Chapter 42:Echoes of the Forsaken
The night sky above the Ravenspire Mountains was fractured, streaked with lightning that split the clouds like jagged swords. The air smelled of ozone and blood, a bitter combination that set Kratos' teeth on edge. He moved silently along the cliffside, Leviathan Axe in hand, senses honed to every subtle sound—the distant howl of a wolf, the whisper of wind across jagged stone, the faintest echo of footsteps behind them.
Atreus followed closely, bow drawn, eyes darting into the shadows. He had grown sharper, harder, after the trials of the Hollow, but even he could feel the weight pressing down—the kind that made the hair on the back of your neck bristle. The Hollow had left its mark, a lingering shadow inside them both, one that whispered of unseen dangers, of death lying in wait.
Kratos spoke first, voice low, almost a growl. "Something is coming. I feel it."
Atreus nodded, tightening his grip on the bow. "I've felt it too… like the air itself is alive with malice."
A distant scream pierced the wind, echoing across the mountains. Not a human scream—too jagged, too warped. Kratos' eyes narrowed. "The Forsaken. They've found us."
The Forsaken were creatures of shadow and rage, once mortal warriors who had been twisted by dark magic into hunters of souls. They were patient, cunning, and relentless. And they had learned from the Hollow. If they had tracked them here, it meant the dark forces had not been defeated—they had only awakened something hungrier.
A rustle in the rocks drew Kratos' attention. From the shadows, a figure emerged, tall and spectral, eyes burning a pale green. Its movement was fluid, unnatural, almost gliding across the stone. The Forsaken had arrived.
Atreus fired an arrow instinctively. The figure barely flinched; the arrow shattered against an invisible barrier. "Father…" he muttered, unease lacing his voice.
Kratos' jaw tightened. "Do not rely on conventional weapons. Fight with your mind as much as your arms."
The creature hissed, a sound that scraped against bone. Then, as if in response to an unspoken command, more figures emerged from the darkness—dozens of them, each a twisted mirror of a fallen warrior, their faces distorted, their limbs elongated, claws dripping shadow. The Forsaken surrounded them, silent but alive with a malignant intelligence.
Kratos tightened his grip on the axe, frost etching the blade's runes. "Hold your ground, boy. We will carve a path through them."
The first wave attacked. Shadows swirled around them, striking like blades in the dark. Kratos swung the axe, each strike meeting resistance, each movement tearing through a creature only for another to replace it. The air was alive with the screams of the damned, though the mouths of the Forsaken never moved. It was as if their rage alone had become a weapon, a psychic assault aimed directly at the mind.
Atreus' hands shook but he let fly another arrow. This time, he visualized the target, imagined the creature as nothing more than a shadow to be banished. The arrow hit its mark, and the Forsaken dissolved into smoke, but the relief was brief—more emerged, their numbers seemingly endless.
Kratos growled, fury and strategy intertwining. He swung the axe in a wide arc, sending one creature flying off the cliffside. Another rushed from behind, claws grazing his back, but he spun, striking again. The air burned with frost and shadow, the night alive with violence.
A whisper reached Kratos from the darkness, faint but unmistakable. You cannot save him. You cannot save yourself. It was the Hollow again, or perhaps something worse—the Forsaken had brought a fragment of it with them.
Kratos' eyes narrowed. "I am no one's prey."
From above, a shrill screech cut through the night. Kratos looked up and saw a Forsaken diver hovering in the air, wings formed from shadow and mist, its eyes fixed on Atreus. Without hesitation, Kratos launched himself forward, axe swinging. He struck the creature midair, sending it tumbling into a chasm. But Kratos knew more were coming, and faster than he could count.
The wind shifted, carrying voices—dozens of them—layered in lies, threats, and despair. Atreus' face paled. "Father… I… I can hear them. They're… they're in my head."
Kratos placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Focus. Their power lies in fear and doubt. If you give them your mind, they will take your body as well. Fight it, Atreus. Fight it with everything you have."
The boy closed his eyes, drawing on his inner strength, recalling the lessons from the Hollow. Slowly, deliberately, he released arrows, each one imbued with intention, each one striking true. Shadows screamed and dissolved. Kratos pressed forward beside him, axe cutting through the thick fog of darkness, carving a path, but the weight of numbers threatened to overwhelm them.
Then came the sound—the deep, resonant pulse of the Forsaken's command. From the cliffs above, the largest among them descended: the Harbinger. It towered above the rest, eyes glowing a sickly green, wings outstretched, dripping shadow that hissed as it touched the stone. Its claws were long enough to pierce armor and stone alike.
Kratos stopped, recognizing the escalation. This was no ordinary hunter. This was a commander, a creature born of vengeance and ancient cruelty. The Forsaken obeyed its will, their attacks coordinated, relentless, unyielding.
The Harbinger landed with a thunderous crash, sending boulders skidding down the cliffside. Its voice was a whisper and a roar at once: "Ghost of Sparta… your son will fall. And you… will bleed as the gods have bled before you."
Kratos' eyes glinted with fury. "I will carve the world to protect him."
The battle became a maelstrom. Kratos swung with brutal precision, striking Forsaken after Forsaken, each clash shaking the cliffside. Atreus darted among them, releasing arrows with deadly accuracy, but the Harbinger itself was untouchable—each strike seemed absorbed, each attempt deflected.
The cliff beneath them cracked, sending loose stones plummeting into the darkness. Kratos blocked a swipe from the Harbinger's claw, gritting his teeth as the force nearly knocked him off balance. The air shimmered with shadow energy, tendrils of darkness snaking toward Atreus.
"Move!" Kratos roared, shoving the boy aside. One tendril struck the ground, splintering stone, and another hit the edge where they had stood moments before.
Atreus scrambled, breathing heavily, yet his resolve did not waver. He loosed an arrow into the Harbinger's chest, but it passed through harmlessly, dispersing into a green mist. "Father… it's… invincible!"
Kratos' eyes narrowed. He realized brute force alone would not suffice. The Harbinger fed on fear, on despair. To strike it down, he would need to turn the shadow itself against it.
He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, drawing on the lessons from the Hollow. The whispers of the Forsaken pressed against his mind, dredging up memories of past failures, of innocents lost, of his own son's doubts. He focused, forcing the darkness back, bending it, shaping it, until the shadows around the Harbinger began to twist and writhe—not in attack, but in defense against their master.
Atreus noticed the shift. "Father… it's weakening it!"
Kratos opened his eyes, releasing a roar that carried across the mountains. With a powerful swing, the Leviathan Axe cut through the swirling shadows, striking the Harbinger in a glancing blow. Green smoke hissed as the creature recoiled, faltering for the first time.
The Forsaken faltered, sensing the change. Without their master's guidance, their attacks grew chaotic, uncoordinated. Kratos pressed forward, axe flashing, while Atreus fired arrow after arrow into the Harbinger, targeting the weak points exposed by the faltering command.
With a final, thunderous swing, Kratos cleaved the Harbinger, sending it crashing into the jagged cliffs. Its scream was a soundless echo, reverberating through the mountains, a mixture of rage, fear, and disbelief. The Forsaken scattered, dissipating into the night like smoke in the wind.
Breathing heavily, Kratos turned to Atreus. The boy was shaken but alive, determination shining through fear. "We… we did it," he whispered.
Kratos did not respond immediately. He surveyed the cliffside, the shattered remnants of the battle, the echoes of the fallen lingering in the wind. The Forsaken were defeated, but the dark forces behind them had not been revealed in full. Somewhere, lurking beyond the mountains, a greater threat waited. And the Hollow, and the Maw, and now the Forsaken had left marks that could not be erased.
Kratos sheathed the Leviathan Axe, placing a hand on Atreus' shoulder. "We survived. But the night is far from over. They will come again, and next time… it may not be enough."
Atreus nodded, eyes fierce despite exhaustion. "Then we keep fighting. Together."
Kratos allowed himself a brief moment of relief, but he knew it was fleeting. The darkness was patient, eternal, and it had only begun to awaken.
The mountains were silent again, but the wind carried whispers—soft, dangerous, promising that the echoes of the forsaken would return.
And Kratos, ever vigilant, tightened his grip on the Leviathan Axe. Whatever came next… they would face it, unbroken.
Word count: ~1,400
If you like, I can continue next with Chapter 53, which can push the suspense even further—introducing a betrayal or a psychological twist that tests Kratos and Atreus in ways the Forsaken never could.
Do you want me to continue with Chapter 53?