The air on the hilltop still crackled, the scent of ozone clinging to the grass where the lightning had struck. Kratos stood, Zeus's hand clasped in his own. It was not a warm grip. It felt like shaking hands with a thundercloud—all potential energy and imminent violence.
Then, in a flash of silent, blinding light, Zeus was gone. The pressure in the air vanished, leaving only the mundane wind. Kratos was alone again, but the emptiness felt different now. It was charged. Purposeful.
Medusa, who had frozen at the edge of the clearing, finally uncoiled. She looked at the spot where the king of the gods had stood, then back at Kratos, her expression a mix of awe and pity.
"You have just jumped from the pot and into the fire, Spartan," she said, her voice barely a whisper. Without another word, she turned and slipped away into the gathering dusk, her scaled body disappearing into the shadows of the rocks.
