Krátos is the honest god. The Greeks gave altars to Victory, Rivalry, and even Rumor, but none to Might alone — because everyone already served it. His entire theology fits in one stage direction: he enters with the chains, supervises the fastening, checks the work, and leaves. Force, Aeschylus understood, has no second act; it does not argue, does not explain, does not stay to watch.
Yet the tradition keeps returning to him with unease, and that unease is the legacy. When Athens named its constitution dēmokratia — the kratos of the demos — it answered the tyrant's Krátos in his own vocabulary: same word, opposite master. Every generation since has rehearsed the argument. Is power legitimate when it calls itself the people? Is the chain just when the decree was voted? Krátos asks nothing and answers nothing; he stands at the cliff with the hammer, waiting to see who gives the order.