The echo of Kratos's footsteps faded into the darkness. Adrestus stood alone in the chamber of Pandora's Box, the empty pedestal still humming with residual power. The box was gone. Kratos had taken it, and with it, the hope that would kill a god. Adrestus did not regret letting him have it. The box was never his to claim.
But the temple was vast. There were other chambers, other passages, other secrets buried in its stone. He had entered through the main path, but his eidetic memory had noted several side corridors, doors that required a different key, puzzles he had not solved. Now, with Kratos gone and the temple's guardians distracted, he had time to explore.
He chose a corridor to the east, its entrance hidden behind a collapsed pillar. The air was cooler here, damp, smelling of old water and older blood. His aura sight flickered, showing him the faint outlines of traps—pressure plates, tripwires, dart holes. He navigated them with the grace of a dancer, his absolute body control making every step precise.
The corridor opened into a circular chamber. At its center, a pedestal. On the pedestal, a sword.
It was not a Greek blade. It was longer, straighter, double‑edged, with a crossguard shaped like spread wings. The pommel was a ruby the size of a hen's egg, and the blade itself seemed to drink the light. Adrestus recognized the style—a spatha, the long sword of the northern tribes, but refined, perfected, forged by a master.
A plaque on the pedestal read: "For the warrior who seeks not glory, but duty. Ares despised this blade. He left it here, forgotten. Take it if you are worthy."
Adrestus reached for the sword.
The floor cracked. Stone pillars rose from the ground, forming a labyrinth of narrow passages. And from the shadows, the guardians emerged—gorgons, their serpentine bodies coiling, their eyes glowing green. Their gazes could turn a man to stone.
Adrestus did not look at their eyes. He trusted his aura sight to track their movements, the glow of their life forces. He drew Aetos Pheme and moved.
The first gorgon lunged. He sidestepped, drove his spear through its throat, and pulled back before the venom could splash him. The second came from the left, its tail whipping toward his legs. He leaped, spun in the air, and threw Aetos Pheme at the third, which was trying to circle behind him. The spear struck, returned to his hand, and he landed in a crouch.
The gorgons were fast, but he was faster. He used the pillars for cover, darting between them, striking from unexpected angles. Dragon's Tusk punched through scale and bone. Swallow's Tail deflected a venomous spit. The red lightning burned through their flesh, turning them to ash.
When the last gorgon fell, the pillars sank back into the floor. The sword on the pedestal glowed faintly, as if approving.
Adrestus walked to the pedestal and picked up the blade. It was lighter than it looked, perfectly balanced. The ruby pommel pulsed with a warm light. He felt no curse, no taint. Ares had despised this sword—perhaps because it was not made for slaughter, but for protection.
He strapped it across his back, beside the Bow of the North Wind. He would name it later. For now, it was a tool. A weapon. A promise.
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He found Pandora in a small alcove off the main corridor, hiding from a group of Ares's cultists who had survived the temple's traps. There were five of them, their faces painted with blood, their eyes mad. They had cornered the girl, and she pressed herself against the wall, her hands raised.
Adrestus stepped between them.
The cultists turned. They recognized him—the Spartan‑Breaker, the one who had held the gate. Their madness flickered, replaced by something like fear.
"You should run," Adrestus said.
One of them screamed and charged. He died before he took three steps, Aetos Pheme through his heart. The others fled, scrambling over each other, disappearing into the darkness.
Adrestus knelt beside Pandora. Her eyes were wide, but she was not crying.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
"No. They were afraid of you. Why are they afraid of you?"
"Because I have killed many of their kind. And I will kill more, if they hurt the innocent."
Pandora studied him. "You're not like the angry one. He kills because he hates. You kill because you must."
"Yes."
She reached out and touched his cheek. Her hand was cold, small, fragile. "Thank you. For seeing me."
Adrestus stood. "Where will you go?"
"To follow the angry one. He needs me to open the box. I am the key."
"The box is already open. He took it."
Pandora's face lit with surprise, then relief. "Then I am free?"
Adrestus did not have the heart to tell her that the gods would never free her, that she was a construct, a tool, a thing to be used and discarded. Instead, he said: "Go. Find a place to hide. When the war ends, find your own path."
She nodded and ran, her bare feet silent on the stone.
Adrestus watched her go, then turned and walked toward the exit. He had what he came for—the sword, the knowledge, the memory of a child who deserved better than the gods had given her.
The temple rumbled behind him, settling into its ancient sleep.
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End of Chapter 38