The Silent Commander ( God of War)

The rain had been falling since dawn—long, silver knives of water slicing through the fog that shrouded the streets of Blackridge. The city’s skyline loomed like a jagged scar across the clouds, its towers bleeding light through mist and smoke.

Ethan Cross stood motionless outside the Vitale estate, an umbrella tilted low, watching the runoff gather at his boots. The rain hit the pavement with the same rhythm as the gunfire he used to hear in another life—steady, merciless, unending.

He had once stood at the edge of battlefields like this: waiting, reading the wind, feeling the ghosts of the men he had led. Now he stood at the gate of another kind of war—a domestic one, fought with silence and humiliation instead of swords.

The guard by the gate leaned on the iron bars, cigarette smoke curling through the downpour. His uniform was too tight, his smirk too casual. “Forgot your key again, Mr. Cross?”

Ethan lifted his gaze, gray eyes cold and distant beneath the shadow of the umbrella. “Seems I forget a lot of things lately.”

The guard chuckled and pressed the buzzer. “Yeah, like how to be your own man.”

The gate creaked open with the groan of hydraulics, and Ethan stepped inside without a word.

The Vitale estate was the kind of place that looked expensive even in the rain—columns imported from Greece, marble floors polished until they reflected the chandeliers like frozen stars. The air smelled of cigars, whiskey, and the quiet arrogance of old money. Every step Ethan took echoed like an apology.

He hadn’t been born for this world of silk and deception. Once, he’d known the simplicity of orders shouted through chaos, of loyalty measured in blood and fire. But those memories were fractured now, buried beneath a life he couldn’t remember choosing.

He barely made it across the marble foyer when a voice sliced through the air like a whip.

“You’re dripping water on the floor again.”

Elena Vitale descended the staircase with the grace of a verdict. Black silk robe cinched at the waist, dark hair twisted into a knot that revealed the delicate slope of her neck, her lips the color of forbidden things. Her beauty was the kind that hurt to look at—cold, immaculate, untouchable.

She stopped at the last step, eyes running over him with quiet disdain. “Do you always look this miserable, or is it just when you come home?”

“I’ll clean it,” Ethan said quietly, setting the umbrella aside.

She waved a slender hand. “Don’t bother. The help will handle it.” Her tone softened, just enough to sound like pity. “My father wants to see you. Try not to embarrass yourself.”

Alive, she had once told him. Try to look alive.

If only she knew what that word meant to him.

Don Vitale’s study was the heart of the estate—smoke, jazz, and sin trapped in polished wood. A gramophone crooned softly in the corner, and the old man himself sat behind a walnut desk large enough to bury a man in.

“Do you know why I keep you here, Ethan?” the Don rasped, voice like gravel dragged over glass.

Ethan’s posture was still, disciplined. “Because I’m married to your daughter.”

“No.” The Don’s grin was thin and dangerous. “I keep you because every family needs a harmless dog. Something to mock when business turns sour.”

Laughter from the capos filled the room like gunfire. Ethan stood motionless, letting it roll over him.

Elena looked away.

The Don leaned forward, ash spilling from his cigar. “Tomorrow, we meet the Solari family. You’ll drive your wife. You’ll stand behind her. You’ll smile and keep that mouth shut. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Now leave. The men and I have business—real business.”

Ethan turned toward the glass door, the reflection of his own face flickering in the rain-streaked pane. For a heartbeat, the reflection wasn’t his—it was something else. A man armored in light and shadow, crowned in flame.

The Warlord of the Sun.

Eyes burning silver.

Then thunder cracked outside, and the image shattered.

That night, sleep came like a storm.

He dreamt of red dunes stretching into eternity. Of spears blazing beneath twin suns. A thousand soldiers bowed before him, chanting his name—a name that wasn’t Ethan Cross.

“Do you remember the oath you broke?” a voice thundered across the sky.

He tried to speak, but blood filled his mouth. The ground trembled with the roar of dying gods.

“You commanded legions. You defied heaven itself. You were betrayed by your own. Remember.”

A spear pierced his chest.

He woke gasping at 3:06 a.m., lungs burning, heartbeat wild. The room was dark, the sound of rain relentless. He reached instinctively beneath his pillow, fingers closing around the knife he kept there—a habit from another life he couldn’t remember.

Then came the sound of footsteps outside the door.

“Ethan?” Elena’s voice, soft but cautious. She never came to him at night.

He sat up. “What is it?”

“My father’s sending me to the docks tomorrow,” she said, stepping inside. The hallway light gilded her face, revealing something fragile beneath her frost. “There’s talk it’s a setup. Maybe a trap.”

“I thought he wanted me silent.”

“Maybe he wants to see how much humiliation you can take.” Her eyes met his, sharp and searching. “You could say no, you know. You don’t owe him your obedience.”

He studied her quietly. “You think this is about obedience?”

“Isn’t it?”

He stood, the knife still in his hand. “If something happens tomorrow,” he said, voice low and even, “stay behind me.”

She laughed softly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not.”

Something in his tone—something ancient and commanding—made her pause. For the first time, Elena saw a man who didn’t fit the mask of her quiet husband. There was power in his stillness. Command in his silence.

She looked at him a long moment, then said quietly, “Good night, Ethan.”

But when she left, her hands trembled.

Morning came bruised and gray, the sky swollen with storm.

The convoy rolled toward the Solari docks—black SUVs slicing through puddled streets. Ethan drove the lead car, rain thundering against the windshield.

The docks were a graveyard of steel and salt. Men waited in tailored coats, their smiles too rehearsed, their hands too close to their weapons.

Ethan stepped out first. The sea wind tasted of metal and deceit.

“Elena,” he murmured, “stay close.”

She ignored him, walking ahead with her father’s elegance and his arrogance.

Then the rifle cracked.

The world exploded.

Ethan’s body moved before thought. He threw himself at her, dragging her to the ground as glass shattered around them. Gunfire roared. The capos screamed.

Heat flooded Ethan’s veins, vision sharpening into impossible clarity. Time slowed. The air shimmered.

He tore a metal rod from the wreckage and hurled it upward, pure instinct guiding him. The rod flew like lightning, striking a rooftop shadow square through the chest.

When the last echo of gunfire died, the docks burned. Smoke rose like ghosts.

Ethan stood in the wreckage, rain streaming down his face, eyes bright with an otherworldly light.

Elena stared at him in silence. “Who are you?” she whispered.

He turned toward her, voice low, steady. “Someone I used to be. And someone I might have to become again.”

The useless son-in-law was gone.

The God of War had opened his eyes.