Sparta
The air in the ruins of Kratos's city was thick with the taste of old smoke and dust. It was a dead place now, the echoes of its destruction settling like a shroud. He sat on a broken block of what was once a granary, methodically sharpening the Blade of Chaos. The rhythmic scrape of stone on metal was the only sound he allowed himself to hear.
An old man picked his way through the rubble. He moved with a careful slowness, a gnarled walking stick tapping against the cracked stones. His robes were simple, travel-stained, and his face was a web of deep lines, but his eyes held a peculiar, un-aged sharpness.
He stopped a respectful distance from Kratos, not out of fear, but out of a simple, weathered courtesy.
"A grim place to rest," the old man said, his voice a dry rustle, like leaves over stone.
Kratos did not look up. "There is no rest here. Only quiet."
