I Am Zeus-Chapter 68: Kratos
The sky was grey that day. Not stormy. Not broken. Just quiet, like it was holding its breath.
Outside the village of Pelion, smoke curled from the chimney of a modest home. Not too large. Not poor either. Simple. A place built by hands that knew battle but craved peace.
Inside, Kratos sat at the edge of a wooden bed, the floor creaking beneath his weight. His gauntlets were gone. No blades on his back. Just a tunic, worn at the shoulders, and callused fingers that still hadn’t forgotten war.
Across the room, a child laughed. His child.
Dark-haired, chubby-cheeked, barely old enough to speak full words—but strong, even in play. The boy swung a wooden sword in the air, mimicking moves Kratos had once used to kill Titans.
And beside him, the boy’s mother hummed softly while stirring a clay pot over the fire.
Her name was Melina. A mortal. No blood of gods in her. Just courage, quiet and real. She hadn’t asked who he was when he arrived months ago—wounded, angry, thrown from Olympus by Hera’s command. She only offered him food. Then space. Then silence.
Kratos had never meant to stay. But he had.
He stood now, crossing the room to place a gentle hand on the boy’s head. The child grinned, sword raised high.
"Will you teach me today?" the boy asked.
Kratos knelt. "Only if you promise not to hit the goats again."
"They started it."
Kratos gave a short breath of laughter. He was about to answer—then he felt it.
A shift in the air. A scent of roses, cold and thick. The temperature dropped.
He rose slowly. Turned.
And there she was.
Hera.
No grand entrance. No golden chariot. Just standing at the doorway, her dress the color of dusk, her hair like wine. Her eyes... sharp.
Melina didn’t scream. She just froze. Her body instinctively stepping between the goddess and her son.
Kratos moved fast. Placing himself between them.
"Hera."
"Kratos."
Silence.
The fire popped in the corner.
"I told you to keep a low profile," Hera said. Her voice was smooth, controlled, but her eyes glinted with something sharp beneath the surface. "Do you remember that?"
Kratos didn’t answer.
"You were supposed to watch. Blend in. Learn. Instead..."
She stepped further inside. Her hand grazed the wall as she walked. "You’ve gathered followers. Spread whispers that the gods have grown weak. That Olympus is distant. Cold. And you..."
She turned to him fully. "You offered them warmth."
Kratos didn’t blink. "They were forgotten."
"They were managed."
"They were hungry. Scared. I gave them strength."
"You gave them you," she snapped.
Melina held her son tighter.
"You think I don’t know?" Hera stepped closer, eyes flashing. "Temples in your name. Hunters wearing your sigil. A priest—a mortal priest—calling you the Flame of Rebirth. You even branded that title on a cliff face."
"I didn’t tell them to worship me."
"No," Hera said softly. "You just let them."
Kratos lowered his gaze, jaw tight. "I fought for you. You sent me to kill Metis. I failed. Zeus spared me. I didn’t ask for that. You sent me here, threw me away. And in all of that, I found something real."
He looked back at Melina and the boy.
"I found peace."
Hera’s gaze followed his.
"I believe you," she said quietly.
He turned toward her, surprised.
"I do," she added. "But that doesn’t matter."
He stepped forward. "I never meant to challenge you."
"You didn’t have to," she whispered.
Her aura flared. Not with fire or thunder—but with raw presence. The room dimmed. The edges of the walls flickered, as if Olympus itself had taken a breath and held it.
"I gave you a chance," she said. "Not because I forgave you. Not because I pitied you. But because I thought... maybe you could be more than a weapon."
She looked at Melina.
"You made a family. I didn’t expect that."
Kratos tensed. "Don’t touch them."
"I’m not here for them."
The air around her stilled.
"I’m here for you."
Kratos clenched his fists. His veins lit faintly with divine heat, the remnants of power he hadn’t used in months. But he didn’t move. Not yet.
Melina stepped forward, voice trembling. "Please... he’s not the man he was when you sent him here."
Hera’s eyes softened. Just a little.
"I believe you too," she said.
Then she looked at Kratos. "But it’s too late."
A pause.
"You were made for war, Kratos. It clings to you. Even in peace, you attract conflict. You breathe it. And no matter how quiet you try to live... someone always gets hurt."
She raised her hand.
Kratos didn’t flinch.
The room pulsed. Light bent. For a second, it looked like the world itself paused.
Melina screamed his name.
And in a flash—white, silent, soft—he was gone.
No blood.
No sound.
Just... absence.
Hera stood there, arm still raised. Then slowly, she lowered it. Her eyes flicked to the child—wide-eyed and clutching his mother’s leg.
She walked toward them.
Melina trembled. But didn’t run.
Hera knelt in front of the boy.
"You won’t remember this," she said softly. "You’ll grow up strong. Not because of gods. But because of her."
She rose again. Looked at Melina.
"You’ll be left alone. Olympus won’t touch you."
Melina’s voice cracked. "Why spare us?"
Hera didn’t answer right away. Then she said, almost tiredly, "Because I’m not like him."
She turned to leave. But paused at the door.
"There’s a field outside the village. He buried something there. Armor. Weapons. His past."
She looked over her shoulder. "Let it stay buried."
And then... she was gone.
The fire flickered back to life. The child sniffled. Melina dropped to her knees, holding him close.
Outside, the sky remained gray. But not empty.
In the distance, thunder rolled softly—low, far, like a memory whispering through the clouds.
And in the field beyond, where an old oak tree stood watch over the hills, the grass swayed gently over a patch of earth that had been disturbed once, then covered again.
Beneath it... silence.
And peace.
