The smoke was a black scar across the autumn sky, visible from twenty leagues away. Adrestus had seen its like before—six weeks ago, when he had first confronted the Spartan and forced him to retreat from the village of Doberos. He had hoped, foolishly perhaps, that Kratos would learn. That the mercy shown would plant a seed of doubt, a moment of reflection. But the smoke told him otherwise. Some men could not be turned. Some only learned through pain, and even then, they learned nothing.
Skotadi flew faster, her black wings cutting through the cold air with a sound like tearing silk. The red lightning around Adrestus crackled and surged, responding to his mood. He did not try to calm it. Let it burn. Let it hunger. They were flying toward a village that was already dead, and the men who had killed it were still there.
Thornwood. He had passed through it three years ago, a small settlement of perhaps two hundred souls. Farmers, mostly. A few shepherds. A tanner who made decent leather. The kind of people who worked the earth and asked nothing of the gods except enough rain and a winter mild enough to survive. They had done nothing to deserve what was coming.
Below, the landscape blurred—forest, river, fields of withered grain—until the village came into view. It was not a village anymore. It was a funeral pyre. Houses collapsed in waves of flame, their thatched roofs roaring like beasts. The bodies of farmers and their wives lay in the muddy streets, cut down where they had tried to flee. A cart lay overturned, its wheels still spinning. A dog stood over its dead master, howling.
And in the center of it all, standing on a pile of broken timbers that had once been the village shrine, was Kratos.
The Spartan was not alone this time. A dozen of Ares's fanatics spread through the village—berserkers in blood‑stained leather, their faces painted with the god's crimson mark, their eyes wild with the madness of divine favor. They looted, killed, laughed. One of them dragged a woman by her hair. Another held a child by the throat, demanding silver that did not exist.
But Kratos was the heart of the storm. The Blades of Chaos dripped with fresh blood, and his red tattoos seemed to glow in the firelight. He stood motionless, watching his men work, his face a mask of cold satisfaction. He had done this a hundred times. A thousand. It was not cruelty to him. It was duty. Ares demanded tribute, and Kratos collected.
Adrestus landed Skotadi at the edge of the village, fifty paces from the nearest building. The black unicorn's hooves struck the mud with a sound like thunder, and she spread her wings wide—a display of dominance, a warning. The red lightning around Adrestus flared, casting his face in a bloody glow.
The fanatics turned. One by one, they stopped what they were doing. The woman fell from her captor's grip and crawled away. The child was dropped, forgotten. The berserkers stared at the young man in the silver‑blue cloak, at the black winged unicorn, at the crimson energy that writhed around him like a living thing. They had heard the stories. The man who had made their champion run. The Spartan‑Breaker.
Some of them backed away.
Kratos did not. He stepped down from the pile of timbers, the Blades scraping against the cobblestones, and walked toward Adrestus. His pace was unhurried, deliberate. He was not afraid. He was not even angry. He was simply certain.
"You," he said. His voice was flat, cold, devoid of the rage that would come later in the fight. "I thought you would come."
Adrestus slid from Skotadi's back. His boots sank into the mud, and the red lightning coiled around his legs, keeping him steady. He drew his spear—Pheme's simple spear, the one that had served him since childhood. The wood was warm under his palm. The red lightning coated the shaft from tip to butt, humming with destructive potential.
"Spartan," he said. "Stop."
Kratos stopped. He stood ten paces away, the Blades hanging loose at his sides, his head tilted slightly. For a heartbeat, he looked almost human. Almost reachable.
"You cannot protect every village, boy," he said. "You cannot save everyone. The sooner you learn that, the sooner you will stop wasting my time."
"I'll waste as much of your time as it takes."
Kratos's eyes narrowed. The humanity faded, replaced by the cold calculation of a killer. He raised the Blades, and the chains rattled.
"So be it."
Behind him, the fanatics formed a loose circle, weapons drawn, waiting for their champion to finish the stranger. The woman who had been dragged crawled into the shadows. The child ran to the forest. The dog stopped howling and watched.
The village of Thornwood burned, and two demigods faced each other in the ashes.
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End of Chapter 17