The first light of dawn bled across the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of crimson and gold. Atlas sat cross-legged at the edge of the mountain cliff, his gaze locked on the rising sun. Below, the world still slumbered, forests veiled in mist, rivers glinting faintly as if reluctant to reflect the morning's fire. The cold air stung his skin, carrying the crisp scent of pine and stone.
Here, high above the world, silence reigned. No clamor of swords, no barked orders, no cries of hunger. Only the wind. Only his breath. Only the faint rustle of leaves far below.
This was his refuge. The only place he could still feel… human.
"—There you are, Atlas."
The silence broke.
Atlas turned his head. A boy about his age clambered up the rocky path, broad-shouldered, his stride full of energy. His dark hair was a mess from restless sleep, his tunic smudged with dirt and grass, yet his grin was unshaken, confident as ever.
Alexios.
The younger brother of Kassandra. The boy whom fate would one day twist into a weapon of the Cult, feared as Deimos.
For a moment, Atlas could only stare. It was still difficult for him, after all these years, to reconcile the image of this boy with the monster history knew he would become. Alexios laughed easily, fought fiercely, and complained loudly whenever food was scarce. He was reckless, hot-headed, but loyal in his own childish way.
Yet in Atlas's mind, he could already see what came after: the hardened gaze, the cruelty honed by blood, the shadow of the Cult binding his soul.
"Why do you always come here?" Alexios asked, stepping beside him. His voice was curious but not prying; this was a routine question by now, one he never really expected Atlas to answer.
Then Alexios smirked, raising his chin with youthful bravado. "Anyway—let's spar."
Atlas huffed out a breath, unable to hide his smile. Words hovered on his lips but never came. What could he say? Because this is the only place I still feel free? Because every time I look at you, I see a fate you don't deserve? Because even after ten years, I'm still not sure why I was brought here?
Instead, he looked back toward the dawn. Silent.
Ten years, Atlas thought, his mind drifting. It's been ten years since I came here.
His memories stretched back to that first fragile stage of his new life. At first, there had been only confusion—suffocating confusion. Waking as an infant, helpless, unable to move, unable to speak. Forced to rely on strangers. Forced to endure the cold, unyielding eyes of Chrysis.
But as he grew, so did his understanding.
He began to explore when his legs were strong enough to carry him more than a few steps. The architecture, the speech, the symbols etched into temples and weapons—it all tickled at his mind, painfully familiar. The realization had come slowly, like pieces of a puzzle falling into place.
And then, one day, it struck him fully.
This was no dream.
This was no accident.
He had been thrown into Assassin's Creed Odyssey.
Atlas remembered sitting alone in those early days, his small hands clenched tight, his heart pounding. He had played the game back in his old life. A pastime, nothing more. But this—this was reality. The gods and myths, the Cult of Kosmos, the wars between Sparta and Athens—all of it real, all of it terrifyingly close.
It was a truth that changed everything.
And yet, his mind had changed too. He discovered it first when listening to conversations. The language came to him not in months or years, but days. He understood words before he should have, memorized them after hearing them once. When he practiced writing, the shapes of letters and symbols burned into his memory instantly.
It wasn't just language.
His body remembered movement with uncanny ease. He watched once, tried once, and his muscles seemed to obey perfectly the next time. Knowledge slipped into his mind like water filling a vessel. Medicine, tactics, weapon drills, history, Where others struggled for years, he required only weeks, sometimes days.
An infinite potential, and nothing resisted his comprehension.
A gift. A curse. A tool he dared not reveal too openly.
On his eighth birthday, Chrysis sent him away to a place.
The place was deep in the forests, far from villages, far from civilization. A camp. But not one for shelter or safety. No—this was the Cult's forge. A hidden crucible where children were broken, sharpened, reforged.
Atlas remembered the first time he stepped through its crude gates. The smell of smoke and sweat clung to the air. Children huddled in corners, their bodies thin from hunger, eyes hollow yet burning with a desperate will to live. Others sparred viciously in the dirt, teeth bared, their wooden swords cracking against bone.
The rules of the camp were not written, but everyone knew them. The strong ate. The weak did not.
Food was never provided. The strong hunted in the wild forest beyond. But the forest was not merciful. Wolves prowled in packs, hungry for flesh. Snakes coiled silently in the undergrowth. Poisonous insects crawled underfoot, their stings as deadly as daggers.
Children died. Many of them. Some on their first day. Some after weeks of struggling.
The guards did not care. They watched from their posts, masks concealing their faces, arms crossed in silence. They did not intervene when a child starved, when a beast's fangs tore into flesh, when blades turned on each other. Their duty was not to protect—it was to prevent escape.
Atlas had clenched his fists the first time he realized this was no camp. This was a slaughterhouse.
And in that slaughterhouse, he met Alexios.
The boy was younger, only six when Atlas arrived. But already he was fierce, stronger than most children twice his size. His voice never trembled. His fists never hesitated. He fought the other children as if he were born for it, hunted beasts as if the forest belonged to him.
Atlas had recognized him instantly.
The jawline, the fiery eyes, the stubborn defiance in his stance.
Alexios. Kassandra's younger brother.
And in time, Deimos.
Atlas remembered his very first day in camp was seared into his memory.
He had barely stepped inside when rough hands seized his arms. The guards dragged him forward, past the ragged children, past the silent watchers, until he was shoved into the center of the training square.
The ground there was bare earth, hardened by countless footsteps, stained by blood both old and new. A ring of children gathered, whispering to one another, their eyes glittering with morbid curiosity.
At the center stood a masked guard, taller than the rest. His stance was easy, confident. He held no weapon, but his presence radiated danger.
Atlas's chest tightened. His throat was dry.
A booming voice rang out from another guard who stepped forward. His mask bore carvings that marked him as their leader.
"Newcomer!" the man's voice thundered. "You will face your first trial of the gods."
Atlas froze. His knees felt weak.
"Defeat your opponent," the leader continued, his words heavy with cruel authority, "and receive the blessings of the gods. However—" he paused, letting the silence stretch, "if you fail, you will be granted death."
A hush fell over the children. No one spoke. No one moved.
Atlas's heart pounded, each beat louder than the last.
The masked guard in the center tilted his head slightly, as if inviting him forward.
The leader gestured toward a rack of weapons at the edge of the square. Spears, swords, staves, daggers—most of them worn, chipped, crude.
"Now," the leader declared, his voice a hammer striking an anvil. "Choose your weapon. And begin the trial."
Atlas's hands curled into fists. His breath came fast and shallow. He stood at the edge of a precipice, a line drawn between life and death.
The trial awaited.
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