The triangle-shaped alarm crystal next to Odin’s bed hummed, sending rhythmic pulses of energy that stirred him awake at precisely the time he had set the night before. The early morning sunlight streamed through the expansive windows of his stately home, situated in one of the most prominent locations overlooking the inner channel. The morning light shimmered on the crystal-clear, blue water, casting a dance of light that played across the walls in a mesmerizing display. If today hadn’t been the second council meeting to discuss Aryabhata’s dire warnings, Odin would have gladly spent the day in his garden or swimming in the channel, savoring the fine weather.
I would rather spend the day in my garden, he thought, a rare note of wistfulness seeping into his otherwise disciplined mind.
Odin exhaled slowly, trying to push thoughts of the impending meeting aside, focusing instead on the tranquil view outside his window. The more he tried, the louder Aryabhata’s warnings seemed to echo in his mind—insistent, grating, as if daring him to respond. His hands, which had remained steady through the centuries, tightened involuntarily before he forced them to relax, reclaiming his composed, almost statuesque demeanor.
He rose from bed and moved through his morning routine—a ritual he had followed with unwavering precision for millennia. As he splashed water infused with traces of the life-preserving crystals over his face, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the polished surface of the basin. The sunlight illuminated the strong lines of his jaw, the steely resolve in his eyes, and—for the first time—a subtle tremor in his hands. A tremor that hadn’t been there before.
This is nothing. Just fatigue, he assured himself, but a shadow of unease crossed his features. He clenched his jaw and pushed the thought away.
Dressed in robes embroidered with intricate patterns of deep blue and gold—symbols of his status and lineage—Odin sat at the polished marble table for breakfast. The spread was simple yet elegant: fresh fruits, warm bread, and spiced tea. Each bite was deliberate, each movement measured as he sought to anchor himself in the familiar. The rhythm of his routine was a fortress against the chaos of uncertainty.
"The secret of longevity does not lie so much in the power of the crystals as in the way one greets each morning," Aryabhata had once said, his voice imbued with the fervor of conviction. "You either rise ready to live another day, or you inch closer to leaving Atlantis behind." The memory came unbidden, and Odin’s expression tightened.
Living for the sake of learning, he scoffed inwardly, irritation flaring in his chest. The most foolish reason to exist. Why did that old sentiment resurface now?
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He took another deliberate sip of tea, savoring its warmth as he tried to analyze the sudden resurgence of old memories. The silence of the room was punctuated only by the faint murmur of the channel outside, a soothing sound that usually brought him peace. But not today.
Where did Aryabhata get the notion that Atlantis was on the brink of disaster? Odin’s eyes narrowed, his mind dissecting every conversation, every word from the sage. He doesn’t even know what form this supposed cataclysm will take. How does he expect the council to side with him? He exhaled sharply. What are we supposed to tell the people? Prepare for an abstract disaster foretold in cryptic texts, with no shape or timeline? Ridiculous.
The thought gnawed at him, stoking a simmering frustration. Aryabhata’s warnings threatened more than just the city’s peace—they threatened the House of Mardan’s standing, Odin’s standing. If the council took the warnings seriously and Bergelmir played the hero, Odin knew the implications. The House of Mardan would lose its standing to the House of Farman once and for all.
No, he thought fiercely, setting his cup down with a click. That cannot happen.
Odin had never considered Aryabhata an adversary—not until now. They had grown up together, Aryabhata often looking up to him as an elder brother, following him through the forests and hills when the world was still new and their settlement was but a cluster of huts. There was a time when he, Bergelmir, and Aryabhata were inseparable, three spirits bound by dreams of what Atlantis could become.
“And now he comes with this absurd notion of a cataclysm,” Odin muttered, pacing the length of the room. His eyes darted to the garden outside, a sanctuary he now had no time to enjoy. “If he’s right, if the city falters, Bergelmir will seize the moment. I—Odin—will NOT LOOSE TO HIM AGAIN!”
A surge of rage erupted within him, sudden and consuming. He swept a delicate crystal figurine from the table, watching it shatter into countless fragments that glistened like fallen stars. “Never! I shall never let that happen!” The roar echoed through the room, dissipating into a silence that buzzed with tension.
His chest heaved, the fury slowly ebbing as he forced himself to breathe deeply. He glanced down at the shattered pieces, a moment of clarity piercing through the storm. The broken crystal was a reflection of the fractures he felt deep within—the unspoken fear, the gnawing jealousy, the realization that his grasp on power might be slipping.
Control yourself, he commanded inwardly, willing the anger away. I will not let Bergelmir steal the limelight again.
Odin straightened, eyes hardening with newfound resolve. The cataclysm Aryabhata fears will not happen—and even if it does, I will ensure Bergelmir’s fall. The plan formed in his mind, cold and calculated. He would make Bergelmir’s disgrace swift, public, and irreversible.
He walked to the window, gazing out at the city he had helped shape. The sun bathed Atlantis in a warm glow, oblivious to the quiet battle waging within its leaders. Odin’s lips curled into a thin smile, more shadow than mirth.
Let them come to the council. Let them speak. But this time, he will loose.