The crystal-powered mechanism hummed softly as the door slid open, another marvel of Atlantean engineering that had become so commonplace, it was often taken for granted. Bergelmir, moving down the marble-lined corridor, felt a chill despite the gentle glow emitted from the crystal sconces. He heard voices drifting through the air—urgent, tense voices that made his steps falter. Odin and Aryabhata.
Bergelmir’s breath caught in his chest. He pressed himself against the cool stone wall, the smooth surface grounding him as he strained to listen. Eavesdropping wasn’t something he usually condoned, but there was an edge in Aryabhata’s voice he had never heard before—a tone that spoke of dread, of a burden too great to carry alone.
“By all that is good, Odin, you must believe me. We are in imminent danger,” Aryabhata’s voice echoed down the corridor, raw with urgency.
Bergelmir frowned, his brow creasing. He had known Aryabhata for centuries, had witnessed his unwavering composure through countless debates and challenges. This desperation was new, unsettling.
“You cannot be serious, old friend,” Odin’s voice responded, sharp and dismissive. The disdain in his tone stung Bergelmir’s ears. “Are you really suggesting that the world will be engulfed in a global cataclysm? Who in the council will believe you?”
Odin’s always been confident to a fault, Bergelmir thought, the familiar pang of exasperation washing over him. Odin’s commanding presence was legendary, but his stubbornness had always been an equal match.
“Odin, don’t threaten me with such trifles. The lives of all Atlanteans are in danger!” The raw emotion in Aryabhata’s plea resonated through the corridor. Bergelmir felt his chest tighten at the sheer force of it.
“I am not stopping you from making a fool of yourself,” Odin’s retort came, cold and cutting. Bergelmir’s jaw clenched. There was something deeper here, something more than simple skepticism. He could almost see the disdain carved into Odin’s sharp features, the flicker of calculation that never truly left his eyes.
“I need your support,” Aryabhata’s voice dropped, taking on a tone of pleading. “Everyone trusts you and listens to you.”
Bergelmir’s fingers flexed against the stone wall. The desperation in Aryabhata’s voice was a knife twisting in his gut. How could Odin be so blind? He fought the urge to burst into the room, to stand by Aryabhata and force Odin to see reason.
“You want me to support you, even though I do not believe you?” Odin’s response was smoother now, practiced. Bergelmir’s eyes narrowed. Always the politician, aren’t you, cousin? The older man’s mind was racing. Why refuse Aryabhata’s call so adamantly?
Stolen novel; please report.
“For the sake of Atlantis,” Aryabhata’s voice trembled with conviction.
“Tell me what evidence you have,” Odin’s voice dropped to a chilling calm.
“Our Elders talked about a cataclysm, and I believe it’s about to happen again.”
Odin’s scoff was audible even through the thick stone walls. “Your evidence lies in the rambling of the Elders? Everyone already thinks of you as an odd person for reading too much into the old books of your ancestors. I tell you again, do not make a joke of yourself. Don’t tarnish your reputation so that one day, your position as head of the observatory will be taken away from you.”
Bergelmir closed his eyes, Aryabhata’s expression burned into his mind’s eye. The man’s passion for Atlantis was unrivaled, and to hear him reduced to such pleading—Has the council lost its sense? Has Odin?
“Please, Odin, you have to trust me—”
Trust. How many times had they spoken of trust? Bergelmir’s memories of late nights spent debating the nature of their world came rushing back. The fire in Aryabhata’s eyes then had been one of curiosity and excitement, not this bleak desperation.
“You have no definitive proof for your theory,” Odin interrupted, his voice harsh. “Have you found Nahrak? Yes, I know what’s written in those books. You forget I heard the stories directly from the Elders. I never believed them then, and I don’t believe in them now. If you keep uttering this nonsense without a shred of evidence, I will oppose you tomorrow in the council.”
Bergelmir’s eyes flew open. Oppose? This was more than mere dismissal. There was a finality in Odin’s voice, a warning.
“You are not listening,” Aryabhata’s voice rose, cracking with emotion. “If we do not prepare, Odin, it won’t just be Atlantis that falls—everything we’ve built, our knowledge, our people, will be lost to history, just as it happened to those before us.”
“ENOUGH!” Odin’s voice thundered, making Bergelmir flinch. “Aryabhata, I am not stopping you from convening with the council tomorrow, but know that your chances to make them listen to you are practically zero. Now take these papers and throw them in the bin.”
The rustle of papers followed, the soft shuffling sound of documents scattering across the floor. Footsteps echoed in the corridor—Odin’s confident stride fading, replaced by Aryabhata’s slower, burdened steps moving in the opposite direction.
As silence descended once more, Bergelmir stepped out from the shadows, his eyes scanning the mess of papers strewn across the floor. His fingers trembled as he gathered them, one by one. The weight of the documents felt heavier than parchment—they held the possibility of salvation, or doom.
What are you hiding, cousin? The question lodged itself in his mind like a thorn. He felt the room closing in on him, the gravity of what he had just witnessed pulling at him. He needed answers, and he needed them before the council meeting.
The cool wind of the corridor swept over him, carrying with it the distant murmur of the city preparing for night. But within Bergelmir, the weight of unspoken questions grew heavier, settling into a quiet resolve.
Atlantis must not fall.