"Prepare yourselves, Corsairs!"

"Quick, to the upper decks! Move!"

"Wait, is that-"

The hull of the Black Ark shook as a hundred guns pelted her hull with explosive shot. Druchii Corsairs were ripped apart by the slash of grapeshot and flaming lead. The smoke of gunpowder and the fog of the Vampire fleet's aura clouded the Druchii's vision and castrated their ability to fire back effectively. Flames erupted ondeck, and screams of the wounded filled the air. Bleeding shrapnel wounds and torn intestines spilled underfoot. Then, the guns settled, and the Dark Elves prepared for boarding parties.

"The dead are weak!" The Corsair commander screamed. "They are bones, and we are immortal! We are thousands, and we are eternal! We are Druchii! Whatever shambling creature climbs over the deck, we shall repel!"

The Corsairs grew quiet, shifting their feet about as they waited for the undead to storm over the edge, but no dead came. The only noise that came from the hull was a single thud, then another single thud, then another. Before a thousand Corsair eyes, a pale, bald man with a beard and a red tattoo leapt over the edge, his hands aflame with strange red energy. His eyes were red with fury, and his muscles were tense with hatred.

"Open fire!" The commander shouted, and the Corsairs emptied their repeater crossbows into the man.

Kratos allowed the arrows to bounce off his hide, then, with a wild roar of rage, he leapt into the Corsair formations.

/

Luthor pressed his telescope to his one good eye, and chuckled as he watched, all while the distant screams of the dying and the slain echoed across the waters. He laughed even harder and more wildly as his eyes followed a dozen Elf corpses, which all were flung limply off the deck into the water.

"Let's not let the Pale One have all the fun." Luthor said to himself. "Port battery, reload!"

/

In the dark halls and dim chambers of the Black Ark, Kratos might have been mistaken for a Daemon, by the red flames about his body and the brutality of his kills. However, Daemon he was not, and the last thing many of the Corsairs onboard would hear were these three words:

"Where is he?!"

With the blasts of cannonfire shredded the Black Ark hull from all sides, and with a mad god rampaging through their lower decks, the city-ship quickly fell into absolute chaos, and Corsairs abandoned the ship by the hundreds via the escape boats, only to be picked off and assimilated into the zombie pirate ranks.

Kratos tore through swathes of fleeing Corsairs like a child beheading dandelions, punching and kicking, ripping and tearing, hacking and slicing, until finally, he reached the bowels of the massive ship. He tore through the thick vault doors of the slave chambers, but no matter how many he searched, there was no sign of Atreus. Without answers, he turned his attention to the bridge of this massive ship. He climbed up the stairs to the top of the highest tower, thrust his hands into the great iron door and ripped it from its hinges, revealing the Captain and crew inside. The Elves fired their crossbows at the intruder, and with a light tink noise, the bolts bounced off Kratos' chest and fell to the floor. It stung, but nothing more.

The crew ran for the exit, which Kratos didn't allow. Every Elf that came near, he slew with his axe, quickly, efficiently, and without time wasted. The crew dead, Kratos turned his attention to the Captain, the last survivor, who was desperately fumbling with his crossbow. Kratos grabbed the weapon from the Captain's hands and dropped it to the ground, wrapping his own hand around the Dark Elf's neck.

"Where is he?!" Kratos roared.

"I-guh-" Was all the Elf could manage, and realizing he was holding too tightly, Kratos loosened his grip. "I don't know- who you're-"

"Atreus!" Kratos repeated, tossing the Elf into the far wall. "The boy you took from me! Where is he?!"

"The Vessel? He- the Admiral said you'd be coming for him." The Captain stammered, crawling his way across the floor, desperate to get away from the raging man.

Kratos paused. The cannons fired again, ripping the Black Ark apart, little bit by little bit, and the undead began to swarm aboard to claim the Ark as their own, slaying every fleeing Elf they came across.

"Who is this Admiral?" Kratos asked, grabbing the Elf by his hair and lifting him high.

"Lokhir Fellheart!" The Captain squealed. "He- he said you'd come looking for your son, and he took another route, another, faster ship! He told me to take the Blessed Dread and to let you catch up!"

Kratos' mind raced and his adrenaline began to pump. Had he truly fallen for this trick? How much time had he wasted? Unable to think straight, Kratos dropped the terrified Captain to the ground.

"I guess my Admiral outsmarted a god." The Captain chuckled nervously.

"Him yes." Kratos said, "You, no."

Slowly, kratos pressed his foot down on the Captain's leg, slowly splintering his femur. The Captain howled in pain. He tried to bat Kratos' foot away, tried to slide out from underneath, but Kratos only pressed harder, and the Elf shrieked louder.

"Where did your Admiral go?" Kratos asked slowly and clearly.

"He didn't tell me!" The Captain shouted. "He didn't- he didn't- please- please-please-"

Kratos pushed the Captain's leg into the floor, utterly crushing everything inside, and the noises the Captain made became like that of a babbling, inhuman creature. Kratos pressed hard enough for his foot to begin to bend the iron floor beneath them.

"AH! AH! I-I-" The Captain screamed. "I SWEAR HE DIDN'T-"

"Then you're useless to me."

Kratos' upper lip twitched, and with a free hand, he grabbed the Elf by the skull and ripped his body away from the leg under his foot. Tendons snapped and bones popped, and the Elf went unconscious from shock. With grinding teeth, Kratos crushed the Elf skull between his fingers and turned to the ship helm. Not long after, Luthor appeared from the dark corridors, took one look at the bridge, at the blood and the obliterated Elf on the floor, then pursed his lips.

"I'm impressed with your… interior design skills." Luthor said. "Did he tell you where the child is?"

"My child is not here." Kratos replied. "They sailed him elsewhere."

Luthor appeared lost in thought. "To abandon a Black Ark for this child, they must think he is valuable indeed…"

"We must continue." Kratos barked. "They will take him to Naggarond. We must get there first."

"No!" Luthor shouted suddenly. "We must get him away from them! We must have him in our arms! Only then can we be sure!"

Kratos raised an eyebrow at the Vampire Captain. "Our arms?"

"Your arms, whatever!" Luthor said dismissively. "We can't wait until Naggarond to find him! We don't even know if Naggarond is his final destination! He could be going to Ghrond, or Hag Graef, or-"

"Then what do you propose?" Kratos interrupted.

"We go to Ulthuan." Luthor suggested. "Malekith won't trust just any Druchii fool with capturing the Sword of Khaine. Whoever he sends, they will have the information we're looking for."

Kratos let out a heavy sigh. It appeared fate had left thim no other choice but to travel to the Blighted Isle. Perhaps he was still a slave to the Great Game after all. Perhaps he was bound by fate, just as everyone else. Though, he had fought fate before, and he would fight fate again. This would be the last acquiescence he would grant fate. With the decision made, he turned the helm of the Black Ark south, towards Ulthuan and the Sword of Khaine.

/

Atreus looked high to the spires of Clar Karond, whose great dark tendrils pointed to the sky, like a device intended for the torture of the heavens themselves. Hundreds of towers stood intermittently across the sprawling metropolis, where massive fleets rested in the shipyards and where great markets of slaves and exotic foods were sold to laughing and drunken citizens.

"Move." Atreus' warden grunted, shoving the restrained boy onto the gangplank.

Atreus walked down the plank as it slowly rose and fell with the bobbing of the ship. Behind him, Lokhir Fellheart followed, and those who saw him cowered from the docks, afraid of his reputation. Atreus was pushed towards an armoured carriage and ordered to get in, which he did. Lokhir got in and sat across from the boy. The door closed, and with the crack of a whip, the carriage was moving through the darkened, busy streets.

"Why do you sell people?" Atreus asked, his eyes fixed on the lines of chained slaves heading to the markets.

"Why not?" Lokhir replied.

"It's wrong, they're miserable."

"It's Wrong…" Lokhir repeated with a sigh. "Right and wrong are inventions of those who fear the successful. Only those at risk of enslavement care about what is "right" and what is "wrong." If you seek to rise through the ranks, morality is just another obstacle, much like enemies or disease."

"They're not a disease." Atreus grumbled. "They're people."

A low chuckle reverberated under Lokhir's mask. "I want you to take a moment, child, and think of the Mayfly."

"Mayfly?"

"Do you know of it?"

"No."

"Of course not. You've lived in Norsca your whole short life." Lokhir noted. "The Mayfly is an insect, perhaps only a half-inch in length. Even compared to a Human's lifespan, it lives a sad, bitterly-wasted existence. One day; that's how long it will survive as an adult. In that time, it desperately searches for food, a mate, perhaps meaning, and before the sun sets, they all die. Even Humans look upon this animal with pity, and perhaps a sense of superiority. Most Humans might ignore them, while some might take it upon them to capture one, pull its legs off just to see what it does. Other animals eat them by the thousands."

"I don't understand."

"We Elves live for millennia." Lokhir stated. "Mortals live perhaps eighty years, maybe four-hundred years, depending on the race and breed. Such a paltry, desperate rush against your own lifespan must be exhausting. We Druchii see Humans as Humans see a Mayfly, or a Mosquito, or a hive of Bees. Some of them are useful for work, for production, or merely as entertainment, and just as Human children might poke at a slug, we poke at them."

"Doesn't sound very superior." Atreus argued. "Sounds like you're just like Humans, just with more time to learn more cruelty."

Lokhir sat back in his chair. "You're right, perhaps us and mortals are similar. And yet, we are the ones they call evil, while the Humans of the Empire and Bretonnia, who enslave their own people and animals for war, are the righteous fighters for order and good. Explain that one for me."

Atreus looked out the window, where Druchii children were seen poking sticks at a passing slave woman.

"History is marked by the successful, and morality is decided by the victorious." Lokhir concluded. "And with you, we shall become both."

"Why me? Atreus asked.

"What do you mean, 'why you?'" Lokhir asked. "It should be obvious, after all."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't play coy with me!" Lokhir snapped, bringing his hand to strike the boy, but quickly choosing against it. "I'm no fool, I know what you are."

Atreus flinched from the hand, but after no blow came, opened his eyes and looked into those red, glowing Druchii irises. "I'm Human. According to you, I'm only worthy as a slave."

Lokhir sat back again. "Human? You don't know?"

"Know what?" Atreus asked again, growing impatient with the cryptic speak.

"You don't!" Lokhir said, a loud rumble of laughter bellowing from his diaphragm. "I was wondering why you hadn't put up more of a fight! Probably best that you don't know, then."

"Know what?!" Atreus asked again, raising his voice.

"Silence now, boy." Lokhir stated as the carriage lurched to a halt. "We're here. Get out, Malekith is waiting."

Malekith. Atreus had heard the name used in hushed tones now and again by his captors, but had no clue as to who this person was. Was he a sorcerer? A King? A salesman? His chains were yanked, and he was dragged out of the carriage. They marched up to the gate of one of the great towers of this sprawling city, guarded by dozens of guards in dramatically-elaborate armour, complete with golden embellishments and jagged spikes. Their weapons appeared of the highest quality, adorned with unnecessary artistic ornamentation, and their faces were covered with metal sheets and dark-purple cloth.

The tower gate creaked open with a loud scream of rust, and with his escort on his either side, he was dragged into the shadows of the dark tower. Violet flame on chandeliers and narrow beams of light from small windows were the only sources of light inside. All around him, the whispers of Nobles and Dreadlords echoed as a chorus of hushed hisses, and Atreus felt like meat on display for these whispering, mumbling, pale-faced and wide-eyed creatures.

"That way." Lokhir whispered in Atreus' ear, pointing off to the steps at the end of the chamber. "We would do well not to linger."

Atreus followed as his escort pushed through the curious crowd. The stairs went up and up, seemingly forever, passing by corridor after corridor, chamber after chamber, all the way to the top. Out of breath, coughing and exhausted, Atreus reached the uppermost tower into a royally-decorated chamber, where nude female slaves danced erotically in their cages, and where scantily-clad male slaves waited against the walls with platters of drink and food in their hands. Each one was obviously chosen for their beauty, for they were all chiseled, square-jawed and slender. Past the drapes of purple silk and the gyrating concubines, there lay the archway leading to a balcony, and upon it stood a dark figure, leaning against the railings.

Lokhir gestured for the boy to advance, and he did. The dark figure stood taller than any Elf Atreus had so-far seen. It was dressed in armour as elaborate as its guards, if not moreso. Its cape was red and adorned with gold embroidery, and its helmet was sharp, and horns spewed from it like a dark crown, weaving around each other and curving upwards like antlers. Not a piece of exposed skin could be seen, and one might have believed it to be a statue, were it not for the slow rise and fall of its shoulders and the raspy breathing of its lungs. Atreus reasoned this figure to be the supposed "Malekith" of his captor's many conversations.

"My King," Lokhir announced, bowing low before the figure. "I have brought him."

Malekith did or said nothing for a moment, then slowly turned, revealing his glowing green eyes and golden face mask. Malekith took a step forward, his breath pushing through the mouth hole in his mask and condensating in the air. He walked stiffly, as if holding back immeasurable pain, hiding it, pretending it wasn't there, despite the agony it caused him. He stood high over Lokhir, and when he looked down at Atreus, the boy felt every ounce of hope in his heart disappear, replaced with despair at the sight of those green eyes.

"This...boy?" Malekith asked, his voice metallic and raspy, but booming at the same time, and the entire room filled with its echoes. "You are sure?"

"My assassins watched for months." Lokhir stated. "His father is the Ghost. This is the one."

"The parents?" Malekith asked.

"We managed to kill the mother." Lokhir explained. "The Ghost is still out there."

Malekith's chest raised and lowered with a heavy sigh. "You were supposed to kill him. I told you no loose ends!"

"The stories are true!" Lokhir argued. "The father is worthy of the tales! He can kill a Dragon Ogre with his bare hands, my people have seen it! If you wanted this child, we had to claim him while the father was absent."

Malekith looked into Lokhir's red eyes, and turned away. "Your reward is on the table...Grand Admiral. The fleets, the Arks, they are yours to command."

Lokhir moved to the table and unraveled the fabric that lay upon it. Atreus could detect the excitement in the faceless Elf's demeanour.

"The Cloak of Hag Graef." Lokhir exclaimed. "Made from the scales of the Sea Dragon Aggraunir."

The Admiral threw the cloak over his shoulders, allowing the scales to clink against each other like scale mail. "What would you have your Grand Admiral do?"

"I would have you fix your mistake." Malekith barked. "You have allowed the Ghost to live, and now, you will rectify that."

Lokhir did a double take. "My Lord-"

"You will rectify your mistake, or I will rectify my trust in you." Malekith croaked.

Lokhir took a step back, then reluctantly bowed. "Of course, my King."

With a whoosh of his new cloak, Lokhir left the room. Malekith walked back out to the Balcony and rested his hands against the railing. "Come. Join me."

Atreus stayed still, breathing heavily with clenched fists. He hated this creature, caring little whether he was a King or a slave. How could he so-nonchalantly discuss the death of his father in front of him like that? What cold creatures were these?

"I said come." Malekith grunted.

"My mother is dead?" Atreus asked, tears streaming down his face, trying to keep his lower lip from trembling.

Malekith turned. "Yes."

Atreus' breathing grew uncontrolled and heavy, and his fists began to glow with a strange red energy. Atreus didn't notice the changes in his own body, being far too deep in his rage.

"I know what you are, boy." Malekith muttered, taking a step forward. "Show it to me. I killed your mother. Your father will be next. What, then, shall you do, let me live? Curl into a ball a mewl?"

Atreus roared, his adolescent voice cracking into a high squeak, and for a brief moment, his body was engulfed in red flame. The Elf evaded the charging boy, and pushed him into the wall, slamming the boy's forehead against the iron. The boy's rage quickly subsided, and he dropped to the floor, coughing and choking.

"Good." Malekith hissed slowly. "Good. You are what they say you are. Do you know what that is?"

Atreus said nothing, too defeated to move or speak.

"You are the offspring of the impossible." Malekith explained. "A tear in the fabric of our reality. You are a bridge between the Realm of Souls and the physical plane, a gateway made flesh."

Malekith walked back to his balcony. "Your father never told you. I'm not surprised, it was wise of him to protect you from yourself, and from people like me."

"I don't- understand…" Atreus whispered, letting the tears flow freely from his face.

"Your illness is not from this world." Malekith continued. "You are a creature of Chaos...and of flesh. You are sick because you do not belong in either, but are of both. Your body and spirit is torn at the seams, for which you can thank your father."

"Don't talk about him…"

"Your father is no Norscan warrior, boy. He was once a Chaos God, The Lord of Revenge. He once lorded over Daemons of his own making, and they carried out his will, as it has always been with the other Ruinous Powers."

"That's impossible, he's just a man!"

"Now, yes, he is but a man." Malekith explained. "He surrendered his godly power, and from the Waystones of Albion, his form was made physical, his mind made mortal and his Daemons undone. You are the offspring of a Ruinous Power, child. Tell me, boy; what do you dream?"

Atreus furrowed his brow at the question.

"Terrifying visions of strange creatures? Gardens of rot? Battles of flame and blood? Palaces of screams and moans?" Malekith listed. "You dream of these things, don't you? Did you never question why every night, you saw the same things? How do I know about all this, you ask."

Malekith turned his golden mask to the boy. "I know more about you than you know about yourself. You are rare beyond any price, and I have such plans for you."