Chapter 66 – The Kingless Crown
The path back from the Still Vein was no longer the same.
Where stone had once floated steadily, it now undulated like water, bending beneath their weight. Shadows clung to the edges of the void, pooling like thick oil, whispering at the corners of the mind. The mark burned faintly on Atreus' wrist, a constant reminder of the First Mark of the Nine, and with each step, he could feel it tugging at something deep inside — an inheritance he had not asked for, yet could not escape.
Kratos moved ahead, the Leviathan Axe in hand, scanning the floating platforms as if expecting them to betray his son at any moment. His eyes were cold, calculating, a father's worry wrapped in the blade's precision. Behind him, Xenara's staff left faint trails of blue light that warped the shadows, but even she hesitated, feeling the oppressive weight of the world around them.
Atreus' breathing was uneven, pulse syncing with the faint hum of the fracture beneath his skin. He felt the whispers returning, low and persistent, words of encouragement and threat intertwined. Not just from the Nine, but from the First Bound they had encountered.
"Remember. Decide. Or be erased."
The words vibrated in his mind, pressing on the edges of reason. He wanted to shake them off, to focus only on the path ahead, but the mark pulsed violently in response, reminding him that he had already been chosen — or at least, observed.
Xenara finally spoke, breaking the silence. "The mark does more than identify you. It resonates with the fractures in this world. Every choice you make, every hesitation, every strike of your will… the mark absorbs it. You are no longer simply a boy. You are a threshold."
Kratos grunted. "Threshold to what?"
"To power," she said grimly. "And to judgment."
The void around them shifted, the floating platforms folding in on themselves, rearranging like the world was alive and testing their balance. Ahead, the path split into three arches — each one darker than the last, shadows pooling thickly at their bases.
"Three paths," Atreus whispered. "Which one do we take?"
Xenara's eyes narrowed. "All lead somewhere. None lead where you expect."
Kratos' voice was low, steady. "We follow the one that keeps the boy alive."
Atreus flinched. It wasn't guidance; it was caution wrapped in the grim certainty of death. He knew Kratos meant it — that the Nine and whatever else lingered beyond these fractured platforms would not hesitate to take him if he faltered.
They chose the middle path.
Almost immediately, the air thickened. It pressed against their chests like the weight of water in deep ocean trenches. Shadows pooled around their feet, forming shapes that flickered between reality and memory. Atreus' fracture pulsed instinctively, responding to the unease with a low thrum, as if warning him that this was not a mere path, but a trial.
The first attack came without warning.
From the shadows rose a figure cloaked in gold-flecked black. Its armor was etched with fractured crowns, jagged lines of light tracing its chest and shoulders. Its face was hidden beneath a smooth, featureless mask, but the aura it radiated made Atreus' chest tighten with anticipation and fear.
Kratos swung his axe immediately, splitting the first wave of shadow constructs that leapt from the abyss. Atreus flared the fracture in response, a controlled burst that repelled the shadows while reinforcing the trembling platform beneath them. Xenara wove protective threads across the fractured stone, keeping the floating path from collapsing entirely.
But this enemy was different. It moved with purpose. Every strike, every retreat, every step was precise. It wasn't merely attacking; it was teaching, testing, probing for weakness in both father and son.
Atreus' hands burned with the pull of the fracture. He wanted to release it fully, to let it act as it desired, but Kratos' presence beside him reminded him of restraint. Control was survival. Mastery was survival. Every pulse of the fracture needed to be guided by will, not impulse.
The cloaked figure struck again, its movements blindingly fast. Atreus barely managed to redirect a pulse of the fracture in time, scattering the shadow constructs before they could overwhelm Kratos. But the effort left him staggered.
"Father…" he gasped.
Kratos' eyes were steel. "Focus. Do not falter."
Xenara stepped forward, staff raised. "The Mark is reacting. It senses the trial's purpose. You cannot let it dominate you, Atreus. You must be the master of what is inside you."
Atreus inhaled sharply, letting the fracture hum in harmony with his intent rather than rage. With careful precision, he projected a controlled burst of energy. The cloaked figure faltered, recoiling slightly as if surprised that the boy did not panic, did not release blindly, but guided the raw power through skill and restraint.
The battle became a rhythm — Kratos' brutal, precise strikes with the Leviathan Axe; Atreus' controlled fracture pulses stabilizing the path and dispersing shadows; Xenara's threads holding the broken world together. Each movement had to be perfect, or the void would claim them.
The cloaked figure finally stepped back, dissolving into a flicker of shadows before reforming above them. Its voice, distorted and echoing like a chorus of whispers, carried across the void:
"The Mark recognizes. But it does not forgive. It will demand more than survival — it will demand choice. Will you command it… or be commanded?"
Atreus felt the pull immediately. The fracture surged beneath his skin, tendrils of light and shadow intertwining, whispering promises of unparalleled power if only he would release control. His pulse raced. His mind spun with the visions of futures the Mark hinted at — kingdoms risen and fallen, the Nine bowing, and the throne that seemed to exist just for him.
Kratos' hand gripped his shoulder. "Do not listen to it! Control it, or it will control you!"
Atreus exhaled slowly, focusing. The fracture's energy flowed through him, obedient to his will, not his fear. With a precise burst, he shattered the remaining shadow constructs. The cloaked figure hissed, flickering into fragments that dissolved into the void.
The path ahead shifted once more, revealing a narrow bridge of stone that led toward a glowing arch. Golden light spilled from the edges, illuminating the abyss with a warmth that was unsettling rather than comforting.
Xenara's voice was low, almost reverent. "That arch… it is called the Kingless Crown. A place where heirs of power confront what the Nine feared the most: free will."
Kratos stepped onto the bridge first, the Leviathan Axe ready. "Then we make sure he chooses wisely."
Atreus followed, every step a test of balance, courage, and control. The fracture throbbed beneath his skin, but he moved in harmony with it, not against it.
As they reached the center of the arch, the air changed. Time seemed to stretch and compress simultaneously. Shadows flickered along the edges, whispering threats, temptations, and possibilities all at once. Atreus could feel it pressing in — the weight of a future not yet written, of worlds that might bend or break depending on what he decided next.
From the center of the crown, a throne rose. It was simple, carved from black stone with veins of gold, radiating a quiet authority. The mark on Atreus' wrist pulsed violently as if it were calling to the seat.
Kratos' voice was steady. "Do not sit. Do not even touch it. Observe. Learn. Control."
But the whispers were louder than ever, coiling around his mind:
"It is yours… if you take it. Power beyond the Nine's imagining. You can save worlds… or destroy them. All you must do is reach."
Atreus clenched his fists. The fracture surged beneath his skin, and he realized that it wasn't just power or temptation. It was expectation. The world expected him to claim the throne. The Nine expected him to claim it. Even the First Bound had expected him to choose.
He stepped forward anyway, slowly. Not to claim, not to submit. But to confront.
The throne shimmered as he approached, reacting to the intent of his steps rather than his presence. Golden light traced the marks of the Nine across the edges, fading and flowing like liquid. The fracture thrummed, not with temptation, but with awareness. It was alive. It was watching. It was judging.
Kratos' hand rested lightly on his shoulder. "This is not about power. This is about who you are. Remember that."
Atreus nodded, heart pounding. He reached out, not to claim, but to touch the edge of the throne. The moment his fingers brushed the stone, the world shuddered violently. Shadows recoiled, the floating bridge wavered, and the fracture beneath his skin pulsed like a heartbeat thrumming across the void.
A voice, multiple voices, rose around them.
"The heir has arrived. The throne awakens. The worlds tremble."
Atreus' vision blurred. The golden light revealed possibilities, timelines, choices, and consequences. He could feel the weight of all of it — not as destiny, but as temptation, a challenge, and a warning.
Kratos tightened his grip on the axe. "Stay steady."
Atreus closed his eyes. He could feel the fracture in complete harmony, not as a force of temptation, but as a tool of clarity. One controlled breath. One deliberate step. One conscious choice.
And in that silence, in that moment, he realized the true nature of the Kingless Crown: it did not grant power. It demanded mastery.
The first trial of the throne had begun.