Chapter 197: "And so it begins,"
The air on the hilltop still crackled, the scent of ozone clinging to the grass where the lightning had struck. Kratos stood, Zeus's hand clasped in his own. It was not a warm grip. It felt like shaking hands with a thundercloud—all potential energy and imminent violence.
Then, in a flash of silent, blinding light, Zeus was gone. The pressure in the air vanished, leaving only the mundane wind. Kratos was alone again, but the emptiness felt different now. It was charged. Purposeful.
Medusa, who had frozen at the edge of the clearing, finally uncoiled. She looked at the spot where the king of the gods had stood, then back at Kratos, her expression a mix of awe and pity.
"You have just jumped from the pot and into the fire, Spartan," she said, her voice barely a whisper. Without another word, she turned and slipped away into the gathering dusk, her scaled body disappearing into the shadows of the rocks.
Kratos did not watch her go. He looked at his own hand, the one that had gripped a god's. It was still just a hand. Scarred. Mortal. For now.
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High above, in the wide, airy halls of Olympus, the light reassembled itself. Zeus stood once more before his throne, the casual demeanor he'd worn for Persephone completely gone. His form seemed larger here, infused with the power of his domain. The storm in his eyes was no longer playful.
He did not sit. He did not need to.
"Hermes."
The name was not shouted. It was simply spoken, a command woven into the air itself. It traveled, a ripple of divine will, through the corridors of cloud and light.
A blur of motion, faster than sight, resolved at the foot of the dais. Hermes skidded to a stop, not out of breath, but with an air of someone who had been interrupted in the middle of something far more interesting. His winged sandals barely touched the marble floor.
"You bellowed, oh mighty one?" Hermes said, a lazy grin on his face. He adjusted the winged cap on his head. "I was in the middle of a very important… message."
Zeus ignored his tone. "You have a new message. For all of them. Every god, every minor spirit, every nymph who thinks herself important."
Hermes's grin faded, replaced by a look of keen interest. This sounded like gossip on a cosmic scale. "Do tell."
"They are to gather," Zeus's voice boomed, filling the hall. "At the summit of mountain Olympus. In the mortal realm. They will bear witness."
"Witness to what? Another one of your thunderstorms? They're getting a bit predictable, if you ask me."
Zeus's lip curled. "They will witness a contest. A duel. Between two sons of Olympus."
Hermes went very still. The playful glint in his eyes was replaced by sharp understanding. He knew of only two "sons" who held Zeus's interest in such a way. "You can't be serious. You're pitting the mad dog against the… the ghost?"
"The Ghost of Sparta has accepted my offer," Zeus said, his voice flat and final. "He will face the God of War. He will challenge Ares for his domain."
A low whistle escaped Hermes's lips. "Well. That's one way to clean up a mess. Let them kill each other." He shook his head in admiration. "You always did have a flair for the dramatic. When?"
"Now," Zeus said. "The combatants will be summoned. The arena prepared. Spread the word. I want them all there. I want them to see this."
Hermes nodded, his body already tensing, ready to become speed itself. "Consider it done. They'll be talking about this for centuries." He shot a look at Zeus. "And Ares? Should I… inform him personally? He does have a tendency to miss his invitations."
A dark smile touched Zeus's face. "I will call my son myself."
With a wink and a gust of wind that ruffled the tapestries, Hermes was gone. The great hall felt empty, but Zeus could already feel the vibrations of the message spreading through the world, a divine alarm bell ringing in the ears of every immortal.
Zeus walked to the great opening of the hall, looking down at the mortal world far below. The clouds parted for his gaze. He could see the hill where Kratos still stood, a single, determined speck. And far away, in the bloody fields of a war-torn land, he could feel the presence of another.
Ares.
The air around Zeus grew heavy. The playful sparks in his eyes hardened into bolts of focused intent. He did not shout. He did not need to. He sent his will across the miles, a psychic spear hurled directly into the mind of his son.
It was not a request. It was a pull. A summoning. A command that vibrated in the very blood they shared.
Come.
The word was a peal of silent thunder that echoed only in the soul of the God of War. It was the sound of a father calling a son to judgment.
Down in the mortal realm, amidst a field of screaming soldiers and splintered shields, Ares suddenly froze. He was a mountain of black iron and rage, drenched in the blood of mortals. He had been in the midst of swinging his massive, fiery blade, but the command from his father was an anchor on his arm.
He snarled, his helmeted head turning towards the distant, unreachable peak of Olympus. He could feel it. A challenge. An interruption. The scent of a different kind of violence, one he had not orchestrated.
With a roar of fury that shook the battlefield, Ares vanished from the field, leaving the confused soldiers to stare at the empty space where their god of war had been.
Back in the hall, Zeus felt Ares's acknowledgment—a surge of hot, defiant anger. Good. Let him be angry. Anger made warriors sloppy.
He looked towards the mortal summit of his mountain, a place rarely visited by the divine. It would be the perfect stage. Let the mortals below look up and see the gods gathered like vultures. Let them see the fire and the blood.
The game was in motion. The players were taking their places.
Zeus allowed himself a single, slow breath. The storm was no longer behind his eyes. It was gathering in the world below.
"And so it begins," he murmured to the empty, waiting sky.