I have watched over the realms, from the shadows, for so very long. Rejected by my brothers and sisters, forgotten by the world, but I remain. I am but a wisp of ash, caught by winds of change, taken along currents of unguided energies, but I remain.

The death of the Everchosen.

The news of his death spreads like poison through the veins of the Realm of Souls. How could such a thing happen, they ask themselves? How could their plans crumble to dust before their very eyes? There is a rip in the timeline. The End Times was halted in its place, and now the gods flounder.

This…Ghost of Norsca. This Chaos God of Revenge. The one who should not be. The realmwalker. He could be the key. Already, I feel the balance shifting.

No.

Not shifting…sinking. Drowning. My scant followers- they feel it: the end of the Great Game.

The God of Revenge must fulfil his role. In the ashes of his family will he bathe once more, to be reborn not as a father, but as an agent of chaos. My chaos.

His grief will fuel my victory. The End Begins Now.

What remained of the great Druchii city of Ghrond, a thousand lifetimes of enslaved labour, which upon their broken backs was built this metropolis of malevolence, was reduced to flattened bricks and tattered banners. The clouds in every direction could not withstand the might of two gods upon the earth, and they cowered, opening to let the stars weep fire and blood upon them.

The very mountains quivered and cracked. The waters of the lake boiled. The Slann, last vestiges of Old One wisdom, all broke from their centuries-long meditations as one, and with memories of the Great Catastrophe in their hearts, looked to the north. The waves of chaos emanating from that cold place could chill their blood, cold already as it was.

The Elves of Ulthuan, the keepers of the Great Vortex, did not know why such rage rose from its swirling energies, but from the arcs of energy that stemmed from Ghrond, they could only assume their outcast brethren had committed some heinous sin against the mortal realm.

The Council of Thirteen, snivelling beneath their overworld oppressors, could feel the screams within their warpstone trinkets. It was their patron god warning them of things to come. They sputtered and squeaked their plans amongst themselves, but none among them could overcome their fear, as their underground chambers quaked and trembled beneath their paws.

Nagash, freshly-resurrected from his sarcophagus, looked to frigid, distant Naggaroth, and smiled, for he could sense the death emanating there. He knew not what battle could shake the world so, but he sneered nonetheless, for he could only dream of the armies that he could muster in its wake.

Sigmar, trapped within the Great Vortex, knew the warcry of the God of Revenge. Trapped within his focal point of warp magic, he had caught glimpses of distant realms. He had seen visions of dead pantheons across the cosmos, and he knew the collateral that resulted. He had to save humanity. He had to escape.

What few Druchii could escape the waves of destruction across their lands could only watch as their continent fell to ruin. A desperate father avoided every strike from the God of Blood, but did not counterattack. How could he? The face of his son was Kratos' enemy. He could only dodge and parry, and Khaine took every advantage.

"When you die," Khaine taunted, "Your son shall lead the world into a new era of peace. Is that not what you want for him? Yield!"

Kratos did not answer. His every ounce of concentration kept Khaine at bay. His son was in there, but as they fought from the highest mountain ranges to the deepest lakes, he knew no way of exorcising a god from a mortal. He knew no way of saving Atreus, but stubborn as Kratos was, his heart began to understand; one victory was another defeat. Allowing Khaine to live would doom his son and the world, but killing Khaine would slaughter the boy within.

The great forests of Naggaroth burned around them. The mountains collapsed. The sky became as red as blood, and even the sun feared to rise that day. Kratos looked around him. He no longer saw Nagarroth, but his home of Greece before him. He saw the drownings and the burnings. He saw the flies picking from the decayed carcasses. He saw children laying dead. Innocents caught in yet another one of his damned crusades. His quest for revenge. His own Great Game.

Finally, as Khaine watched from the far side of this charred clearing, Kratos allowed his blades to fall from his hands. "No more."

Khaine cocked his head, eyes glowing with fire and spite. "You yield?"

"I do." Kratos sighed. "I am no slave to who I was. Are you?"

Khaine laughed, and with his laughter, the flames that burned the trees flared into an inferno. "You see me as a slave? To what? They worshipped me for my cruelty, but I want nothing but for cruelty to end. Look around us! Were it not for us, all this fire, this death, it still would have happened! The End Times were upon us! Endless aeons of cruelty awaited us! We stopped it, you and I! We defeated our brother's champion! I am a slave to nothing, little brother, but you…you are a slave to your guilt, and now, your guilt will destroy you."

Even then, visions of that fateful day filled Kratos' mind. The screams. The blood. His own family, dead before his blood-soaked hands.

"Are you so caught up in redemption that you cannot see it slapping you in the face?" Khaine asked. "Can't you see what a joke reality is? A cruel entertainment for invisible hands who play with us like pieces on a board? This is our chance to end all suffering. No father will ever be tricked into killing their family again. We can end it all. No more gods. No more butchers. No more revenge. Just…silence. Peace. Help me."

Kratos shook his head. "I will not allow you to use my son. I will not destroy his future. Release him, Khaine."

Khaine sneered. "Fine. I can do it myself."

And just before the Sword of Khaine pierced Kratos' heart once more, the Spartan's mind was ripped from his body, into the Realm of Souls. Kratos found himself at the table, where his throne awaited him, yet all other thrones were empty. He called out for the Chaos Gods to face him, to explain themselves, but no answer came, save for one.

"They fear you, you know." A slithering, raspy voice whispered from the dark abyss surrounding the table. "You've changed everything."

"What is this?" Kratos asked.

"You and I want the same thing." The voice hissed, circling Kratos from beyond the shadows. "This Great Game…the way mortals are toyed with…the violence and pain. We both want to see an end to it all. We both want Khaine dead, but I know a way to save your son. We can achieve this together."

"I trust no shadow." Kratos barked. "Reveal yourself."

Slowly, slithering with the dry clicking of bones, a creature of grey flesh and warped jaws, tentacles of spines and skulls filled with smoke-filled holes, emerged. It possessed no eyes, but it seemed to follow Kratos with its mangled visage. Kratos knew this creature, but only from wives tales told by the daemons who had lived long enough to remember.

"Malal." Kratos grunted.

"I believe you and I have much in common." Malal croaked. "And right now, you are in need of allies."

"Not with you." Kratos grumbled.

"Right now, the Sword of Khaine is but a hair's breadth from your chest." Malal wheezed, and mucus fell from his many holes. "Last time, it was a vampire who wielded it against you, but in the hands of its master, you will die, and any chance of saving your son will be wasted, all because of - what, your pride?"

Kratos looked to his throne. "What, then?"

Malal seemed to gasp in joy, his breath wet with sludge. "I am still a creature of the warp. I can reach into your son's body and drag Khaine back."

"No."

"The gateway is open." Malal replied. "Yet no gods have stopped him. Why is that, do you suppose? Because the gods feed on Khaine's presence in reality. He feeds Khorne's bloodlust. He feeds rot to Nurgle. He feeds pride to Slaanesh, and as for Tzeentch…well, he couldn't be bothered. Not after what you did to his Lord of Change."

"They know his plans, yet they do nothing." Kratos noted.

"They are slaves to their hunger." Malal explained. "And to their fear of him. He slew their champion, which was thought to be impossible. I do not fear him."

"You are weak." Kratos barked. "Your worshippers scattered."

"Which is why I must borrow some of your strength." Malal explained. "With your godly power, I could-"

"I have been told the very same once before." Kratos dismissively replied. "Not again."

Malal seemed offended, or perhaps frustrated. "If you want to save your son, this is the only way."

"There must be another way."

Malal shifted on its many bony talons. "I could still reach in and grab Khaine. If I pull from within, perhaps you could push from the outside. It might be enough. If it is not-"

"It must be." Kratos replied. "Send me back."

Kratos found himself once more surrounded by burning woods, the Sword of Khaine trembling just before his scratched armour. Khaine's eyes seemed strained, as if unable to move. The Bloody-Handed God grunted, pushing against its own form, but was unable to push the blade any closer.

"What have you done?" Khaine bellowed. "What is this trickery?!"

At once, without words, Kratos swiped the Sword of Khaine aside and tackled Khaine to the ground. With all his might, Kratos pushed his chaotic power into his hand, and pushed his palm against Khaine's mouth. The Lord of Murder struggled, but seemed incapacitated completely. Every ounce of Kratos' godly might was pushed into Atreus' body, forcing the god back into the warp.

Slowly, Khaine seemed to realise what was happening, enough to fight back, it seemed. Kratos pushed harder, throwing every ounce of chaos magic into the boy, but every push drained the Spartan of reserved strength. Strength giving out, Kratos felt Khaine's spirit returning into the boy. With a single kick, Kratos was pushed off, landing not far away.

Khaine struggled to his feet, grunting and keeling from the battle waging within. Khaine's fire and iron overlapped with Malal's spines and flesh as both gods pushed each other back into the warp. Finally, Khaine's fiery eyes glanced at Kratos, and with a fiery grin, turned the blade on himself.

"I see now," The Lord of Murder's last words crawled into Kratos' mind. "Your will. It's unstoppable. It was never supposed to be me."

Before Kratos could react, the Sword of Khaine pierced Atreus' body, and from the wound poured waves of chaotic power over the land. The flames all went out, the trees obliterated, the sky and the stars above turned to darkness. Kratos quickly plunged his blades into the ground to stop himself from tumbling across the landscape.

When the winds had died and the dust had settled, Kratos picked himself up, coated in dust and dirt. Burns coated his flesh. His bones were broken from the force of Khaine's death, yet he cared nothing for pain, nor the limits of his mortal form. He crawled by the strength of only one arm, across the barren landscape, fueled by desperation to find his son. He could hardly breathe, yet he still called Atreus' name with what air he could muster.

When he found Atreus, both Malal and Khaine were absent. The Sword of Khaine had embedded into the boy's lung. Atreus gasped and gurgled, mouth drooling blood, but he was mortal. frail, just a boy once more. Kratos, seeing this, could not help but cry out at the sight.

"No, no, no," The Spartan begged, sitting himself upright to cradle the dying boy. "No, no, no, no, Faye- Faye, help- help! Somebody help!"

Atreus's eyes, frightened and wide, looked to his father for reassurance, for hope that this was not the end. Kratos thought about removing the weapon from the boy's chest, but knew that the wound would only bleed faster if he did. Kratos tried to pick up the boy, to cart him to the safety of a doctor or sorcerer, but part of him knew that there was no help to be found for many dozens of miles.

From the smoke, there came the click-clacking of bony talons. A daemon of Malal, wheezing and choking, stood over the grief-stricken god, and said nothing.

"Help him." Kratos begged.

The daemon gasped wetly for air. "No."

Kratos's lip twitched. "Your master did this. Undo it!"

The daemon let out a series of clicks. Perhaps it was laughter. "Or what?"

And as Atreus's panic-filled eyes looked to his father, his small hand rose to touch Kratos' cheek. Blood mixed with the red tattoos, and with that last gesture, Atreus let out one final breath. Kratos felt the boy's heart surrender, and when his spirit left, the boy's eyes abandoned all fear, all hope, until there was nothing. No mortal tongue could describe the grief that took Kratos in that moment. The poetry of the elves could not do any justice to such agony. The tortures of the Druchii could not fathom such abyssal levels of misery. At that moment, as yet another innocent soul fell prey to the musings of the gods, and Kratos, with all his strength and power, could not stop it. Kratos shed a tear that he swore he would never shed again.

"Come then, Ghost of Norsca." Malal's daemon gagged. "My master is partly to blame for this death, is he not?"

"And for this…" Kratos could barely utter a whisper, "He will die. They all will."

"Excellent." Was all the daemon stated before collapsing into a simple pile of bones.

And with the death of Khaine, a god upon the face of the earth, the Great Vortex, hammered by so much raw magic, began to weaken. When the citizens of Ulthuan looked up into that swirling maw, they could see horrid faces, pushing their way through the magics, waiting, laughing.