Kratos lunged, and the world narrowed to a single point.
Adrestus had no weapon. His spear was broken, his sword lost in the mud, his left arm useless. The red lightning was gone, drained to nothing, leaving him hollow and shaking. He had nothing left but his body, and his body was a ruin.
But he had one thing Kratos did not expect.
He stepped forward.
Not back. Not to the side. Forward, into the Spartan's charge. Kratos's good arm swung wide, aiming for his head, and Adrestus ducked under it. His shoulder—the good one, the right—slammed into Kratos's chest. The impact jarred his cracked ribs, sent lightning bolts of pain through his torso, but he did not stop. He drove his legs, pushed with everything he had, and Kratos—off balance, wounded, exhausted—fell backward.
They crashed into the rubble together. Stones dug into Adrestus's back. Kratos's weight pressed down on him, crushing, suffocating. But Adrestus had positioned himself carefully. His legs were wrapped around Kratos's waist. His good arm was hooked under the Spartan's armpit. His forehead pressed against Kratos's jaw.
It was not a pin. It was a trap.
Kratos thrashed, trying to rise, but every movement tightened Adrestus's grip. The anatomy of the human body was a series of levers, and Adrestus had memorized every one. He could not match Kratos's strength, but he did not need to. He only needed to guide that strength into directions that did not work.
"Stay," Adrestus hissed. "Still."
Kratos's good arm came up, reaching for Adrestus's throat. Adrestus released his grip, caught the wrist, and twisted. The joint rotated past its natural limit. Kratos's fingers spasmed and went limp.
"You're breaking my arm," the Spartan growled.
"I know."
Adrestus rolled, shifting his weight, and suddenly he was on top. His knees pinned Kratos's hips. His good hand pressed the Spartan's damaged arm against the ground. The other arm—the broken one—hung useless, but he did not need it. He had control.
Kratos's chest heaved. Blood bubbled from his split lip. His eyes, still burning, stared up at Adrestus with something that was not quite hatred and not quite respect.
"You could have killed me three times," Kratos said. "Why haven't you?"
Adrestus did not answer. He reached to his belt and found what he was looking for—the dagger he had taken from the bandit king, years ago, still sharp. He pressed the blade against Kratos's throat.
"Because I'm not a monster," he said. "Not yet."
Kratos laughed—a wet, bloody sound. "You think mercy makes you better than me? Mercy is weakness. The strong kill. The weak hesitate."
"Then I am weak."
Adrestus released Kratos's arm. He stood, slowly, his body screaming. The dagger remained in his hand, but he did not raise it. He stepped back, giving Kratos room to rise.
The Spartan did not move. He lay in the rubble, his chest heaving, his eyes fixed on Adrestus. For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Adrestus walked to the fallen Blade of Chaos—the one Kratos had dropped earlier, the one still intact. He picked it up with his good hand. The weight was enormous, the edge hungry. He dragged it across the rubble, the chain clinking, until he stood at the edge of the ravine that bordered the village.
He looked down into the darkness. The Blade would fall for a long time before it hit bottom.
"Next time," Adrestus said, "I'll take more."
He threw the Blade into the ravine.
The chain pulled taut, dragging Kratos's arm. The Spartan rose to his feet, his damaged arm hanging at his side, his good hand clutching the chain's anchor. The Blade was gone. He could feel it falling, the chain unspooling, the weight disappearing into the dark.
"You'll regret this," Kratos said. "I will burn a hundred villages. A thousand. You cannot stop me."
Adrestus turned to face him. His body was broken. His arm hung useless. His face was a mask of blood and ash. But his eyes were calm.
"Then I will stop you a hundred times. A thousand. I will be there, every time, until you learn or until I die."
Kratos stared at him. The fire crackled. The survivors watched from the shadows. The Spartan's chest heaved, and for a moment—just a moment—something flickered in his eyes. Not fear. Not respect. Something else. Something that might have been doubt.
He turned and limped toward the mountains, his chain dragging behind him, the empty anchor clinking against the stones. The fanatics followed, dragging their wounded, leaving their dead.
Adrestus watched until the smoke swallowed them. Then he collapsed to his knees, the dagger falling from his hand, and let the darkness take him.
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End of Chapter 22