The fire still burned.
It clung to the walls of the village, devouring wood and flesh alike. The sky above was red with smoke, and the air stank of blood, iron, and ash. Every scream had already faded, but the silence that followed was worse. It pressed into the bones, heavy and endless.
Kratos stood in the ruins, his chest heaving, his hands shaking as the Blades of Chaos dripped black with blood. His breath came ragged, each inhale like swallowing knives. His body bore no wounds. None that mattered.
Before him, at his feet, lay the bodies.
His wife. His child.
The small hut he had called home was little more than rubble now, flames curling across the fallen beams. Their bodies were untouched by the fire, as if the flames themselves recoiled from what had been done. The woman's arms wrapped protectively around the child even in death. Their eyes were closed, their faces soft. Peaceful. Too peaceful.
Kratos fell to his knees.
