The morning light bled through the smoke hole of the longhouse, painting golden stripes across the packed earth floor. Adrestus stood at the center of those stripes, his arms raised, his chest bare, his body a map of scars that had not been there a year ago. The wound from Kratos's Blade had healed into a thick ridge of white tissue across his ribs. The gash from the fanatic's axe had left a furrow on his shoulder. His left arm, once broken, now moved freely, though Thyia had warned him it would ache in the rain for the rest of his life.
He did not mind the scars. They were memories. They were proof that he had stood and survived.
The armor from Hephaestus hung on a wooden frame beside his bed. The silver‑blue breastplate caught the light, shimmering like water. The greaves and vambraces were stacked neatly beneath. The helmet sat on a pedestal of its own, its dark horsehair crest brushing the ceiling beams. And the spear—Aetos Pheme—leaned against the wall, its dark shaft humming faintly, as if it dreamed of battle.
Adrestus dressed in a simple wool tunic and walked outside. The settlement of Odomantike had grown in the month since the battle at the gate. New houses had been built from the timber of the eastern forest. A blacksmith's forge had been erected near the wall, its fire burning day and night. The population had swelled to nearly five hundred—survivors from Thornwood, refugees from other raided villages, families who had heard the stories of the Spartan‑Breaker and come seeking shelter.
They looked at him as he passed. Some nodded. Some bowed. A child ran up and touched his hand, then ran away giggling. He was not their king—he had refused that title—but he was their protector. Their archon. Their symbol.
Lysandros found him at the gate, leaning against the wooden palisade, staring east toward the mountains.
"You're up early," the Thessalian said. "Couldn't sleep?"
"Dreams."
"Bad ones?"
"Not bad. Just... crowded." Adrestus turned to face his friend. Lysandros had changed too. His sandy hair was longer, his crooked nose had been broken again in training, and his shoulders had widened from months of drilling the militia. He carried himself like a soldier now, not a farmer's son.
"The scout came back an hour ago," Lysandros said. His voice dropped. "There's news from the south. Bad news."
Adrestus's hand went to the hilt of his sword—Pheme's simple xiphos, still unnamed, still sharp. "Tell me."
"Ares has turned against Athens. The city is under siege. His army—undead, they say, and monsters—is burning everything between Thebes and the coast. There's a plague too. Something sent by the god himself. People are dying in the streets."
Adrestus felt the red lightning stir in his chest, responding to the news like a hound catching a scent. He had known this day would come. The first God of War game began with the plague of Athens, with Kratos seeking a way to stop Ares, with the gods playing their games. He had memorized the timeline years ago, had prepared for it, had trained for it.
But knowing and facing were different things.
"Kratos?" he asked.
Lysandros shrugged. "The stories say he's been seen heading toward Athens. Serving the gods now, trying to earn forgiveness for killing his family. Some say Athena sent him."
Adrestus nodded slowly. Kratos had already murdered his wife and daughter—that had happened before the first game, the act that made him the Ghost of Sparta. He was now a puppet of the gods, doing their bidding in exchange for the promise of redemption. A promise they would never keep.
"I'm going," Adrestus said.
Lysandros had expected it. His face did not change. "How many men do you want?"
"None. This is not a battle for an army. I need to move fast, and I need to move alone. You stay here. Keep the walls guarded. Train the militia. If I don't come back—"
"You'll come back." Lysandros gripped his shoulder. "You always come back."
Adrestus smiled—a rare, thin expression. "Mostly."
He returned to the longhouse and donned his armor. The silver‑blue breastplate settled over his chest like a second skin. The greaves locked around his calves. The vambraces covered his forearms. He strapped his sword to his hip, slung the Bow of the North Wind across his back, and picked up Aetos Pheme. The spear hummed in his grip, red lightning flickering along the blade.
He lifted the helmet. The dark faceplate stared back at him, expressionless, ancient. He did not put it on yet. He would wear it when the enemy could see it, when they needed to know who was coming.
Skotadi was waiting at the gate, her black wings folded, her burning eyes watching the horizon. She tossed her head and stamped a hoof, impatient. She had smelled the smoke from the south, had sensed the coming storm.
Adrestus mounted and looked back at the settlement. Thyia stood at the door of the longhouse, her blind eye somehow seeing him. The villagers had gathered in small clusters, watching, whispering. Lysandros raised his sword in salute.
"Hold the walls," Adrestus called. "I'll be back before winter."
Skotadi spread her wings and leaped into the sky.
The wind roared in his ears. The ground fell away, the settlement shrinking to a patch of brown and green, the mountains folding into wrinkles. He flew south, toward the coast, toward Athens, toward the war that would change everything.
Behind him, the smoke of a hundred burning villages smeared the horizon. Ahead, the city of Athena waited, its people dying, its temples dark. And somewhere in that chaos, Kratos was walking his path of blood and ash.
I'm not coming to save the gods, Adrestus thought. I'm coming to save the people they've abandoned.
The red lightning crackled along his spear, and Skotadi screamed a challenge to the sky.
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