God of wisdom

A salty wind ruffled the golden locks of hair that had escaped from beneath his helmet, but Atlas, God of Wisdom, didn't straighten them. With gray eyes, cold as the winter sky, he gazed at the white mountain ahead—a temple carved from stone and foam.

He walked alone. Without an army, without heralds. His mere presence had always been enough to make mortals open their gates and bow. But today, he wasn't seeking respect. He was seeking an explanation.

Hugo's Temple stood on the coastal slope—towers curved like shells, columns that embodied not war but beauty. Gardens descended like veils of flowers. Atlas hated the smell. Not because it was bad—but because it beckoned him to relax his guard.

He entered unannounced. The heavy soles of his armor struck the white marble with the weight of hundreds of won wars. On his chest, a silver hawk glared with the same sternness as he himself.

Hugo, the God of Love, lay on velvet pillows, swathed in fabrics as thin as water. Golden ornaments clung to his body as if they were part of him.

Atlas stood still, impenetrable as a statue. He removed his helmet—his thick, long hair was tied in a high bun, his face stern and serious.

"Hugo. We need to talk. The conflicts between Serenia and Therion have reached a fever pitch and are negatively impacting harvests on both sides. Enough border disputes. My people will commit massacre if I don't promise them a swift resolution. Your accusations require restraint."