Rain continued falling over Berm the next morning.
Not heavy rain.
Just steady gray drizzle covering the streets in damp mist while wagons rolled slowly through muddy roads beneath dark skies. Merchants pulled cloaks tighter across their shoulders while workers hurried between buildings carrying crates beneath canvas coverings.
The city felt quieter whenever it rained.
But even through the weather, rumors about Atlas still moved through Berm like wildfire.
The Thunder Soldiers.
The Flying Steel.
The men who destroyed the Black Hollow.
Every tavern seemed to have a different version now.
Some claimed Atlas commanded lightning itself.
Others insisted Marcus was a hidden royal from a distant kingdom.
One particularly drunk merchant reportedly claimed the Black Hawk helicopters were mechanical dragons captured from ancient ruins.
That story spread surprisingly far.
Inside Atlas Base, however, nobody cared much about rumors anymore.
They had work.
Lots of it.
