The realm of Olympus spread vast across creation, thrones and domains bound together by Zeus's storm. Pantheons that once clashed now bent beneath one law, their temples glowing as rivers of light cut across the endless sky. Peace hung heavy—not quiet, not soft, but the peace of a world too awed to rebel.
Yet beneath peace, stories were still being written. Stories that did not begin in Zeus's throne room.
They began far from it—in blood, and in stone.
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Sparta.
The land of warriors, carved into discipline and flame. Here, long before the shadow of Olympus reached into every corner of the world, a boy cried into the night.
His name was Kratos.
Born of mortal woman, his father hidden in rumor and thunder, Kratos grew in a city that demanded strength before breath. From childhood, he was thrown into drills, his hands blistering around weapons before he could write his own name. The Spartans did not raise children. They forged soldiers.
Kratos was not spared.
