The silence on Olympus was deeper than any that had come before. It wasn't the quiet of anticipation, but of sheer, stunned disbelief. The only sound was the slow, heavy drip of golden ichor hitting stone.
Ares, the God of War, knelt broken. The massive, terrifying figure was reduced to a huddled form, one hand clamped over his ruined eye, his shoulders heaving with ragged, wet breaths. The air around him, once boiling with power, was now still and cold.
Kratos stood over him. His own chest rose and fell in heavy gusts, his skin slick with sweat and smeared with soot and his own blood. The Blades of Chaos hung loosely in his hands, their flames reduced to a dull, pulsing glow. He felt no triumph. Only a hollow, grinding exhaustion. It was done.
