Kratos walked to the altar where the sigil pulsed like a small blue star. He could have thrust his blade through it, burned it, smashed it. He could leave it as bait for others. Instead he knelt, which felt like another kind of battle: the fight to steady oneself against the need to act before knowing the consequence.
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At the temple’s threshold, ice clung to stone like the memory of a smile. Inside, murals depicted a different Olympus than the one Kratos remembered: not simply rulers on a hill, but a weaving of pacts, threads running from god to god, man to god, and, in the margins, Theron’s coin. A hand had traced a new path through the tapestry, erasing names and writing others in their place. Kratos walked to the altar where the sigil