Chapter 70 – The Fractured Oath
The void had grown restless.
Even the fractured platforms beneath their feet seemed to tremble in anticipation, quivering like the breath of a creature too vast to see. The golden light of the Kingless Crown lingered faintly in the distance, but its glow had dimmed, as if hiding its true power. Shadows slithered at the edges of vision, pooling like black ink, stretching fingers of malice toward them.
Atreus' wrist burned with the pulse of the First Mark. The fracture hummed beneath his skin, louder, sharper, demanding attention, demanding action. Every instinct screamed that danger was imminent — more than anything they had faced before.
Kratos moved with silent precision, Leviathan Axe in hand, eyes scanning the shifting void. Xenara hovered close, staff glowing faintly with wards that shimmered and warped the darkness, yet even she seemed tense, anticipating the storm to come.
"Father…" Atreus whispered, his voice tight. "I feel it… the Nine. They're coming."
Kratos' gaze did not waver. "They always come. We endure. We fight. We survive. Remember that."
A tremor ran through the platforms, the first hint of what was approaching. Shadows rose from the depths, coalescing into forms both familiar and alien — emissaries of the Nine, yet more refined, more commanding than any Atreus had encountered. Their armor was blackened steel etched with gold veins, masks featureless, crowns jagged and angular. Each one radiated authority and threat.
From the darkness, a figure stepped forward — taller than any before, imposing in presence. Its crown seemed to pulse with the energy of the fractured world itself, veins glowing gold like fire beneath black stone. Its voice was layered, omnipresent, echoing both in the void and inside Atreus' mind:
"The heir walks with the Mark. The fracture hums. The Kingless Crown remembers. And the Nine deliver judgment."
Atreus felt the Mark flare violently. The fracture surged beneath his skin, thrumming with unrestrained power. Every instinct screamed to release it fully — to obliterate, dominate, reshape the world in a single sweep. But he clenched his fists, forcing control over the pulsing energy, centering it with precise, deliberate intent.
Kratos' voice cut through the chaos, firm and commanding. "Do not yield. Do not give it the chance to take control. You master it, or it masters you."
The figure moved. The void itself seemed to respond, platforms quivering violently. Shadows surged like tidal waves, twisting into jagged forms, claws, and tendrils aimed at them with surgical precision. The emissary did not strike directly; it tested, probed, and weighed their responses.
Atreus' pulse raced. He projected controlled pulses of the fracture, dispersing shadows while stabilizing the trembling platforms. Every movement required precision; every release had to be deliberate. One misstep, one uncontrolled surge, and the abyss would claim them.
The figure's voice rang in his mind again:
"Control is not mastery. Restraint is not power. Show me the measure of your will, heir."
The fracture pulsed uncontrollably, images flashing across Atreus' mind: kingdoms reshaped, the Nine bowing, worlds burning, Kratos falling. The temptation screamed to strike without control, to unleash the full force of the Mark and assert dominance.
He forced himself to breathe, to align the fracture with his conscious intent. One precise surge, one deliberate pulse of golden energy, and the illusions dissipated without destruction, neutralized without surrendering control.
The figure's mask tilted slightly — acknowledgment, yes, but edged with menace.
"You endure. But endurance alone will not suffice. Judgment comes in more than strength. You will be tested again… in ways your heart fears most."
Kratos swung the Leviathan Axe with brutal precision, striking shadows that attempted to leap at them. Xenara's wards shimmered, stabilizing the crumbling platforms, holding the fractured bridge together. But the challenge was not only physical. Atreus knew the true test was internal — resisting the fracture's temptation, controlling its raw energy, mastering the pull of unrestrained power.
Suddenly, the tallest shadow in the void shifted form. It stepped forward, towering over them. Its crown glowed brighter, veins pulsing in sync with the Mark on Atreus' wrist. The void itself seemed to bend around it, darkness thickening, pressing in.
"The Fractured Oath," it intoned. "The first bond between heir and Mark is broken only once. Fail here, and all is lost. Choose… or be consumed."
Atreus felt the surge immediately, the fracture screaming beneath his skin. The Mark pulled, tugged, demanded obedience, demanded surrender. Visions of untold power flashed before him: kingdoms reshaped, worlds bending, his enemies crushed beneath a single thought. His pulse raced. The abyss whispered: "Take it… now. Take what is yours."
Kratos' hand gripped his shoulder. "Do not listen. Control it. Master it. Your choice is yours alone."
Atreus clenched his teeth, forcing the surge to align with his intent. He projected a controlled burst, dispersing a wave of shadows while keeping the platforms intact. The figure faltered, its pulse echoing in the void.
The true test began.
From the figure radiated a force that warped reality, compressing space and time around them. Shadows formed into giant, jagged constructs — manifestations of fear, doubt, and regret. Each one lunged at them with lethal precision. Kratos swung, Xenara's wards flared, but Atreus realized he had to act differently. Raw power would not be enough. Only skill, discipline, and the deliberate use of the fracture could turn the tide.
He projected energy in calculated streams, guiding constructs into collisions with each other, neutralizing threats while conserving strength. The fracture pulsed violently, resisting his commands, testing his mastery. He felt the temptation surge again — to release fully, to obliterate all, to assert dominance over both the void and the Nine's emissary.
But he resisted. One breath. One step. One deliberate act of will.
The figure spoke again, closer now, a voice layered with both admiration and threat:
"You survive. But survival is not enough. The fracture hungers… and so do we. Every choice, every hesitation, every pulse of power… will be remembered. And next time… the shadows will not retreat."
The platforms trembled violently, the void quaking. Shadows collapsed and dissolved into sparks, but the oppressive weight of the emissary's presence remained. The fracture hummed, veins of gold beneath Atreus' skin glowing steadily — under control, obedient, aware.
Kratos' voice was calm, almost proud. "You endured the first assault. But remember… restraint does not mean safety. The Nine will escalate. Their judgment will return, stronger and deadlier."
Xenara added, her voice tense, "You faced the Fractured Oath and survived. But remember, heir: the Mark is alive. It remembers your restraint… and your temptations. The Nine will exploit both."
Atreus swallowed, gripping his bow tightly. The void around them seemed to pulse with awareness, shadows lingering at the edges, watching, waiting. The Kingless Crown glimmered faintly in the distance, its presence like a heartbeat in the fractured world.
He exhaled slowly, pulse steadying. The fracture hummed in quiet harmony with his heartbeat. The weight of the First Reckoning and the Fractured Oath pressed upon him, but he understood something vital: mastery was not the absence of temptation, but the courage to confront it. The Nine's judgment was relentless, but so too was his resolve.
The platforms beneath their feet stabilized. The shadows dissipated, yet their presence lingered — a reminder that the Nine would return, that the fracture was a living entity, and that every choice he made would echo through the void.
Kratos' hand rested firmly on his shoulder. "The trial is over… for now. But remember, Atreus: the fracture obeys, but it is not your ally. It is a test. Every pulse, every choice, every restraint will define who you are. And the Nine… they do not forgive weakness."
Atreus nodded. The fracture pulsed steadily, obediently. He was no longer a boy overwhelmed by visions of power. He was an heir confronting the weight of the Mark, understanding the responsibilities, the dangers, and the relentless vigilance required to survive.
The Nine had delivered their first reckoning.
And he had endured.
But the shadows waited.
And the true war — the war of mastery, judgment, and survival — was only beginning.