

  At first, the people had been intrigued. Many still revered the Wise Sage, seeing him as a paragon of wisdom, a scholar beyond reproach. But when the Atlanteans found him unavailable to address their concerns, their intrigue curdled into frustration. The failure to answer their fears, by not defining the nature of the looming catastrophe, made the frustration boil over.

  What good was a prophecy without clarity? What use was a warning without answers? Uncertainty gave way to impatience. Impatience gave way to Frustration. Frustration gave way to anger. And anger—left unchecked—was what Odin was witnessing right now in the streets of Atlantis.

  By now, Aryabhata’s credibility had eroded like a structure left too long in the tide. The same citizens who once praised him now questioned his wisdom. And especially in Atlantis, when doubt settled upon a person, it spread like a disease.

  While this was happening, it had not helped that Bergelmir had begun erecting his tower—a looming monument to their worst fears. It had become the physical embodiment of their unease, a structure that forced them to confront the one thing Atlanteans had spent millennia suppressing. The taboo of death. Odin’s lips pressed into a thin line.

  This is why they panic.

  It had always been this way. Since the earliest days of the city, death had been kept far away from Atlantis. The Elders had ensured it with the Twin Migrations Celebrations. It was why the Last Walk existed—to keep death away from their streets, from their homes, from their thoughts. It was absolute. When an Atlantean grew weary of life, they left the city. They stepped beyond the influence of the crystals, beyond the reach of their endless youth. Outside, time reclaimed them. Within decades they would wither and die.

  No one thought much about it and no one questioned it. And then Aryabhata had shattered the distance the Atlanteans had created between them and the existential questions of life. He had seen something in the stars. Something even he could not explain even with the Books of the Elders. That terrified them more than anything else. They did not fear sickness. They did not fear the passage of time. They feared uncertainty that the rumors suggested. Odin knew exactly how to use their fears.

  "They grow ever more impatient," Lyras continued, a note of satisfaction creeping into his voice.

  "Their faith in Aryabhata weakens with every passing day. And you were right—the longer he fails to provide an explanation, the faster his reputation crumbles."

  Odin finally turned to look at him. Lyras was smiling now, careful and measured, but Odin saw the ambition behind his eyes. Lyras had always been predictable, short-sighted, hungry. He opposed Bergelmir’s projects not out of ideological conviction, but because they diverted resources from his own grand vision for the 25th Millennial Celebrations. He did not believe in any threat to Atlantis. He thrived in a city that remained unchanged. A place where the only challenge was outdoing the last great spectacle. Odin had let him believe they were equals in this. That he was helping him in his little scheme and Lyras was glad to have a partner in his schemes.

  "The council must act," Lyras said, his eyes gleaming. "The citizens are demanding answers and they will not tolerate Aryabhata’s silence much longer."

  Odin nodded as if he had only now come to the same conclusion.

  "Then you will make sure the council summons him." Lyras nodded, his smirk widening.

  "Haldor will have no choice but to call him forward and this time, we will ensure the people are there to witness his humiliation."

  Aryabhata would not be questioned in the secrecy of the council chambers.

  The great Public Hall—normally reserved for declarations and celebrations—would serve as the stage where his fate would be sealed. Odin could already see it. The Wise Sage of Atlantis, standing before the council, before the very people who had once revered him. They would demand answers. And when he failed—when his ignorance became evident—they would demand he take back his words. And the hesitation that follows will be his downfall.

  "He won’t have a choice," Odin murmured, a smirk curling on his lips.

  "The pressure will be unbearable. The people will demand certainty, and when he cannot give it, they will see him for what he truly is—a relic clinging to dying beliefs."

  Odin tilted his head. "And if he refuses?"

  "Then he will be condemned by his own stubbornness," Lyras said smoothly. "Atlantis does not tolerate those who sow discord without reason. If he cannot retract his words, then he must simply take the Last Walk."

  With Aryabhata gone, Bergelmir’s resistance would crumble. His half-built tower would stand uselessly at the city’s edge, a monument to a fool’s errand.

  Odin studied Lyras carefully. The man thought he was a step ahead. That he had already seen how this would play out. Odin knew that Lyras was not a man capable of acting against him. For now he was sent by the heavens. But he was still a fool.

  "The Last Walk." said Odin.

  It was worse than jail, it was the end. And Aryabhata, the fool, would walk into that darkness. Odin would make sure of it.

  "He will break."

  Odin turned back toward the city.

  "Summon the council. Have the people attend as soon as possible."

  Lyras hesitated for only a moment—irritated by Odin’s commanding tone—before nodding.

  As the man left, Odin exhaled consciously, savoring what was to come.

  Aryabhata thought himself a seeker of truth.

  But in Atlantis, power did not rest in knowledge.

  It rested in perception.

  And Aryabhata’s time was about to run out.