Mortal(God of War)

Drawing the compass, I focused. I had to find Timarchus. He was still alive and that gave me hope.

The path led to a modest building. Two Spartans stood guard at the entrance. I walked past them under a veil of will they didn't notice my presence.

Inside was a humble chamber. Scrolls lined shelves along the walls. In the far corner, hunched over a low table, Timarchus worked muttering to himself, his quill whispering across parchment.

I tapped the butt of my spear lightly on the floor a soft but distinct sound. Timarchus looked up. Deep shadows clung beneath his eyes, gray hair draped down hollow cheeks. His face had withered like old parchment age had claimed its price. He looked worn, yet his voice was still firm:

"What is your purpose here, young Spartan?" I said nothing. I simply raised the spear before him, turning it so the shaft and tip faced his eyes.

At first, he didn't understand. But in the next heartbeat, recognition flared in his gaze.

"It can't be… I saw this spear only once. It belonged to one Spartan. Damocles," he whispered, lifting his eyes from the weapon to my face.

"It's me. But I've endured much. My life has often hung by a thread, and to survive, I had to sacrifice a part of myself. Call me Atreus now," I said, meeting his gaze without flinching.

Timarchus let out a breath filled with both sorrow and reverence.

"It seems fate has shown you no mercy. As for our old pact… forgive me. I never discovered who stood behind the conspiracy. But I did clear your name. I presented proof that your actions were not your own."

"No need to apologize," I replied firmly. "I found the guilty myself."

"Then tell an old man what became of you," he said, his voice gentler now.

I could not refuse. After all, it was he who once helped me come into this world who gave me the chance to begin this life anew.

So I told him everything. Of the wanderings. The losses. The meetings that left wounds deeper than any blade. Of the battles that stripped away my soul, piece by piece. Everything save for the darkest truth.

"A harsh path for one so young… Though, perhaps, you've already lived more than I have in all my years," Timarchus said at last.

I nodded. Then, after a moment's pause, I asked the question that had long gnawed at me:

"What I want to know… is what happened to Sparta?"

He sighed heavily, his eyes turning away, as though recalling something he'd rather erase from memory.

"Never did I think that in the twilight of my life, I'd face something no blade could pierce. Not even on the battlefield did I feel so powerless." His voice turned hoarse, as though the very air resisted leaving his chest. And he began his tale.

When I left, Sparta began to rise rapidly. The army grew in number, ambition knew no limit. One after another, grand visions were born. A map was even drawn where all of Greece lay under Sparta's dominion.

Then came the first signs of Archidamus' madness.

He began to change to become someone else. As if a foreign will had nested in his heart. He bathed in triumph. The first to conquer neighboring lands. The first to raise an army to rival legends. The first to forge a fleet that could shadow the horizon.

He became the greatest of kings… yet failed to see he'd become a slave to the very idea.

His will clung to his mind for a while longer, but not for long. Month by month, it frayed. And he fell. Not by the sword of an enemy, not through betrayal but by thirst for his own glory.

What remained was no longer the king who led warriors to noble victories. Thus began the rise and fall of Sparta.

The laws grew harsher, shaped by fear. Military discipline became cruelty. Punishments turned into public terror. Taxes for the helots became unbearable everything they owned was taken. Food grew scarce. Uprisings became frequent.

They were crushed with terrifying brutality.

Executions were held in the main square for all to witness.

Even the veterans began to question their oaths. One of the oldest and most respected warriors, Phileas, dared to speak against the king's command. He was executed without trial. Without honor. As a traitor.

Formally, it was by law disobedience to the monarch was death, and so he received what the law demanded. Yet the act sparked a silent unrest. One by one, those who spoke out… vanished.

And then, the plague began.

The sickness came like the night sudden and merciless. It struck down many children. Grief gripped the city. But then, hope appeared a chance to recover a legendary cure. Kratos was sent to retrieve it.

He returned with only a handful of warriors, but he healed every child. And so, he became a hero. For this, Archidamus named him the new warlord. His fury and warrior's spirit knew no equal. He fought not like a man but like a curse cast upon his enemies.

Then the king issued a new command: to march the army north, into the wild lands. Archidamus dreamed of founding colonies there, rich in resources, expanding Sparta's reach.

Kratos led the campaign.

All went according to plan until the day the sky turned black.

An enormous horde of barbarians descended upon the Spartan army. Fifty thousand. United like one beast, driven by rage and the thirst for vengeance, they crashed upon the Spartans like a storm that could not be halted.

The odds were hopeless.

Five thousand Spartans held formation, shields locked as one. But the horde closed in, encircling them. In the heart of the bloody clash, Kratos fell to one knee wounded, exhausted, on the brink.

And in that moment, he swore an oath to Ares. In exchange for salvation.

And Ares answered.

The enemy army vanished erased, like dust scattered by a hurricane. Only Kratos remained, standing amidst smoldering corpses and ash.

"So… he returned only recently?" I asked, meeting Timarchus' eyes.

"Yes," he nodded wearily. "That's exactly what happened."

He reached for a jug, poured water, and drank greedily, wetting his parched throat.

"What is your plan?" I asked.

"Not here. We may be overheard," he whispered, glancing around.

"Don't worry. I've made it so no one will hear us," I said, and my will fell over the room like a shroud.

Timarchus exhaled, his voice now low but resolute:

"We must break their faith in Ares. As long as the Spartans worship him, we are powerless. Everything I've pondered for months comes down to this we must make them believe in something else. In another path. Or Sparta is doomed."

Suddenly, he coughed, covering his mouth with his sleeve. His face grew even more sunken, pale as death. He took another sip of water.

"Lately, my body fails me more and more," he said hoarsely. "But I must finish what I've begun. While there's still breath in me."

"I can help," I offered.

"No," Timarchus shook his head weakly. "I've lived enough. My brothers are already waiting for me to share with them the eternal feast," he said, forcing a tired smile.

"Everything is about to change," I replied. "Darkness is coming for Greece. The Persians march under the banner of the Dark Gods. I will meet them. And Kratos… Kratos will deal with Ares."

"The Dark Gods?" Timarchus frowned. "I've heard whispers… Could the threat truly be so great?"

"Yes. But I cannot reveal everything to you," I said.

"Then we must entrust our lives to you," Timarchus answered solemnly.

For now, all my focus had to remain on Sparta. I knew the moment would come when I would need to shelter Kratos' family. Only one question remained who was his wife? Could she be a god too?

If Diana could deceive me by pretending to be a simple village girl. Then she might have deceived him as well. But if I tried to dispel the illusion, I might reveal myself. And I couldn't take that risk not yet.

I had to understand who she truly was.