The Blade had missed. That was the first thing Adrestus registered as he rolled through the mud, his broken arm screaming, his ribs on fire. Kratos had tried to kill him three times in the past minute, and three times Adrestus had survived by inches. But survival was not victory. Survival was just delayed death.
He rose on shaking legs. His left arm hung useless at his side—the shoulder was out of its socket, the elbow swollen to twice its size. His right hand still gripped his sword, though he had no memory of retrieving it from the mud. The red lightning had not come. He did not know if it would. He had never needed it before. But now, facing this monster, he wondered if he should have evolved the blessing sooner.
No, he told himself. This is my fight. My skill. My will. I will not rely on borrowed power.
Kratos circled him, the remaining Blade of Chaos scraping against the cobblestones. The other Blade lay somewhere in the darkness—Adrestus had knocked it from the Spartan's grip during the last exchange, but Kratos had not bothered to retrieve it. He did not need two blades to kill one man.
"You're still standing," Kratos said. "I'm impressed. Most men would have died three times by now."
"Most men don't train for this," Adrestus replied. His voice was steady, even as his body trembled.
"Train?" Kratos laughed—a short, ugly sound. "You think training matters? I have killed a hundred men who trained their whole lives. I have killed men who could break stone with their fists. Training is a lie. Only rage is real."
He lunged.
Adrestus was ready. His eidetic memory had been recording every movement since the fight began. He knew the way Kratos shifted his weight before a strike. He knew the slight dip of the left shoulder before a right hook. He knew the moment of overextension after a missed swing. There were patterns. There were always patterns.
The Blade came high. Adrestus ducked—not by much, just enough. The edge passed through the air where his head had been, and he stepped forward, inside Kratos's reach. His sword came up, slashing across the Spartan's forearm.
Blood sprayed. Kratos's arm jerked back, but the cut was shallow. Too shallow. Adrestus had aimed for the tendon, but his broken arm had thrown off his balance. The tip had only grazed the skin.
Kratos backhanded him across the face.
The world spun. Adrestus crashed into a burning cart, the wood groaning under his weight. Sparks showered over him, setting his cloak alight. He rolled, slapped at the flames, and came up just as Kratos's boot slammed into his chest.
He flew backward, hit the ground, and kept rolling. Mud soaked into his wounds, stinging, cooling. He rose again, spitting blood.
"You're reading me," Kratos said. His eyes were narrow, calculating. "I can see it. You know where I'm going to strike before I strike."
Adrestus did not answer. He was watching. Recording. The Spartan's right leg. There was a slight drag, a hesitation before each step. The wound Adrestus had given him earlier—the spear thrust to the thigh—was deeper than Kratos wanted to show. He was favoring it.
"You're hurt," Adrestus said. "Your leg. You can't put weight on it."
Kratos's expression flickered. For a heartbeat, something like respect crossed his face.
"You're not just fast," the Spartan said. "You're clever. I hate clever men."
He attacked again. This time, Adrestus did not try to parry. He sidestepped the first Blade, ducked under the second, and drove his shoulder into Kratos's wounded thigh.
The Spartan roared. His leg buckled, and he dropped to one knee. Adrestus did not hesitate. He brought his sword around in a wide arc and slashed at Kratos's arm—the one holding the Blade. The edge bit deep, carving through leather and flesh. Kratos's grip loosened. The Blade clattered to the ground.
For a single heartbeat, Kratos was weaponless.
Adrestus raised his sword for a thrust to the throat. But his broken arm betrayed him. The pain flared, his aim shifted, and the tip struck Kratos's shoulder instead of his neck. The blade sank deep, but not deep enough. Kratos grabbed Adrestus's wrist with both hands and squeezed.
Bones ground together. Adrestus screamed. His fingers opened, and his sword fell.
Kratos rose, pulling the blade from his shoulder as if it were a splinter. He tossed it aside and stood over Adrestus, blood pouring from a dozen wounds. His eyes were wild, but his voice was calm.
"You should have killed me when you had the chance," he said. "Now I'm going to tear you apart."
Adrestus stumbled backward, his empty hands raised. His sword was gone. His spear was broken. His left arm was useless. He had nothing left but his body and his will.
And the red lightning, waiting in his chest, hungry to be unleashed.
Not yet, he thought. Not yet.
He backed away, circling, looking for an opening. Kratos followed, limping, bleeding, but still dangerous. The firelight danced between them, casting long shadows across the mud.
"You're running," Kratos said. "Good. Run. It makes the killing easier."
Adrestus stopped running.
He turned to face the Spartan, his hands lowered, his eyes calm. The red lightning stirred in his chest, but he held it back. He was not ready to reveal it. Not yet. He needed to be sure.
"Come on, then," Adrestus said. "Finish it."
Kratos lunged.
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