The silence around Mephisto's fallen throne was brief. It was broken by a roar of pure, undiluted rage.
Moloch surged to his full height, ignoring the gashes Kratos had carved into his flesh. Black ichor steamed from his wounds. Beside him, Belial rose, clutching his broken ribs. His elegant sneer was gone, replaced by a look of raw, hateful shock. Their king was dead. Dust.
Their eyes, burning with hellfire, locked onto the one who had allowed it to happen: Kratos.
The Ghost of Sparta didn't even look winded. He cranked his neck to one side, then the other, the pops echoing like small cracks of thunder. The Blades of Chaos, still looped around his arms, smoldered with a low, eager heat.
"You…" Moloch's voice was a rockslide. "You stood by and let that happen!"
