The hilltop was a lonely place, a bare crown of earth and stubborn grass overlooking the sprawl of a broken land. Kratos stood at its peak, his back to the world below. The wind here was clean, tugging at his red markings and the ash ground into his skin.
The old man's words were an echo in his skull, a persistent drip wearing away at stone.
A quieter world. A smaller one.
The idea felt like a betrayal. His entire life was a single, sharp note—rage. It was the fuel in his veins, the purpose in his step. To imagine a life without it was to imagine being hollowed out, a shell with nothing inside. Yet, the memory of the ruined city was a cold weight in his gut. The old man was right. The destruction was the outside of him. And it had brought no peace. Only more silence.
A soft, slithering sound, subtle as a whisper, approached from behind. He didn't turn. He knew the scent of sun-warmed stone and ancient dust.
