Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Our main stars in this story :

Kratos and Freya

Atreus & Angrboda

Brok & Sindri

Mimir

Skjoldr & Thrud

Jörmungandr aka Jo

Heimdall & Thor

Sigrun

Sif

SPOILER WARNING!!

Baldur & Groa

Chapter Text

The desert didn’t care who you used to be.
Didn’t care if your hands were soaked in blood or your heart was an open grave.

Kratos lived in a trailer parked on dead land an hour past nowhere. The floor creaked. The fridge buzzed. The wind scraped across the sand like it was trying to get inside.

He liked it that way.

Each morning started the same. Black coffee. Stretching joints that ached like old betrayals. Silence so loud it roared. The only grave he’d ever marked sat behind the trailer—just a pile of rocks and no name. He visited it once a year.

Until today, the only knock on his door in five years had been the wind slamming something loose.

He opened the door slow.

A girl stood on his porch—too young to be that angry, too tired to be that alone. Her boots were torn at the soles. Her locs were tied back with a dirty bandana. Spray paint clung to the cuffs of her jacket like bruises.

“You’re Kratos,” she said. Not a question.

He didn’t answer.

She pulled a folded letter from her pocket. "I’m looking for Atreus."

Kratos stared at the paper. Stared through it.

“He’s missing,” she said. “He was scared. Paranoid. Talking about someone finding him. About the past catching up.”

She glanced back at the cracked horizon like something might be coming for her too.

“He told me, ‘If anything happens, find the old man in the desert who knows how to disappear.’ So here I am.”

Kratos took the letter, slow. His name was written in sharp, angry lines.
It was his son’s handwriting.

“You got a name?” he asked, voice like gravel and rust.

“Angrboda.”

He stepped aside.

“Then come in.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Freya’s hands were steady as she stitched the wound across her ribs. Twelve stitches, two broken fingers, and a cut that would’ve killed someone softer.

She sat in a stolen bathroom of a gutted-out motel in the city’s industrial backlot. Rotting ceiling. Flickering light. Mirror cracked in two. Her reflection looked worse than she felt—and she didn’t feel much these days.

Not since Baldur.

Fifteen years of silence. Of hiding. Of hunting.

She’d vanished after that night. Slipped between cracks in the city that only ghosts could walk. Changed names. Burned old IDs. Moved like shadow and venom. Every lead on Kratos had gone cold—until two weeks ago.

A man in a dive bar with a busted nose said he'd heard whispers of a hermit out in the flats. Said the guy kept to himself, but people stayed away for a reason. Said he moved like he used to be someone dangerous.

Freya believed in dangerous men. She used to sleep beside one.

She pulled the photo from her coat pocket—crumpled, water-damaged, old. Her son. Smiling. A memory stolen from another life.

He wasn’t supposed to die. Not like that. Not at the hands of him.

She’d torn through the criminal underworld looking for answers and left bodies in her wake. If Odin was still watching from whatever tower he’d built for himself, she hoped he felt it every time she made the city bleed.

She lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, not from fear—but hunger.

Kratos was out there.

And when she found him, she wouldn’t be asking questions.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The truck rattled down the highway like it was held together by spit and bad luck.

Angrboda sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, eyes locked on the horizon. She hadn’t said a word since they left the trailer. Kratos didn’t ask questions—he never had much use for them—but the silence between them buzzed with everything unsaid.

He caught her glancing at him when she thought he wasn’t looking.

“Out with it,” he said.

She scoffed. “You think I’m just gonna spill my whole life story because you’ve got a scary voice and a truck that smells like whiskey and regret?”

Kratos didn’t flinch. “I don’t care about your life. I care about my son.”

She shifted, jaw clenching. “He was scared. Not paranoid-scared. Hunted-scared. He wouldn’t tell me why. Just said, ‘Don’t trust anyone from back then. Not even the ones who seem clean.’”

Kratos’s fingers tightened on the wheel. Asphalt stretched endlessly ahead of them—scarred, faded, like a memory that wouldn’t die.

“Where were you when he disappeared?” he asked.

“Home. Painting. He was supposed to pick up food. He never came back.”

“You run to his friends?”

“All two of them?” she laughed without humor. “Skjöldr's the only one who’s talking. The other one—Thrud—she went quiet. Too quiet. Like someone got to her.”

Kratos’s jaw flexed. The name struck something cold and familiar.

Thrud. Thor’s daughter.

He didn’t say anything. Just pressed harder on the gas, like he could outrun the past.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Somewhere far from pavement and sunlight, Freya slid a knife between a man’s ribs without so much as a grunt.

The man gurgled, slumped forward, and she caught him before he hit the floor. Blood pooled at their feet. She wiped her blade clean on his shirt and kept moving through the abandoned subway tunnel.

The meeting spot was old. Forgotten. Perfect.

Mimir was already waiting.

He sat on a rusted bench, one leg crossed over the other, reading a yellowed paperback. Still looked like the bastard philosopher he’d always been—greying hair, sharp eyes, knowing smirk.

“You didn’t have to kill the door guy,” he said without looking up. “He owed me a beer.”

Freya stepped into the light, cold and deliberate. “He flinched.”

“Most men do when death walks in.”

She tossed a burner phone at his feet. “I need a trace. A name came up. Someone you knew. Someone who used to be in the game.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Bald, grim, speaks in thunderclaps?”

“I want to know where Kratos is.”

The name cut the space between them like a knife.

Mimir finally looked up.

“I thought you were done with vengeance.”

She stared at him.

“I was,” she said. “Then I remembered that my son died.”

Chapter Text

The gas station sat like a forgotten scar on the side of the highway, its lights flickering in the early dusk. One of the bulbs buzzed like it was choking on its last breath. Kratos leaned against the truck while the tank filled, arms crossed, watching the horizon like he expected it to spit out something he’d have to kill.

Angrboda stood a few feet away, pacing. She hadn't stopped moving since they'd pulled off. Her nerves were a live wire, thoughts burning behind her eyes. He’d seen storms like her before—young, angry, and spinning too fast to see the path ahead.

"You got cash or is this a ‘we steal it’ situation?" she asked, half-serious.

He pulled a few bills from his pocket and handed them over. She blinked.

"Huh. Wasn't expecting that."

Kratos didn’t respond.

She went inside.

As the pump clicked and the wind picked up, Kratos’s mind drifted—to another night, long ago. The air had smelled like gasoline then, too.

********************
Fifteen Years Earlier

The city breathed fire and smoke. Sirens in the distance. Neon bleeding into wet pavement. Kratos turned the key to the apartment slowly and stepped inside.

The place was quiet.

Atreus sat at the kitchen table, arms folded, eyes rimmed with red. The boy looked smaller than usual. Ten years old but already carrying too much.

Kratos smelled like ash and motor oil. His boots tracked soot. He hadn’t spoken a word since the phone call that sent him out hours ago.

"Where were you?" Atreus asked, voice tight.

Kratos said nothing as he removed his coat.

"Was it about Baldur, I know he's the one who called you before you left?"

That stopped him.

Atreus stood, fists clenched. "I know something happened. Freya came by looking for you."

Kratos’s jaw worked, grinding something unseen.

Silence.

Kratos walked past him. Opened the hallway closet. Pulled down the old duffel. Threw it on the couch.

"Pack your things."

Atreus stared at him. "What?"

"We leave tonight."

"You’re not serious—"

"We’re not safe here anymore."

"From what? From who?! You never tell me anything!"

Kratos turned, voice low and deadly still. "From the past."

Atreus’s eyes brimmed. "You think running is going to fix this? I need—answers."

There was a name on his tongue. A truth half-formed. But he swallowed it down, like he always did. Kratos didn’t have answers. Just that old, aching silence.

"Pack," he said again, quieter.

Atreus didn’t move.

Kratos walked into the other room.

Behind him, the boy stood alone in the kitchen, staring at the fading echo of a home that no longer felt like one.
********************

The pump clicked. Kratos shook the memory from his head.

Angrboda stepped out of the gas station, holding two bottles of water and a bag of chips. She tossed one to him.

"You always this quiet, or is that just part of the vibe?"

He took the water. "I talk when there’s something to say."

"Guess we’ve got time then."

They got back in the truck. The city waited ahead—louder, darker, and hungrier than ever.

And the ghosts were starting to stir.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The city didn’t sleep. It just sulked in shadows and neon, drowning in smog and memory.

Freya stood outside the building like it might bite her. The rusted fire escape groaned overhead. A flickering streetlamp hummed above the stoop, casting crooked light over the warped doorway. Kratos’s old apartment. One of her safehouses, now. A borrowed life in borrowed walls.

She hadn’t been here in a week— chasing rumors and corpses. The man in the desert. Mimir. Another dead end.

But something was wrong.

The scent of ozone clung to the hallway. A thread of cold air ghosted across her skin. The door was locked, just as she’d left it, but the moment she stepped inside, the silence felt… wrong.

Nothing was broken. Nothing stolen. But she could feel it in her ribs.

Someone had been here.

She shut the door slowly, dropped her keys, and slipped the knife from her boot. Moved room by room.

The kitchen was untouched. A stack of dirty dishes still in the sink. The dent in the wall from an old, forgotten argument still glaring from the corner. The living room held only dust and a couch that sagged like an exhausted confession.

But the bedroom—

The old closet was open.

A shoebox sat pulled halfway from the shadows, just beneath the bottom shelf. She hadn’t touched that box in years. Not since she found it, tucked away after Kratos vanished. Inside were photos, old maps, and scraps of notes—Kratos’s handwriting, all sharp edges and restraint.

She knelt down and touched the edge of the box. Recently moved.

Her throat tightened.

Whoever had been here, they hadn’t ransacked the place. But they hadn’t come for comfort either. This wasn’t a social visit. It felt… precise. Calculated.

She stood, slowly scanning the room.

Heimdal. It had to be him. Thor was a wrecking ball—subtlety wasn’t in his vocabulary. Odin never left the tower anymore. That left Heimdal—his favorite tool. Freya had crossed paths with him more than once, back when she still wore the ring. Her step-son, by law. A spy by trade. The last time they met, it ended in blood. He’d limped away. She still carried the scar.

She closed the closet and backed out of the room, eyes sweeping each corner. Whoever it was, they were gone now. No sound. No trace. But the apartment no longer felt like hers—not even like Kratos’s. Just a space that had been watched too long. Haunted by too many memories.

She returned to the kitchen and dropped into the creaking chair at the table.

The box of tea sat unopened. Her fingers hovered above it before pulling back. Instead, she folded her arms on the table and rested her forehead there for a long moment, letting the silence swallow her.

It was quieter than she'd ever known it. The kind of quiet that dragged old ghosts to the surface.

And one ghost in particular.

********************
It had been a quiet night—rare, but welcome.

Freya stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the amber haze of streetlights blur against the fog. The city exhaled in steam and sirens. Somewhere below, a radio crackled from a cracked window.

Behind her, Atreus had fallen asleep mid-sentence, his comic book slipping from small fingers. Freya draped a blanket over him gently, fingers lingering in his hair just a moment too long.

He reminded her of Baldur—before the bitterness, before Odin twisted everything sacred into something sharp.

Kratos sat at the kitchen table, a chipped mug in his hands. He hadn’t touched the tea. Just watched the steam curl and vanish. His silence wasn’t heavy—it was practiced.

Freya glanced over at him, settling into the seat across the table. “You always brood like this, or is it just when I’m around?” she teased gently.

Kratos didn’t smile, but something in his shoulders eased.

“I do not brood,” he said quietly, eyes still on his tea.

Freya let out a soft laugh. “Sure. And I’m the picture of subtlety.”

Silence returned, but it wasn’t heavy. Just full.

She watched him in the low light—the scar on his shoulder, the quiet tension in his frame. He looked like a statue carved from regret. This apartment wasn’t home, not really. Just a bunker. A place where the world couldn’t reach him, unless it banged on the door and forced its way in.

They hadn’t spoken about Faye since the funeral. But her memory was everywhere—in the chipped cups, the quiet rituals, the way they both kept their voices low even when no one was listening.

She came by more often now. First for Atreus. Then for the man raising him.

“You’re a good father,” she said, her voice quieter than before.

Kratos’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t look up. “You don’t know that.”

“I’ve seen enough to know,” she said. “He’s kind. Smart. Brave. That doesn’t happen by accident.”

He was still for a long moment. Then, finally, “I try.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s what makes it matter.”

She looked at him, really looked. The edges of him were all rough stone, but the center—where Atreus lived—was still warm. Still real.

She reached for his hand without thinking—then stopped.

Their eyes met.

The air between them shifted, stretched thin.

Kratos stood slowly, stepping back from the table.

“I can’t,” he said, not unkindly.

“Because of Odin?” she asked quietly.

He shook his head. “Because of everything.”

Freya swallowed the sting. It would’ve been easy. One brave moment. But she saw it for what it was. A man shielding everyone he cared for from the blast radius of his past.

She stood, walked to Atreus, and bent to kiss his sleeping head. Her fingers lingered for a second too long, then she grabbed her coat.

“Goodnight,” she said, not looking back.

Then she left, the door closing softly behind her.
********************

Fifteen years, and the silence hadn’t changed.

She thought of the way he used to sit—back straight, hands wrapped around a cup he never drank from, like the warmth alone might thaw something buried deep. She remembered the feel of his hand beneath hers, just for a moment, before he pulled away. Before they both stepped back into the armor they'd never really taken off.

Freya exhaled, slow. Bitter.

It hadn’t been a love story. Not really. But it could have been. If the world had been softer. If they’d been softer.

“I would've stayed,” she murmured to the empty room. “If you'd asked.”

The words hung in the air, unanswered.

But the ghost of that night stayed with her. The weight of almost. The ache of what never was.

And now, someone had come looking. Not for her. For the shadow of the man who used to sit here.

She reached out, touched the edge of the table, just where her fingers had hovered all those years ago. The wood was worn smooth.

Then she stood, went to the window, and stared out into the dark.

If Odin wanted ghosts, he’d get them.

But he’d regret ever waking this one.

Chapter Text

The sun had barely broken the skyline when the truck pulled into the alley behind the apartment building. The city was groggy—still stretching from sleep, steam rising from vents in the cracked pavement. Birds picked at trash. Somewhere, a siren wailed like a distant warning.

Kratos stepped out of the truck, boots hitting the asphalt with the weight of memory. Angrboda was already unlocking the back door, punching in a worn code on a scratched keypad. The metal door clicked open, revealing a stairwell stained with time and rust.

“This was our place,” she said, holding the door for him. “Atreus and me. We shared it before…” Her voice caught.

Kratos didn’t respond. He only nodded once, then followed her inside.

The apartment was a contradiction—part sanctuary, part battlefield. A canvas leaned against every wall, half-finished sketches on the floor, brushes soaking in jars of cloudy water. In one corner, a bank of mismatched monitors flickered to life, casting pale light over a tangle of wires and open hard drives. The air smelled faintly of turpentine and old coffee.

He took it all in silently. His son’s life had unfolded here. Paint and plans. Rage and hope. The ghosts weren’t just in the memories—they were in the walls.

Angrboda kicked off her boots and headed straight for one of the desks, flipping open a weathered notebook.

“I texted them,” she said. “They’re on their way.”

“Who?” Kratos asked, though he suspected he already knew.

“Skjoldr and Jo.”

The names pulled something old from Kratos’s memory. Skjoldr—Atreus's friend. A bright kid with quick hands and quicker ideas. And Jo—Skjoldr’s older brother. He knew the name, but they’d never met. The stories had filtered in through Atreus over the years: Jo, the quiet one. Dangerous in the way Kratos recognized—like a blade left in the fire too long.

A buzz came from the panel beside the door.

“That’ll be them.”

Angrboda pressed a button and the old intercom crackled. “It’s open.”

Footsteps echoed up the hallway. A moment later, the door opened, and Skjoldr stepped in like he’d never left—hood up, bag slung over his shoulder, fingers already dancing on the screen of a beat-up tablet.

“Morning,” he muttered. “Hope you made coffee.”

Jo followed behind—taller, broader, his presence like a quiet storm. He didn’t speak, just scanned the room and met Kratos’s eyes. A beat passed between them. Then another.

Jo gave him a small nod. Respect, not submission.

Kratos returned it.

“Kratos,” Skjoldr said, glancing up from his screen. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I didn’t expect to be here,” Kratos said simply.

Skjoldr gave a wry smirk and set his bag down. “Guess we’re all full of surprises.”

Angrboda moved toward the center of the room and pulled a heavy metal key from around her neck. “Come on. We’ll talk downstairs.”

They followed her through a narrow hallway, past storage closets and paint-splattered drop cloths, to a locked door at the end. She unlocked it, revealing a stairwell that led deeper—into the bones of the building.

The basement was cooler, older, but buzzing with quiet life. A bank of servers hummed along one wall. Cables ran like veins across the floor. Whiteboards covered in diagrams and scrawled notes hung beside maps littered with pins.

“This is where we keep the real stuff,” Skjoldr said, powering up the main terminal. “Intel. Comms. Surveillance. It’s not pretty, but it works.”

Kratos surveyed the room. It reminded him of war camps he’d known. Different tools, same urgency.

“What do we know?” he asked.

Skjoldr leaned over the console. “Not much. Atreus went dark six days ago. Last ping was a burner phone, signal bounced off three towers but triangulation came up empty. I’ve got some scripts running, but no luck so far.”

Jo crossed his arms. “No ransom. No message. No trail.”

Kratos’s jaw tightened. Angrboda pulled up a stool and sat beside Skjoldr, reaching for a photo tacked to the wall—a candid of her and Atreus, paint on their faces, laughing.

“We’ve got theories,” she said. “But no proof. Not yet.” Kratos stared at the photo. At the older version of the boy he raised. The one he lost. He stared longer than he meant to. As if looking might somehow bring the boy back.

“We find him,” he said. It wasn’t a question. Just a promise.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

Freya lay awake in the still-dark hours of the morning, eyes fixed on the cracks in the ceiling that glowed faintly from the city lights bleeding in through the blinds. She hadn't slept well. She rarely did, but something in her bones felt different this morning—like the silence itself was watching.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet brushing against the old hardwood floor. For a moment, she just sat there, listening. No footsteps overhead, no passing car engines, just the hum of the fridge in the next room and the distant caw of birds not yet greeted by the sun.

She rose and padded softly across the room toward the closet. The box was still there. She’d gone through it before, several times, after she moved in. Letters, photos, little things they hadn’t taken with them. Pieces of a life that had meant something, once. Pieces of him.

Freya pulled the box into the light, crouching low to open the lid. She shuffled through its contents again, slower this time. A cracked leather notebook. A sketch of a wolf with “Fenrir” scribbled beneath it. A long dried paintbrush. The scent of charcoal and pine and something fainter, almost gone.

She frowned. Something was off.

There was a slight draft coming from the back of the closet.

She set the box aside and pushed further into the shadowed corner, hand sweeping against the wall—until her fingers brushed something soft. She paused, then gently pulled it free.

A single raven feather.

Her stomach dropped.

It was too clean. Too perfectly placed. Not the kind one might find drifting in through a window or tangled in an old coat. No—this had been left. Deliberately.

Freya stood, feather in hand, lips pressed into a thin line. She knew this trick. She’d used it herself, once. Back when she was Odin’s shadow, sent in after the mess to clean house, to ensure silence, loyalty, death. The feather meant someone had been here, yes—but more than that, it was a message.

A warning.

But not for her.

They don’t know I've been staying here, she realized. They think Kratos still comes and goes. Which meant this was meant for him. Or... about him.

And it wasn’t just anyone. Freya knew how Odin's enforcers worked. Most had abandoned theatrics long ago. Except one.

She felt a rush of cold through her chest.

If Heimdall had been here, this was more than a warning. It was bait. A trap. Or worse—a setup. A whisper in Odin’s ear away from turning his gaze back on Kratos.

Freya tucked the feather into the folds of her coat and closed the closet with a soft thud. Her eyes narrowed as she looked around the room. No more waiting. No more hiding behind these crumbling walls and secondhand memories.

She had to know what Odin was planning—what Heimdall was doing in her territory. But she couldn’t confront them directly. Not yet.

So she’d do what she did best.

Disappear into the shadows.

And watch.

Chapter Text

The basement buzzed softly. Fans whirred. Screens glowed. A slow digital heartbeat.

Skjoldr sat hunched at the console, one leg bouncing, fingers skimming the keyboard in sharp bursts. Code streamed by, a wall of static that might’ve meant nothing to anyone else—but to him, it was language. A pattern. A map with missing pieces.

Across the room, Kratos stood with his arms folded. Silent. Watching.

Angrboda leaned against the table behind Skjoldr, arms crossed, the tension in her jaw tighter by the minute. Jo was off to the side, sharpening a blade he probably didn’t need to be sharpening, because Jo was like that—always preparing for a fight, even if it never came.

Skjoldr exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Whoever took him, they scrubbed everything. I’ve backtracked his burner through every tower I can reach, and it just… ends. No ping, no trace. It’s like he disappeared into the floor.”

Kratos said nothing.

Jo’s phone buzzed.

One short, sharp vibration.

Everyone froze.

Jo glanced at the screen. No name. Just a number. One Skjoldr noticed—and clearly recognized. His bounce stopped.

“Who is it?” Angrboda asked.

Jo didn’t answer. He turned and walked toward the back stairs, answering the call as he went.

The room held its breath.

Only the clack of keys remained.

—click—

A few minutes passed. Jo returned. His face was unreadable, but his body was tenser now, like something had tightened around his spine.

“What?” Skjoldr asked quickly, standing up halfway. “Was that—?”

Jo nodded once.

“He said a name. He said ‘the wolf boy.’ South docks. Warehouse with a broken sun emblem over the loading bay. Said he heard it mentioned by someone moving cargo—living cargo.”

Skjoldr blanched. “That’s… that’s not good.”

Angrboda was already pulling up a map on her phone. “That’s a bad district. Old smugglers’ route. The kind of place Odin uses when he doesn’t want anything traced back to him.”

Kratos’s voice was low, cold. “Who called?”

Jo looked at Skjoldr.

Silence.

Skjoldr’s lips parted. “He’s… someone I’ve helped before. He runs backend logistics for one of Odin’s guys. Sometimes he passes me low-level encryption requests. I do them fast, I feed him clean code, and he leaves me alone.”

Kratos stepped forward once.

“And you take his calls.”

Skjoldr’s mouth twitched. “I—I don’t work for Odin. I just… if I didn’t help, he’d find someone who would. This way I see things. I hear things. I can protect Jo. And Atreus.”

Jo didn’t correct him. But something passed behind his eyes—regret, maybe. Or guilt.

Angrboda let out a slow breath, eyes on the map, not on him. “Just don’t let him pull you in any deeper than you already are.”

It wasn’t judgment. It was worry.

Skjoldr nodded, grateful, but didn’t speak.

Kratos looked at him, long and hard.

Skjoldr held the gaze, barely.

“I’m not the enemy.”

“No,” Kratos said at last. “But you are watched. Closely.”

Jo stepped in. “The guy who called me—he’s scared. Said he wasn’t supposed to say anything. Which means someone’s already spinning the pieces. If they think we’re sniffing around…”

“They’ll move him,” Angrboda finished grimly.

A beat.

Kratos turned to the door. “We go now.”

Angrboda grabbed her coat and slipped a knife into her boot.

Jo sheathed the blade he’d been grinding.

Skjoldr stayed at the console, a war raging behind his eyes. He wanted to go. But he knew Odin’s eyes were closer to him than to any of them.

He muttered to himself, as the others climbed the stairs:

“Don’t screw this up, Skjoldr. Not now.”

Then louder, after them: “I’ll run surveillance from here. Tap into any nearby cams. If they move him—I’ll see it.”

Kratos didn’t look back. Just gave a sharp nod.

As they vanished up the stairs, Skjoldr sank back into his chair, fingers back to flying across the keys.

A new message blinked at the top of his inbox.

From: unknown
Subject: You’re playing a dangerous game, little wizard.
Message: Some eyes are sharper than you think. Watch your steps—and check the alley behind Café Mimir at sundown. Alone.

His heart pounded.

He minimized it without opening.

Later.

He had other ghosts to chase first.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The docks were quiet, but not empty.

Old shipping containers lined the edges of the lot like forgotten tombstones. A few floodlights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows over rusted metal and oil-slicked puddles. Somewhere in the distance, a gull cried, sharp and cold.

Kratos stepped out of the truck first. He scanned the lot, jaw tight. His shirt clung to his back beneath the weight of the Kevlar, the familiar pressure of his sidearm a cold comfort.

Angrboda pulled her coat tighter around her and glanced toward the warehouse up ahead. “They’re in there. Heat signatures, clustered near the center. Half dozen, maybe more.”

Jo came up beside her, eyes following the outline of the structure like he was already mapping the approach. “Security?”

“Minimal,” she said. “Just the front lock. Everything else is rust and plywood.”

Kratos turned to her. “Stay outside.”

She frowned. “I can handle—”

“Listen,” Jo interrupted. “Someone needs to keep an eye on the perimeter. You see anyone else coming in, you signal. No heroics.”

Jo gave her a look—equal parts concern and apology. “We’re in and out. Five minutes.”

Angrboda didn’t like it, but she nodded.

They moved.

Jo took the flank, circling around to the side while Kratos went straight in. The door wasn’t even locked properly—just latched. A boot from Kratos sent it crashing inward.

Noise exploded.

Shouts. Chairs scraped. A bottle shattered.

The first man reached for something under the table, but Jo was faster—two shots, both clean. One went down screaming, another was silent before he hit the ground.

Kratos advanced like a storm. One man tried to rush him with a knife. He was sent crashing into a support beam with a sickening crack. Another came swinging with a pipe, only to have it ripped from his hands and turned back on him.

It was efficient, brutal work.

Within moments, six were down, blood mixing with the dust on the warehouse floor.

One remained.

He tried to run. Kratos grabbed him by the collar and threw him hard against a shipping container. “Talk.”

The man coughed blood, groaning. “I don’t know anything, man—”

Jo stepped forward, gun low but steady. “Wrong answer.”

“I’m serious!” the man stammered. “We just watch the place. That’s it. No names. No cargo manifests. We don’t ask questions!”

Kratos narrowed his eyes. “But someone’s paying you.”

Before the man could answer—

Crunch.

A footstep nearby.

Angrboda’s voice came through the comm, low and urgent. “Heads up. We’ve got company—fast.”

Kratos turned toward the sound, senses spiking. Jo shifted, gun raised.

A sharp crack split the air.

Kratos jerked back as the bullet tore a clean path across his shoulder—burning, but not fatal.

“Shit!” Jo lunged, dragging him behind a stack of crates.

The wounded man gasped and scrambled, blood trailing behind him as he crawled for cover.

Another shot. This one found its mark—center mass. He collapsed like a severed marionette, twitching once before going still.

Silence pulsed through the warehouse for a beat. Then—

A voice cut through the darkness, smooth and cold as ice:

“Kratos!”

He froze. That voice. He hadn’t heard it in years.

And he knew exactly who it belonged to.

He scanned for the owner, but she was already gone—just a glimpse of a shadow, vanishing between crates like smoke.

She’d come for him. He knew it now.

And she wasn’t finished.

Suddenly, tires screeched outside.

Boots.

Voices—dozens of them.

“Odin’s men,” Jo muttered. “We need to go. Now.”

Kratos didn’t argue. His shoulder burned, but his grip was steady as they moved deeper into the dark, shadows swallowing them just as chaos flooded in from the docks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The docks always smelled like rot and rust—like something that had died and never been cleaned up. Freya crouched on the metal catwalk of an old warehouse, her back pressed to the cool steel of a support beam. She’d been there a while, watching, waiting.

A contact had tipped her off—Heimdall had passed through this area hours ago. Quiet. Quick. And where Heimdall went, Odin’s interests always followed.

She hadn’t caught sight of Heimdall herself, but the men below were enough confirmation. Six, maybe seven of them. Armed. Alert. Waiting like men who’d done this a dozen times before—and didn’t expect trouble.

Freya adjusted the strap on her shoulder, brushing the grip of her sidearm. There was no magic in this world, no prophetic whispers or enchanted mirrors. Just instincts sharpened by years of surviving men like Odin. And right now, her instincts were screaming.

Then she moved.

Sliding along the catwalk, Freya dropped silently onto a stack of crates. Her boots didn’t make a sound as she crossed into the shadows. Her coat shifted around her like wings. She stepped around a rusted chain hoist and slipped behind a pillar near the center of the warehouse.

One of the men had lit a cigarette. Another leaned against a crate, yawning. These weren’t Odin’s best. Just hired blades. Muscle. Disposable.

She stepped out from the dark.

“Where’s Heimdall?” Her voice cut across the space like a whip.

The closest man startled, reaching for his gun.

Freya was faster.

One shot—clean through the knee. He screamed, dropped. The others froze, eyes darting toward her and then back to each other, waiting to see who would be stupid enough to move first.

“I won’t ask twice,” she said.

“Lady, I don’t know who the hell—” the man started.

A gunshot rang out.

Not hers.

She froze, instinct snapping her into cover. Another shot followed. Then yelling. Heavy footfalls. Muffled screams.

Someone else was here.

Freya edged back into the dark, eyes scanning the warehouse’s far side. The main doors had been breached. Two silhouettes emerged from the dust and commotion.

She blinked once, twice—processing what she was seeing.

Kratos.

And someone with him—tall, sharp-eyed. Another fighter. Both moved like they knew how to kill and expected to be killed in return. The henchmen scrambled, but they never had a chance.

Freya’s heart pounded. She hadn’t seen Kratos in years. Not since—

Her hands tightened around the pistol.

He killed Baldur.

She’d never had proof. Just whispers. But it made sense. It always made sense. Kratos had the skill. The motive. The history. Now here he was, walking through Odin’s men like it was nothing. Like he belonged in the blood and wreckage.

She ducked behind a stack of crates as one of the men was dragged forward, wounded but alive. Kratos crouched beside him, asking something she couldn’t hear.

Freya didn’t wait.

She fired.

The shot sparked against the concrete beside Kratos’s shoulder. He moved, instantly taking cover.

Then the wounded man lunged for a gun.

Freya pivoted at the movement and fired again.

This shot landing clean.

Center mass.

She watched the man crumple like a broken puppet, blood pooling beneath him. Her breath caught—steady, quiet. The warehouse seemed to hold its breath with her.

Then she said it.

“Kratos!”

His name carried weight—like the edge of a blade drawn in a silent room. And she wanted him to hear it. To know.

To feel it.

She saw the way he stiffened from her vantage, half-shadowed behind the crates. Not just from the bullet in his shoulder. No—recognition. That was what made him still.

She stayed low, eyes sweeping the room, ears tuned to every shifting echo.

More footsteps. Tires on gravel. Boots slapping the dock.

Odin’s men—she hadn’t known they were coming. Hadn’t expected them.

She vanished back into the shadows, heart pounding in her chest like a war drum. Kratos was bleeding. That should’ve satisfied her. But somehow, it didn’t.

She wanted him aware—not dead.

Not yet.

She didn’t get what she came for.

But she got something else:

Kratos was alive.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time she reached the rooftops, the chaos below had scattered into sirens and shadows.

Freya crouched on a rooftop three blocks from the warehouse, eyes trained on the alley below.

Kratos had bled. She saw it in the way he moved—favoring one side, jaw clenched. But he was still strong. Still dangerous. And now he had company.

The girl—restless hands, eyes like unfinished sketches. There was something half-familiar in the tilt of her face. And that man—clever, quiet, military in his movements.

She didn’t know them.

Which meant she’d have to learn.

The truck pulled away, headlights off, swallowed by the dark. Freya rose slowly, breath ghosting in the cold air. She wouldn’t follow—not directly. Not yet. Odin had taught her too well for that.

But there were others she could visit.

People who still had ears in strange corners of the city.

She walked.

By the time she reached the edge of the industrial district, the streets had thinned. A faded neon sign buzzed lazily overhead—its glow weak in the daylight, more suggestion than illumination. Behind it, a heavy steel door. No bell. No handle.

Freya knocked twice.

A narrow panel slid open. Eyes peered out.

Then the door creaked back.

Brok was behind it, apron dusted with soot, goggles pushed up into his wild hair. He looked her up and down with a grunt. “You’re late.”

“I wasn’t invited.”

“You’re still late.” He stepped aside. “Sindri’s in the back. Try not to wreck the place again, Freya."

She gave him a half-smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“I’m just here for information.”

“Aren’t we all,” Brok muttered. “You break it, you’re fixin’ it.”

The door slammed shut behind her.

Chapter Text

The apartment door shut with a quiet clack behind them, the kind that sounded loud in the early morning stillness. Kratos stepped in first, his bulk hunched with the weight of exhaustion and pain. His shirt was torn and darkened where blood had soaked through the Kevlar vest. Angrboda followed a few steps behind, her eyes flicking immediately to the wound on his side.

“I’ll get the kit,” she said, already moving toward the kitchen cabinet. “Bathroom’s at the end of the hall.”

Jo lingered only long enough to check their surroundings, his sharp gaze sweeping the shadows. “I’m gonna talk to Skjoldr downstairs,” he muttered. “Kid’s been waiting long enough.”

Kratos gave a nod.

Angrboda returned, first aid kit in hand. She held it out, her brows pinched. “What happened in there?”

He said nothing. Just took the kit from her with a grunt and turned down the hall.

The bathroom was dim, lit by the muted flicker of a dying overhead light. He peeled off the vest slowly, wincing as dried blood stuck to the fabric. The shirt beneath—what was left of it—clung to him in tatters. With a sharp tug, he pulled it over his head and dropped it to the floor.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The wound on his shoulder was angry—edges burned, still weeping beneath crusted blood. It wasn’t deep, but it stung with every breath. He sat on the edge of the tub, unsnapping the kit and fishing for disinfectant, gauze, tape. His fingers moved on instinct, mechanical, practiced.

Too practiced.

He paused, cotton pressed to his wound, blood seeping through. The moment cracked—something cold slid down his spine, and the room began to change.

It was quieter. Dimmer. The smell of antiseptic was the same, but the weight of grief was heavier.

********************

The different apartment. A different time.

Still bleeding, he sat at the kitchen table, stripped to a sleeveless undershirt soaked through.

A creak came from down the hall. Soft footsteps.

Freya appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, pulling the door mostly shut behind her. Her eyes swept the room until they settled on him.

“He’s finally asleep,” she said, her voice quiet. “Gods, that boy has the energy of a wildfire. It’s like trying to wrestle the wind.”

Then her gaze dropped — and froze.

“You’re hurt,” she said, immediately moving toward him.

“I can handle it.”

“You clearly can’t.” She stopped in front of him, frowning at the mess he was making of the gauze. “You’re wrapping it too tight. You’ll cut off the circulation.”

Kratos scowled but loosened his grip.

Freya knelt beside him, her fingers deft as she guided his hands. “Here. Pressure here. Then wrap around, not across.” Her touch was gentle, clinical. But her eyes lingered on the bruises blooming across his ribs, the cuts on his knuckles. “You went looking for someone.”

“They found me.”

She didn’t believe him. He could see it in her eyes.

“You can't keep doing this,” she said softly.

“I’m not—”

“Hurting yourself isn’t going to bring her back.”

He looked away. The silence between them stretched long.

Then, more quietly: “I miss her too.”

His jaw clenched. That ache in his chest—grief and guilt and fury tangled into one unspoken thing—tightened.

Freya stood slowly, her hands stained with his blood. “You have Atreus. He needs you here, not out there trying to bleed out in alleyways.”

She headed for the front door but lingered, her hand on the frame. “You can still call me if you need someone to watch him. I don’t mind.” A pause. “Just… don’t make a habit of it. I’ve got my own ghosts.”

She didn’t wait for a response. The door clicked shut behind her.

The memory faded like smoke.

********************

Back in the present, Kratos pressed the gauze down with a sharp exhale and secured it in place with tape. His hands stilled once more, his eyes staring through the mirror—not at himself, but at the space beside him.

Empty now.

He pulled on a clean undershirt, still stained from too many nights like this.

This room held its silence. But the ghosts were never far.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later That Night

The apartment was still, cloaked in a silence that felt almost respectful—like the building knew everyone inside was carrying more than they let on.

The soft murmur of a television bled faintly through the floorboards from a neighbor below. Pipes groaned in the walls. Somewhere outside, a siren wailed and faded into the city’s distance.

Jo had left a short while ago, his boots heavy on the stairs as he muttered something about being late. No one asked questions. His job wasn’t the kind you explained.

Skjoldr was still downstairs, hunched over the computers he’d brought in like an extension of himself. The light from the monitors had dimmed, the furious clicking of keys now just an occasional whisper.

Kratos stood at the window in the main room, arms crossed, shadows painted across his frame. He hadn’t said much since returning from the bathroom—just a grunt when Angrboda handed him a glass of water.

Footsteps on the stairs drew their attention. Skjoldr appeared in the hallway, stretching with an exaggerated yawn.

“I’m gonna head home,” he said, rubbing at his eyes in a show of exhaustion. “Be back tomorrow. Early. I wanna finish running that trace.”

Angrboda looked up from where she sat cross-legged on the floor, sketching something absently in her notebook. “Alright. Night.”

Kratos said nothing. Just a flicker of his gaze.

Skjoldr gave a small wave and turned for the door, his movements casual—but too casual. Angrboda didn’t notice. Kratos did.

The door shut behind him with a soft thud.

A beat passed.

“I’m gonna get some sleep,” Angrboda said, rising with a stretch. “Long day.”

She padded quietly down the hall, disappearing into her bedroom and clicking the door mostly shut.

Kratos remained where he was for a long moment, watching the lights of the city dance on the far buildings. Then, slowly, he moved to the couch, lowering himself with a grunt.

He sat there in the dark, hands resting on his knees, eyes open.

Sleep would not come easy tonight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The alley behind Café Mimir glowed faintly with neon spillover, mist curling along the cobblestones like breath from the city itself.

Skjoldr stood near the graffiti-tagged brick wall, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, a faint sheen of nervous sweat on his brow despite the night chill. He shifted his weight, glanced down at his clothes—clean jeans, jacket zipped halfway, t-shirt neat—and ran his tongue over his teeth, checking his breath for the fourth time.

“You’re late,” he muttered.

A laugh, low and amused, echoed from the shadows behind him.

He turned.

And stared.

Thrud stepped into the light like something out of a fever dream.

The green dress she wore clung perfectly, corseted at the waist, velvet-like in texture. Her copper hair was swept to one side in soft waves, and a necklace nestled at her collarbone, catching a shard of neon from above. A tattoo snaked down her exposed arm, sharp lines like old magic. Her hands hung loosely at her sides, relaxed but alert, like someone used to being watched.

Skjoldr’s mouth opened. Closed.

“I, uh… wow.”

Thrud gave him a smirk, weight shifting easily to one hip. “Still terrible at hellos, I see.”

“You—you look amazing,” he said, too honest to stop himself.

“Don’t get used to it,” she replied, eyes scanning the alley as she stepped closer. “Just left a party. My brothers’ birthday.”

He blinked. “That was for Magni and Modi, wasn’t it?”

Thrud rolled her eyes fondly. “Yeah. Twin terrors. Loud, drunk, and currently arm-wrestling each other with steak knives. I slipped out during the chaos.”

Skjoldr coughed a laugh. “That tracks.”

“You wouldn’t survive five minutes in that house.”

“I’d like to think I’d at least make it to dessert.”

Her smile softened—genuine this time—and for a moment, the alley didn’t feel so cold.

Then, with a smirk, she reached into her dress and pulled a small hard drive from her bra, holding out to him. “Anyway. You came for this.”

He hesitated before taking it. “What’s on it?”

“Enough to get someone killed. So handle it like it’s radioactive.”

Skjoldr carefully slipped it into his jacket. “You always bring gifts like this to back-alley meetups?”

“Only when I like someone,” she said lightly.

That caught him off guard, but before he could respond, she turned slightly, scanning the alley behind them.

“You should go,” she added, voice lower now. “You’ve got work to do. And I’ve already been gone too long.”

He nodded, the weight of the drive suddenly heavy against his chest.

“Be careful, Skjoldr,” she said, backing away into the shadows. “There’s no such thing as digging halfway.”

And then she was gone, swallowed by the mist and neon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The city was quieter at this hour, or maybe it only felt that way from Freya’s perch.

She crouched on the rooftop across the street, a cigarette burning low between her fingers, more for show than habit. Smoke curled up past her cheek, catching on the breeze before vanishing into the night.

Below her, the apartment building stood like any other—bricks and mortar, cracked windows, neon hums from the corner deli spilling green light onto the sidewalk. A forgettable place for forgettable people.

But she knew better.

Through the scope of her compact rifle, Freya scanned the upper floors. She wasn’t looking for a target—yet. This was recon. Observation.

Angrboda. The girl. Quiet, strange. Her records were mostly clean, but her grandmother’s name had pulled weight in older files—something about land rights and cult rumors in the north before the city swallowed it all up.

And Jo… Jo was more interesting.

A former enforcer for one of the mid-tier syndicates. Low profile since then, but not inactive. The kind of man who didn’t make friends, didn’t stand out—except to the right eyes. Eyes like hers.

She tapped a small data stick against her thigh—fresh from Brok and Sindri. They hadn’t asked questions, and she hadn’t offered answers.

So far, the windows stayed still. No sign of movement. Just the distant flicker of a TV screen behind drawn curtains. Quiet lives, playing at normal.

She wasn’t sure what she expected to see. A shady handoff? A familiar face stepping out into the night? Maybe even a lapse in routine she could exploit.

Through the scope, she zoomed in on the top floor. Angrboda’s unit. Inherited from her grandmother, along with the building deed if Brok’s file was right. Clean on paper, but that kind of quiet always made Freya suspicious.

The basement apartment flagged a different interest—not on any of the official blueprints Sindri pulled. Retrofitted after the fact. Utilities rerouted, heat signature higher than it should be. Someone lived there off the record.

She doubted Jo was the type to enjoy roommates.

Freya tapped her thumb against the edge of the scope, jaw tight. Maybe it didn’t matter who owned which lease. What mattered was who Kratos had shown up with.

Angrboda. Jo. Those two names tangled around something.

And now Kratos was back in the city.

He hadn’t been listed as a tenant. No paper trail. He didn’t belong here.

But she’d seen the footage from the street cam—a towering man stepping out of a rusted old pick-up truck. The profile, the limp, the shape of his hands—it was him.

Freya exhaled slowly through her nose, steadied herself. She wasn’t ready to face him again. Not yet. Not until she understood why he was here. Who he’d come for—or if he was preparing for something.

So she watched.

And waited.

He had returned to a city that never forgave. But neither had she.

Chapter Text

Morning came slowly, dragging shadows behind it.

The apartment was quiet, but not calm. The kind of quiet that came after a revelation and before a reckoning.

Kratos stood in the kitchen, shirtless, the gauze on his shoulder stained dark at the edge. The coffee in his mug had gone cold, untouched. He wasn’t looking at anything in particular—just standing there, letting the weight of sleep-deprived hours and too many memories rest heavy on his frame.

The bell buzzed—two short rings, then one long. The rhythm was familiar.

Angrboda stirred from the couch, sweeping her locs over one shoulder as she crossed the room. She cracked the door just enough to see—then opened it fully.

Skjoldr stepped in first, laptop bag slung over his shoulder, eyes rimmed with exhaustion and something more—nervous energy twitching in his fingers. Jo followed, quieter, more composed, but his gaze scanned the room like he expected trouble.

“We need to talk,” Skjoldr said without preamble, dropping his bag on the coffee table and pulling out his laptop. “Now.”

Kratos turned slowly from the kitchen.

Angrboda frowned. “What is it?”

Skjoldr hesitated. “I… might’ve found something. From last night. I ran one of the data packets again before I crashed. Something didn’t make sense. A flagged camera on a private feed. I dug deeper this morning.”

He sat, booting up the laptop. The screen glowed pale in the early light.

“I don’t recognize the building. Doesn’t show up on any of the usual grid maps. No ownership records, no syndicate tags. But it was tagged by the surveillance crawler—movement from two flagged IDs.”

He tapped the trackpad, scrubbing through grainy footage. First, a timestamp: 10:47 p.m. Then a shaky camera angle. A street corner. Faded signage.

“There,” he said. “That’s Atreus. Night he vanished. He enters through a side door.”

Angrboda stepped closer, arms crossed, eyes locked on the screen.

“Why would he go there?”

Skjoldr shrugged. “No idea. Maybe stashing something. Maybe meeting someone. Whatever the reason, he wasn’t followed in—not that we can tell.”

He scrubbed again. “Nine minutes later—this guy shows up.”

A new figure stepped into the frame. Tall. Deliberate. Face turned slightly from the lens, but still—clean features, clipped movements, golden hair in a tight knot. Recognizable, if you’d been taught what to look for.

Jo’s brow furrowed. “Is that—?”

“Heimdall,” Kratos said flatly.

Skjoldr looked at him, surprised. “You’re sure?”

“I’d know that walk anywhere.”

Skjoldr leaned back. “I didn’t get a clean face match, but I figured it was one of Odin’s inner ring. He leaves the building carrying someone. Shoulders slumped. No struggle.”

Angrboda went still. “You’re saying he took Atreus.”

Jo let out a sharp breath through his nose. “Shit.”

Skjoldr didn’t look up. “I don’t know why Atreus was there, or how Heimdall found him. And before anyone asks—I’m not saying where I got the original trace that led me to the feed. You don’t want to know.”

Kratos stepped forward slowly, eyes still on the frozen frame of the building. The angle was terrible, but the geometry of the bricks, the rusted railing, the faint graffiti stain near the door—it was burned into his memory.

“I know that place.”

The others turned to look at him.

“It’s where we used to live. Atreus and I.”

A beat passed.

“Why would he go back there?” Skjoldr asked.

Kratos’s expression didn’t change. “I don’t know.”

A beat of silence passed.

Then Kratos straightened, already reaching for his coat. “I’m going.”

Angrboda took a step forward. “Then I’m coming with—”

“No.” His voice was low. Final.

Jo moved toward the door, pulling his jacket from the back of a chair. “He’s not going alone.”

“Jo—”

“You stay here,” Jo said, without looking at her. “Keep going over the drive. See what else you can find on it. If there’s more, we need to know.”

He didn’t wait for a response. “We’ll be back.”

Angrboda’s jaw clenched. She didn’t like it—but she understood.
“Then find something. Anything.”

Kratos paused, just long enough to meet her eyes.

“We will.”

Skjoldr stayed quiet, fingers already moving across the laptop, digging back into the drive.

Without another word, he and Jo stepped into the hallway, boots echoing faintly behind them.

The door shut softly, and the apartment held its breath.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The streets near the old building were quieter than Kratos remembered. Still too early for traffic, too late for the last drunks to be stumbling home. Just the shuffle of wind and the occasional hum of distant city life.

They parked a block away, unmarked and unobtrusive. No reason to draw attention.

The building rose in the distance like a memory that refused to fade—same cracked facade, same broken security light above the side entrance, flickering weakly against the morning haze. The ghost of a place he'd left behind, now tugging him back by the spine.

“This it?” Jo asked, slamming the car door softly behind him.

Kratos didn’t answer. Just started walking.

They approached the same entrance Atreus had used—side door half-concealed by a rusting dumpster and overgrown ivy. It hadn’t changed. The keypad still blinked dead. The outer lock had always been janky, easy to wedge open if you knew how to pull it just right.

Jo gave it a try. Nothing.

Kratos stepped forward without a word. He gripped the handle, braced the edge of his boot against the base, and gave it a slow, deliberate pull—up and out, the way he used to when the mechanism stuck. After a tense second, the latch gave with a groan.

The door creaked open, stale air rushing to meet them like breath held too long.

Inside, the building smelled the same. Dry rot. Metal. Old lives.

They climbed the stairs in silence, each step creaking under their weight. At the landing, Kratos paused. The apartment door stood before them—familiar, weather-worn, paint chipped near the frame from years of use. But the knob didn’t turn.

Locked.

He stepped back.

Jo didn’t hesitate. He knelt, pulling a small case from his inner coat pocket, fingers moving quickly and precisely. The tools made no sound but for a soft metallic whisper—familiar, practiced.

Kratos kept watch down the hall, breathing slow. Controlled.

A click.

Jo stood.

Kratos pushed the door open.

They stepped inside. The air was still. Cold.

Then the door swung shut behind them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Freya woke to pale light pushing through the blinds and the muted hum of city life below. The apartment was still. Too still.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, muscles tight from the night before. Her abdomen ached where it met an old scar, but she ignored it, dragging a hand through her hair as she padded barefoot toward the kitchen.

Coffee first. Then—

She froze.

Footsteps.

Two sets. Heavy, deliberate. Climbing the stairs just outside the apartment.

Freya didn’t move. Her hand, reaching for the coffee tin, hovered for half a second—then dropped to her side.

She listened.

The footsteps stopped.

At her door.

Shit.

She moved.

Years of instinct clicked into place like a switchblade. She crossed the room in seconds, grabbed the knife from the console table, and slid into the narrow closet just off the living room. Door cracked an inch. Shadow swallowed her whole.

The gun. Stupid. It was still on the bedside nightstand.

She cursed under her breath.

Keys didn’t jingle. No sound of a lock turning.

Then—a soft click.

The door opened.

Freya held her breath, knife steady in her grip.

Two figures stepped into the apartment, casting long shadows in the dim light.

She waited.

Eyes narrowed.

Then she saw who it was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kratos.

And Jo.

She’d know that frame anywhere now—broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed, always scanning. Not just some errand boy, despite what the others said. Freya had done her homework.

They moved quietly, like they’d done this a hundred times before.

Kratos stepped further into the living room, his eyes skimming the walls, the furniture, the air itself. Slower now. Hesitant. Like something didn’t sit right.

Because it didn’t.

He paused near the window, hand drifting toward the pistol beneath his coat.

Freya’s pulse didn’t spike—but her grip on the knife shifted slightly.

Jo veered right, toward the hallway. Toward the closet.

One step.

Two.

She moved.

The door snapped open and Freya surged forward, catching Jo off guard. In one fluid motion, she spun him around and yanked him back against her, the blade at his throat before his hand could reach his sidearm.

He didn’t strike. Just tensed. Calculated.

“Gun down,” she hissed, voice low and cold.

Kratos had already turned, weapon raised, aimed squarely at her.

Their eyes locked.

“Now,” she growled, pressing the blade just enough to let him know she meant it.

The air stretched thin between them.

Past and present crashing into the same moment.

Kratos didn’t move.

Jo’s voice, low but calm, cut through the tension. “She’s not bluffing.”

Freya didn’t blink. “You're damn right I’m not.”

Chapter Text

The knife gleamed in the low light. Her grip didn’t shake.

Kratos kept his aim steady, finger resting along the trigger guard. He studied her—the eyes, the stance, the fury dressed as calm.

Freya.

She hadn’t changed. Not really.

“I said drop it,” she snapped, the blade biting closer beneath Jo’s jaw.

Kratos’s voice came low and even. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

“I know exactly what I’m doing.”

He saw it in her eyes—that she meant it. That she’d bleed Jo in a heartbeat if she thought he was a threat.

“I didn’t come here to fight you,” Kratos said, slowly lowering his weapon. “I came for Atreus.”

Something shifted in her face. Not recognition. Not yet. Just a break in the momentum. But before she could speak—

The front door burst open.

“Let him go!” Angrboda shouted, gun raised.

Freya reacted instantly, twisting her body to shield herself with Jo, knife pressing harder.

Kratos turned sharply. “Angrboda—no.”

The word stopped her, barely.

That second was enough.

Jo moved fast—elbow jammed back into Freya’s ribs, twisting out of her grip. He slammed her wrist against the wall and the knife clattered to the floor.

Freya kicked back, hard, and Jo stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the couch just in time to avoid another swing.

“Son of a—”

Kratos stepped in, blocking her next strike. Jo grabbed her from behind, locking her arms. She thrashed against him, half-wild, half-controlled.

Angrboda advanced into the room, gun still in hand.

“Where is he?” she shouted.

Freya struggled against Jo’s hold. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Kratos’s voice cut through the noise, quiet but firm. “Atreus.”

Everything stopped for a beat.

Kratos looked at her—really looked.

“He came here. About a week ago.”

Freya’s breath hitched.

“Heimdall took him. From this apartment.”

The fight drained from her posture. Slowly, Jo eased his grip.

Freya pulled free, breathless. Her eyes flicked down the hall—toward the bedroom. Toward the closet where she’d found the feather days ago.

Her voice came quiet, raw. “He left it for me…”

Kratos didn’t answer.

She turned to him, something breaking in her expression—grief, rage, understanding. “Why would Heimdall take him?”

Kratos shook his head. “I don't know. Odin wanted him.”

A long silence stretched.

Then, without a word, Freya stepped back, bent down, and picked up her knife. She sheathed it with one smooth motion.

“Tell me everything you know,” she said.

Kratos’s eyes lingered on her. “Not here.”

Jo rubbed his jaw where she’d landed a solid hit during the scuffle. “You hit harder than you look.”

Freya didn’t even glance at him. “Trust me—if I hadn’t pulled it, you’d be on the floor.”

Jo muttered something under his breath but stepped aside.

Freya turned toward the hallway. “Give me five minutes.”

She disappeared into the bedroom without waiting for permission, footsteps quiet but firm. A moment later, drawers opened, the creak of old hinges echoing faintly.

Kratos stayed where he was, eyes on the door she’d passed through.

Angrboda holstered her weapon, glancing toward him. “Is she really coming with us?”

“She is now,” Kratos said.

In the other room, a closet opened. The sound of zippers. Metal against leather. Freya was fast—but deliberate. When she returned, the bruises on her knuckles were gone beneath gloves, her boots were laced, and her jacket was slung over one shoulder.

“Alright,” she said, tying her hair back. “Let’s go."

********************

Years ago...

The sun was still low in the sky when Kratos tied the last bundle to his pack. The apartment buzzed with quiet motion—zippers, the clatter of gear, Atreus’s excited chatter spilling from the open bedroom.

“We’re not taking the tent?” the boy asked.

“No. Cabin’s built into the hill. Warm enough.”

Atreus appeared in the hallway, a small sling bag crooked across his chest. “I packed snacks. Not just the healthy kind.”

Kratos gave a grunt that wasn’t quite disapproval.

He didn’t hear the knock.

It was the silence that followed it that made him look up.

The door creaked open.

Freya stood there.

Her coat hung loose on her frame, as if she’d left in a hurry. The edge of a bruise bloomed dark beneath one eye, trailing along the cheekbone. She didn’t flinch under his stare—but she didn’t meet it, either.

Atreus was the first to speak.

“Freya?”

She offered a tight smile. “Mind if I come in?”

Kratos didn’t answer. He just stepped back.

She moved quietly, carefully. Like someone used to reading the air.

“Everything alright?” Atreus asked.

“Just needed a walk.” Freya looked toward the pack by the door. “You two heading out?”

“Hunting,” Kratos said.

“Camping,” Atreus corrected. “You should come with.”

Freya hesitated.

Atreus looked at her, “You should come too. Dad said it’s way out. No one around. We’re just gonna fish and stuff.”

Kratos didn’t respond.

Freya raised an eyebrow. “Think you can handle both a bow and a kettle fire, Ghost?”

He exhaled slowly. “You’re not carrying my pack.”

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s go."

She smiled. A real one, this time.

-

That night.

The porch creaked as Kratos stepped out onto it.

Cool air rolled through the trees. Crickets buzzed in the grass. Somewhere in the distance, water lapped softly at the lake’s edge.

Freya sat on the wooden bench, a blanket draped over her knees. Atreus lay curled on her lap, breathing slow, thumb brushing absently against the hem of her sweater as sleep pulled him down.

Kratos leaned against the porch beam, arms crossed.

“He wore himself out,” Freya murmured.

“He ran all day.”

“He talked all day,” she countered gently. “About deer. And frogs. And how he was going to build us a treehouse with a zipline.”

Kratos said nothing.

A long pause passed between them. Comfortable. Rare.

Freya looked down at the boy, brushed a hand through his curls.

Then, barely louder than the wind, Atreus whispered:

“I wish we could stay here forever… You guys don’t fight here.”

Kratos moved to him, reaching carefully.

Freya didn’t let go just yet.

She looked up at him.

“Me too.”

Their eyes held—for a second too long.

Then she shifted, letting Kratos lift the boy into his arms.

Freya stood, the bench creaking behind her. “I’ll put the fire out.”

Kratos gave a quiet nod, carrying Atreus inside.

The cabin door closed behind him with a soft click.

********************

Back at Angrboda’s Apartment – Late Afternoon

The apartment door clicked open.

Kratos entered first, followed by Freya, who said nothing as she stepped inside. Angrboda lingered behind them, arms crossed. Jo closed the door behind them, staying near the entry as the others moved into the room.

Skjoldr looked up from his laptop on the floor, wires snaking out across a coffee table like vines. A half-eaten granola bar sat untouched beside a mug of something cold.

Then he saw Freya.

He blinked. “Uh… who’s she?”

Angrboda shot Freya a skeptical look, then shrugged as she moved to her usual spot on the arm of the couch.

“She’s helping us,” she said. “Now what else did you find?”

Skjoldr’s eyes lingered on Freya a second too long before he shook his head and spun the laptop toward the group.

“There was another hidden folder on the drive. Took a while to decrypt the header, but the file was tagged ‘Wolf Boy.’”

Freya’s eyes narrowed.

Kratos didn’t move.

“I couldn’t get the full video—it’s corrupted or maybe just encrypted differently. But the audio survived.”

Skjoldr tapped the keyboard. A progress bar slid across the screen.

“No timestamps. No location metadata. Just this.”

He hit play.

The apartment filled with static—then a voice. Young, clear, anxious.

Atreus.

“Look, I—I don’t even know if I’m right, but the signs are there. Everything lines up. If he’s still out there… then none of what we think we know is true.”

A beat of silence.

Then another voice, calm but tense, slightly distorted through poor encoding.

“Slow down. Just tell me exactly what you saw.”

Freya’s posture stiffened.

Kratos’s jaw clenched.

Angrboda glanced between them. “You know that voice?”

Kratos answered flatly. “Sindri.”

Skjoldr raised an eyebrow. “The dwarf?”

Freya nodded once. “They’re fixers. Weapons, tech, information.”

“Didn’t know they were still alive,” Skjoldr muttered.

Freya stepped forward. “They’ve kept a low profile, but I know where to find them.”

Kratos looked to Freya. “We pay them a visit. Tonight.”

Freya didn’t argue.

Jo shifted by the door, “I’ve gotta clock in,” he said, slipping on his gloves. “But keep me updated. If you find anything—”

“We’ll let you know,” Kratos said.

Angrboda moved toward the door, checking her phone.

“I need to run by my grandmother’s,” she said. “But I’ll keep an ear out. Just—don’t go quiet on me.”

Kratos gave a short nod.

Freya pulled her jacket tighter around her, expression unreadable.

The file still played softly behind them, Atreus’s voice crackling through the static.

“If I’m right… this changes everything.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The city changed around them.

Glass gave way to concrete. Streets narrowed. Graffiti bloomed over corrugated metal and boarded-up windows. The air shifted—denser, heavier—the kind of place where people didn’t ask questions and the streetlights never worked quite right.

Neither of them had spoken since they left. Freya sat in the passenger seat and stared out the window, silent, her arms crossed loosely.

Kratos drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting heavy in his lap.

He let out a breath. Quiet. Tired.

“I’m sor—”

“Don’t,” Freya said, cutting him off before the word could land.

Her voice was sharp. Controlled. “You don’t get to say that. Not after what you did to him.”

Kratos said nothing.

“And not after running away like a coward.”

He grunted—low, grudging. A sound that wasn’t quite agreement, but wasn’t denial either.

Silence stretched again. Only the road beneath them, the faint hum of tires.

Then, softer, Freya said, “I just want to know why.” But she couldn't look at him.

Kratos didn’t answer at first.

“When we find the boy,” he said, “you may do as you wish.”

She didn’t respond. Just blinked slowly, as if the words hadn’t landed—or had landed somewhere too deep to reach.

Then finally, “We’re here.”

Ahead, a faded neon sign buzzed faintly, flickering weak yellow into the late evening haze. No bell. No handle. Just a heavy steel door set into a row of grimy buildings near the edge of the industrial district.

She straightened in her seat.

Kratos pulled the car to the curb, engine ticking as it cooled.

Chapter Text

The door was steel, thick, and unmarked—just like she remembered.

Freya knocked twice.

A beat passed.

Then a narrow panel slid open with a metallic scrape. Brok’s eyes blinked from the other side, one narrowed, the other squinting against the evening light.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “This some kinda peace treaty or a suicide pact?”

Freya didn’t smile. “We need to talk to Sindri.”

Behind her, Kratos stood silent, unreadable.

Brok sniffed, then grunted. “Figures.”

The door creaked open, heavy and slow. The sharp scent of oil, soot, and metal drifted out into the alley.

“Don’t touch anything,” Brok added, stepping aside. “And try not to kill each other in my shop.”

They stepped inside.

The place was as cluttered and alive as ever—tools strewn across workbenches, half-finished machinery humming with latent heat, and the buzz of some arc welder pulsing from the back.

“Sindri’s around,” Brok said, already moving toward the forge. “Fixin’ a mess I told him not to make. Give him a minute.”

Freya and Kratos exchanged a glance.

This wasn’t going to be just a visit.

It was going to be a reckoning.

Freya drifted toward a cluttered workbench, scanning the scraps and schematics scattered across its surface, but not touching anything.

Brok watched them both for a moment, arms crossed, mouth set in a flat line. “Alright,” he said finally. “What’s this about? Last time you two were even brought up in the same conversation, someone nearly lost a lung.”

Kratos said nothing.

Freya spoke instead. “It’s about Atreus.”

That got Brok’s attention. His posture straightened slightly. “Kid’s alright, ain’t he?”

Freya and Kratos exchanged a glance.

“He’s missing,” she said.

Brok’s expression hardened. “When?”

“Over a week ago,” Kratos said. “He was looking into something... dangerous.”

Brok’s jaw clenched, his arms falling to his sides. “What the hell was he into?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Freya said. “We think Sindri might know.”

Brok’s face twisted into a scowl. “Sindri? What does my brother have to do with this?”

“He spoke to Atreus,” Kratos said, voice low. “Before he disappeared.”

That made Brok blink. “He came here?”

Neither of them answered.

Brok muttered a curse under his breath. “Dammit. If I’d known... I’d have sat the kid down myself. Talked some sense into him.”

Freya raised an eyebrow. “And Sindri didn’t?”

“He probably tried,” Brok muttered. “But he ain’t built for saying no when someone’s got that kind of fire in their gut. Kid must’ve come to him on the sly.”

Freya folded her arms. “Sounds like Sindri’s got some explaining to do.”

From the back of the shop, a faint clang rang out—metal on metal—followed by the whine of something shutting down.

Brok sighed and shouted over his shoulder, “Hey, twig! Get out here! You’ve got visitors!”

A pause.

Then: “Busy!”

“Not anymore, you’re not!”

Freya glanced at Kratos. “This should be fun.”

Footsteps echoed from the back—hurried, not heavy.

Sindri appeared in the doorway, a smudge of ash across one cheek and a rag slung over his shoulder. He stopped dead the second he saw who was standing in the shop.

His eyes widened.

“Oh,” he said. Then again, quieter: “Oh no.”

His gaze bounced between Freya and Kratos, lingering just a second too long on the latter.

Brok raised an eyebrow. “Told you it was important.”

Sindri pulled the rag from his shoulder and started wringing it between his hands. “This… is unexpected.”

Kratos didn’t move. Freya crossed her arms.

“We need to talk,” Kratos said.

Sindri swallowed. “I figured.”

Freya tilted her head slightly. “You spoke to Atreus.”

Sindri hesitated. Just long enough to confirm it without saying a word.

“He came to you, didn’t he?” Kratos asked.

Sindri gave a small, helpless nod. “I didn’t want to get involved. But he was… determined.”

Freya stepped closer. “What did he want?”

Sindri wrung the cloth tighter, then finally let it drop to the floor.

“I didn’t want to get involved,” he said again, more to himself than to them. “But he wouldn’t let it go. He kept asking questions—digging in places I told him not to.”

Freya didn’t move. “What kind of questions?”

“The wrong kind,” Sindri said. “Names. Timelines. He was trying to put something together. Something about the past. And people who aren’t supposed to exist anymore.”

Brok grunted. “What, he think he’s a ghost hunter now?”

“No,” Sindri said softly. “But he was chasing one.”

Kratos stepped forward. “What did you tell him?”

Sindri looked at him—really looked—and for the first time, there was guilt in his expression.

“I told him to talk to Mimir.”

Freya’s arms folded tighter across her chest. “Why?”

“Because if anyone had the answers he wanted,” Sindri said, “it was him. And because I didn’t know how to stop him.”

“You could’ve said something,” Brok snapped.

“I tried,” Sindri muttered. “But it was already too late. He was determined. Like Faye used to get.”

That landed like a punch in the quiet.

Freya’s jaw tensed.

Kratos’s voice dropped. “Where was the meeting?”

Sindri hesitated, then glanced toward the corner of the shop where a bundle of dusty maps lay half-unrolled.

“Mimir’s been keeping off-grid for a while,” he said. “He’s using one of the old subway terminals again. The one under the Eastline freight corridor.”

Freya cut in, voice cool. “I know the spot.”

Sindri blinked. “You’ve been there?”

She nodded. “We’ve worked together.”

Kratos said nothing, but his eyes stayed fixed on her.

“Atreus was supposed to meet him there,” Sindri added, quieter now. “Eight nights ago.”

Freya was already turning toward the door. “Then that’s where we're headed next.”

Kratos followed, silent.

Sindri called after them, his voice almost a whisper. “Just… be careful. Mimir’s not what he used to be.”

Brok raised an eyebrow. “You mean older, meaner, and more full of himself?”

“No,” Sindri said, eyes still on the spot where Freya had stood. “I mean smarter.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Abandoned Subway Tunnel — Night

The deeper they went, the colder it got.

Old rails ran like veins beneath the city, rusted and half-buried. Concrete walls peeled under years of graffiti and grime. Water dripped somewhere far off—steady, patient. The dark here wasn’t just dark. It lingered.

Kratos moved ahead of Freya, footsteps heavy but controlled. She followed without a word.

They both remembered this place.

At the first checkpoint, a man stepped from the shadows.

Plain clothes. Armed, but not sloppy.

He didn’t speak—just raised a hand.

Kratos didn’t slow.

“Careful,” the man warned, palm resting on the butt of his pistol. “No one goes further without clearance.”

Kratos stopped just close enough.

“I’m not here for clearance,” he said. “I’m here for Mimir.”

The man’s brows pulled together. “You think that name still buys you passage?”

Kratos held his gaze. “He’ll want to see me.”

A long beat passed.

Then the guard muttered into his comm, waited, then stepped aside. “Go. Don’t touch anything.”

Freya passed him with a faint look of amusement. “They really should stop saying that.”

They moved deeper.

The next corridor was narrower. Lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows across rusted benches and old signage. It wasn’t quite the same tunnel Freya had come through last time, but the feel of it—the stillness, the weight—hadn’t changed.

Then they saw him.

Mimir sat just ahead, perched on the edge of a broken newsstand kiosk, a book cracked open in one hand, a steaming mug of something suspicious in the other.

He didn’t look up.

“You’re late,” he said casually. “And loud.”

Freya stepped out of the shadows first, boots clicking against the tile.

Mimir finally looked up.

Then froze.

“Well,” he said, closing the book slowly. “That’s unexpected.”

His eyes moved from Freya to the man beside her.

And then he smiled.

“Ahh. So you’ve found the boy.”

A beat.

Kratos’s jaw tightened. Not a word left his mouth, but the slight shift in his stance—barely perceptible—spoke volumes. A slow turn of the head. The kind of look that made lesser men reconsider entire life choices.

Mimir’s smile faltered. He saw it then—the rigid line of Kratos’s shoulders, the warning etched in his silence. And just behind him, the flicker of confusion in Freya’s eyes.

“Oh,” he said. Then, with a wry tilt of his head: “My apologies. To what do I owe the pleasure of Romeo and Juliet’s company?”

Freya stepped forward. “We need answers. And we’re not walking out of here without them.”

Mimir exhaled through his nose, set the cup aside, and stood.

“Well, this isn’t ominous at all,” he said, stepping aside. “Come. Try not to get blood on the tiles."

Chapter Text

Mimir led them down a side corridor—low ceilings, old tile underfoot, and a thin haze of smoke curling from somewhere up ahead.

The underground quiet was deceptive. Beneath it hummed the low throb of power, of movement. Cameras watched from corners. Guards leaned in doorways, eyes tracking but not interfering.

Kratos walked behind Freya. Mimir ahead, casual and unhurried, his cane tapping faintly as he moved. At a reinforced door tucked between rusted lockers and faded subway maps, Mimir paused.

“Give that a rest, will you?” he said, handing the half-finished cup to a nearby guard with a dry look. “Time for something stronger.”

The door swung open.

Inside: low lights, a wide table, and a wall of books mismatched and worn. Dust hung like silk in the warm amber glow.

Mimir lit a cigar. The flare of the match lit his face in orange for a moment.

He then moved to the shelf in the back of the room, retrieving a bottle with the ease of ritual. He uncorked it, poured two fingers into a heavy glass, then another.

“You’re welcome to one,” he said, setting the second glass on the table without looking back. “It’s not poisoned. Tempting as that might be.”

Neither of them moved.

Mimir took a long draw from the cigar, then exhaled slowly. “No? Shame. It’s the good stuff. Imported. Not many things in this city worth the price anymore, but this…” He swirled the glass. “Still has bite.”

Freya stood by the table, arms crossed. “Enough stalling.”

Mimir raised an eyebrow. “Not stalling. I’m savoring.”

“Then savor later.” Her voice didn’t rise, but it cut clean. “We're here about Atreus. You helped him.”

“I help a lot of people,” Mimir said flatly. “That doesn’t mean I tell their secrets.”

Kratos stepped forward, his tone measured. “We know he came to you.”

Mimir’s eyes flicked to Kratos, and something unreadable passed between them.

“I never said he didn’t,” Mimir replied. “But I might ask what makes you think I’d be eager to admit it.”

Freya stepped forward now. “Because he’s missing.”

That silenced the room for a moment.

Mimir’s expression sobered. “That so?”

“Eight days,” Kratos said.

The seer turned away, walking to the windowless wall, fingers tapping once against the glass of his tumbler.

“That boy’s got more of her in him than you’d like to admit,” Mimir murmured.

Kratos didn’t respond.

Freya, quieter now, said, “You helped him. So help us.”

Mimir turned back, smoke drifting from the corner of his mouth. Then he looked between them. A breath too long.

“That depends entirely on the questions you’re asking.”

********************
The door creaked open, and Kratos stepped inside, muscles tight from days on the road. The apartment was silent—too silent. No laughter, no scent of fresh bread, no sign of her. Just the dull echo of his own footsteps.

He called her name once, then twice. No answer.

His fingers clenched around the phone, scrolling through messages, calls—nothing. His jaw tightened.

Suddenly, the front door clicked behind him. She appeared in the hallway, pale but steady. The curve of her belly unmistakable in the soft light.

“Where were you?” His voice was rough, the worry bleeding through the edge.

She met his eyes, calm but firm. “I went to see Mimir.”

Kratos’s brow furrowed. “You shouldn’t have.”

She shrugged, folding her arms. “You were gone for days. No calls. No word. I needed to know.”

Kratos took a step forward, voice low. “I keep things from you to protect you. And him.” He glanced toward her belly.

Faye’s eyes flickered—not angry, but tired. “I know who you are, Kratos. What you do. I love you. But I hate being left out. Like I’m waiting for the next storm.”

He swallowed hard. The weight of everything—his past, the battles ahead, the life growing inside her—pressed on his chest.

She softened, stepping closer, hand resting gently on his arm. “We’ll face it together. But don’t shut me out.”

Kratos looked down at her hand, then up into her eyes. For the first time in a long while, the burden felt a little lighter.
********************

The smoke curled tighter now, clinging to the old light.

Freya had barely finished her sentence before Mimir’s demeanor shifted.

“We think it was Heimdall,” she said. “He’s the one who took Atreus.”

Mimir stilled. The glass in his hand didn’t tremble, but the breath he took afterward was different—sharp, drawn through clenched teeth.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “Of course it was.”

Freya’s eyes narrowed. “You know something.”

“I know Heimdall,” Mimir said, setting his drink down. “Better than most. Loyal to a fault. Ruthless beyond reason. And if he’s the one who grabbed the boy… it means Odin’s more desperate than I thought.”

Kratos’s voice came low. “Why Atreus?”

Mimir gave him a long, measured look. “Because your boy’s digging too deep. Because someone like Heimdall doesn’t move unless he’s told to. And Odin—he doesn’t like it when ghosts refuse to stay buried.”

Freya stepped forward. “So where would Heimdall take him?”

“If it were up to him? Somewhere isolated. Somewhere untraceable. But this… it isn’t Heimdall working solo. He’s a trigger, not the one pulling it.” Mimir’s fingers drummed once against the table. “Odin’s got a dozen black sites across the city. Rotating safehouses. Interrogation bunkers. Most of them aren't on any map.”

“Then how do we find him?” she asked.

“I can put my people on it,” Mimir said. “Ears in the clubs, the docks, the backrooms—wherever Odin’s reach gets thin. But it'll take time. I’ll call in a few favors. Quietly.”

Kratos said nothing.

Freya looked away, her jaw clenched tight.

Mimir exhaled, lifting his cigar again. “Look—I don’t like Heimdall either. He’s a rabid dog on a short leash. And Odin’s the one yanking it. But even he wouldn’t make a move this bold unless something scared Odin. That boy of yours? He’s not just poking old wounds. He’s aiming straight at the heart.”

He looked up.

“I’ll do what I can. You have my word.”

That’s when Freya stepped back from the table, her expression unreadable, and turned toward the door.

“I’ll be in the car,” she said simply.

The door clicked shut behind her.

For a moment, the only sound was the faint burn of Mimir’s cigar and the tick of something mechanical in the wall.

Kratos didn’t move.

Mimir didn’t look at him—not right away. He just reached for the bottle, refilled his glass with a quiet splash, and set it down again.

Then, softly: “You didn’t tell her.”

Kratos’s jaw shifted. “No.”

Mimir finally looked at him. “You could. You should.”

Kratos didn’t answer.

“I’ve seen her, you know,” Mimir said. “When you were gone. She comes around sometimes—odd jobs, favors. There’s a storm in her, but it’s not vengeance anymore.” He took a slow sip, then set the glass down. “It’s doubt. She’s not sure what she’s mourning.”

Kratos’s voice came low, rough. “She cannot know.”

“Because you’re afraid of what she’ll do?”

Kratos shook his head. “Because Odin will kill them both if she does.”

Mimir let that settle. His features were still, the smirk long gone.

Then, without another word, he turned to the bookshelf behind him. Not the rows of classics or worn novels—but the narrow gap between them. He slid one spine sideways and retrieved a small, folded slip of paper from the hollow behind it.

He laid it on the table. The edge was creased, the ink faint.

“If it ever changes,” Mimir said. “If she ever needs the truth instead of blood.”

Kratos looked at the note but didn’t reach for it.

“You’ll know when,” Mimir added.

A long beat passed.

Then Kratos picked it up and slipped it into his coat without a word.

As he turned to leave, Mimir’s voice followed him—low, but not unkind.

“And for what it’s worth… I think she’d forgive you.”

Kratos didn’t look back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The car idled at the curb, steam curling from the hood in the cold.

Kratos slid into the driver’s seat. Freya didn’t look at him.

They sat in silence for a moment—only the soft hum of the engine and the faint sound of city wind through the half-cracked window.

He put the car into gear.

“Where to?” he asked, voice low.

She didn’t answer right away.

Then, “Not the apartment.”

He glanced over. Her arms were folded, her jaw tight.

“I can’t stay there.” she said.

Kratos didn’t argue.

“It’s tainted now,” she added, quieter. “Too many ghosts.”

He said nothing. Just waited.

“I've got another safehouse. One I haven’t used in a while. Safer.”

She gave him the cross-street, and he turned the wheel without a word.

They drove in silence, the city’s pulse trailing past the windows like a dream half-remembered. Neon flickered off wet pavement. Somewhere, a siren wailed, distant and dying.

Finally, as the buildings thinned and the streetlights grew farther apart, Freya spoke—barely above a whisper.

“I know you’re still keeping things from me.”

Kratos’s hands tightened on the wheel.

“I won’t ask,” she said. “Not yet.”

She leaned her head back against the seat, eyes closed.

“But after we find Atreus, I might.”

The car rolled on into the dark.

Chapter Text

********************
The car burned fast.

Black frame swallowed by fire. Tires screaming into smoke. Flames licking at the night like starving wolves.

Kratos stood still—shoulders squared, fists clenched. The heat curled up around him, but he didn’t flinch. Couldn’t.

The vehicle had once belonged to Baldur.

Now, it was ash.

Somewhere in the dark behind him, a scream ripped through the air.

Freya’s scream.

He hadn’t been there when she found out. He’d made sure of that. But he’d heard that scream in his head a thousand times since.

In the dream, she was closer.

Through the fire, she stepped out—face lit in gold and red, eyes wild with grief. Smoke clung to her like a cloak.

She looked at him.

Straight at him.

“You should have let me burn too.”

Kratos took a step toward her—

But the fire surged, blinding and bright.

And then—

********************

Kratos jerked awake, breath caught in his throat. Sweat dampened the collar of his shirt.

Muted city light filtered through the slats in the blinds, casting stripes across the floor. The apartment was quiet—too quiet—but safe. A low hum buzzed from somewhere in the kitchen. Outside, a siren wailed far off and faded into nothing.

He sat up on the edge of the futon. Rubbed a hand down his face.

Boots beside the couch. His coat draped across the armrest. His gear, untouched.

Then—

From the kitchen, a quiet voice.

“Hey.”

Kratos looked up.

Angrboda stood near the counter, a mug cradled in both hands. Steam curled around her fingers, rising toward her face. She didn’t come closer—just watched him with that careful stillness she always carried, like she could feel the weight in the room before a word was spoken.

“You alright?” she asked softly.

He didn’t answer.

“You were talking in your sleep,” she said.

A pause.

“You said someone’s name. Baldur.”

Kratos looked down. And again said nothing.

Angrboda shifted her weight. “I don’t know who that is, but… it sounded like you were apologizing.”

He said nothing.

“I’ll get you a coffee,” she said quietly. “You look like you need it.”

She didn’t wait for a reply—just turned back to the coffee maker and poured him a cup.

Then she stepped around the counter and gently placed the mug on the table beside him.

She started to turn away.

“Thank you,” he said, low but clear.

She paused, surprised—but didn’t press. Just gave a small nod.

Kratos reached for the mug, then his phone. The screen lit up—blank.

No new calls. No word from Mimir.

It had been two days since the underground meeting. Since the address slipped into his coat.

And still—nothing.

He leaned forward, elbows on knees. His eyes closed.

Freya’s voice echoed again in his head.

You should have let me burn too.

-

After a while.

The elevator hummed faintly as it rose from the basement.

Angrboda stood in the kitchen, sipping from her now-cold mug. The apartment was still dim in the early light—quiet, save for the soft whir of electronics and the occasional creak of settling wood. Kratos sat by the window, unmoving, watching the city begin to stretch.

The elevator dinged softly.

A moment later, the doors slid open and Skjoldr stepped out, rubbing his eyes, a cable draped around one shoulder and a tangle of wires looped in his hand.

He looked like he hadn’t slept. Probably hadn’t.

“Morning,” he muttered to no one in particular.

Angrboda raised an eyebrow. “You were down there all night?”

“Got caught up,” he said. “The encryption on that file’s not just layered—it’s looped. Keeps referencing itself.”

Kratos didn’t turn. “Progress?”

“A little,” Skjoldr said. “I think the video was tampered with. Couldn’t get visuals yet, but there’s something buried deep in the audio layers. Working on isolating it.”

Before anyone could reply, the front door clicked open.

Jo stepped inside, letting it swing shut behind him. He peeled off his gloves, rubbing his hands together.

“Didn’t think I’d be the last one up,” he said. “Coffee still hot?”

Angrboda motioned toward the pot. “Barely. But help yourself.”

Jo nodded and made a beeline for the counter, giving Kratos a sidelong glance. “Any word from Mimir?”

Kratos shook his head once.

“Nothing.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The mirror above the sink was cracked in the corner.

Freya stared at the line in the glass—a thin fracture that cut just beneath her reflection’s eye. Like something had once tried to split her open and only made it partway.

She turned the faucet off with the back of her hand. Cold water dripped from her fingers, clinging for a moment before falling into the rusted basin.

This safehouse was old. Tucked into a forgotten stretch of tenement buildings. It smelled like dust and iron. The wallpaper peeled in the corners, the floor groaned if you stepped wrong, and the pipes complained with every use.

But it was quiet. And for now, that was enough.

She pressed her palms against the sink’s edge, leaning forward until her forehead nearly touched the glass.

Ten days.

Ten days since Atreus vanished.

Her jaw tensed.

When she first met the boy, he’d been small. Quiet. Clinging to his father’s coat with one hand, the other clutching a folded piece of paper—something he wouldn’t let go of, not even at the burial.

Freya had recognized the eyes immediately.

Faye’s eyes.

For a while—after the funeral—she’d been part of his life. Dropping by the apartment. Bringing food. Sharing quiet moments with a boy who spoke too wisely for his age and a man who never said more than he had to. For five years, she had watched Atreus grow, smiled at his questions, taught him little things Faye would’ve wanted him to know.

Until everything fractured.

Until that night she came to the apartment, fists clenched with grief and fury, ready to confront Kratos for what he’d done.

But only the boy had been home. Atreus, just a child. Alone, confused, but polite. He offered her tea. Said his father wasn’t home.

She hadn’t stayed long. Couldn’t.

She left without saying what she came to say.

That was the last time she saw him.

Now he was missing.

And someone—Odin, Heimdall, whoever—was going to learn what it meant to take something from her again.

She stared at her reflection once more. Then turned away from the glass.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Angrboda opened the door before Freya could knock—already having buzzed her up.

Freya stepped inside just as Kratos spoke. Her eyes caught his immediately—already reading the shift in his stance, the clipped tone.

She closed the door behind her. “What happened?”

Kratos turned the screen toward her.

No names. No questions.
Coords:
45.91, -122.68.
Storage facility. Cold side.

Her own phone buzzed a second later.

She wasn’t surprised to see it was from Mimir.

“Cold side,” she murmured, eyes narrowing. “That’s one of Mimir’s old storage facilities. They don’t use it for product anymore. Just whatever Odin doesn’t want on the books.”

Jo finished the last bite of his sandwich, already pulling his coat on. “So what’s the play?”

Kratos looked to him, then to Freya. “We keep it quiet. Just us three.”

Skjoldr glanced up. “You want backup—”

“No,” Freya cut in. “Too many bodies make too much noise.”

Jo grabbed his gear. “Then let’s move.”

Kratos pocketed his phone, already headed for the door.

Behind him, the others followed—no more words needed.

Whatever waited in that facility, it wasn’t just cargo.

It was a piece of the truth.

And it was waiting to be uncovered.

Chapter Text

The cold hit first.

Not the sharp kind that made you shiver—but the thick, dense kind that crept under skin and into bone. The sort of cold that didn’t belong in a warehouse, even one like this.

Kratos pulled the car into a shadowed stretch of concrete behind the building. No signs. No lights. Just frost curling up the walls and the steady drip of condensation from an old pipe above the loading dock.

They got out without a word.

Freya took point.

The loading bay was sealed, but the side entrance had been left carelessly chained—cut recently, by someone who didn’t care to lock it behind them. She glanced back, made a quick gesture. Kratos moved forward, silent. Jo followed last, shoulders tight beneath his coat.

Inside, the facility groaned.

Rows of long-forgotten containers lined the main corridor, their edges frosted, numbers barely visible beneath grime. Light flickered above, a sickly green-yellow hue that pulsed like a dying heartbeat.

“This place hasn’t been used for storage in years,” Freya murmured.

Jo gave her a look. “Then what’s it used for?”

Kratos answered instead. “Things that shouldn’t be found.”

They moved deeper.

Footsteps echoed in the vast silence—muted by the thick air, but loud enough to raise the heart. Pipes overhead hissed faintly. Somewhere, a distant door clanged shut, then silence again.

Freya led them along a narrow path between freight containers. She crouched suddenly—hand out. The others stopped.

Voices.

Faint, but carrying.

Two men. Arguing. Heated, low, and rough-edged. One of them they recognized immediately.

Heimdall.

Freya motioned them toward a stack of crates. She found a narrow view down onto the central floor, where the cold was heaviest—fog curling like breath from the metal walls.

Below, in the heart of the warehouse, stood two figures locked in verbal combat.

Heimdall.

And Thor.

-

Below, in the heart of the warehouse, Heimdall stood with his back half-turned to Thor. Arms crossed, jaw tight, like he was barely holding something in.

Thor paced, fists clenched, boots echoing hard against the frozen floor.

“You never answered me,” Thor growled. “Why him?”

Heimdall didn’t flinch. “Because the boy was digging.”

“So?” Thor barked. “Kids dig. He’s a kid. Thrud talks to him. He’s not a threat.”

At that, Heimdall turned—slow and deliberate.

“No. Your daughter talks to him. That’s the problem.”

Thor bristled. “Watch it.”

Heimdall’s smile was cold. “She asks questions, Thor. She’s not as subtle as she thinks. And you—you’re slipping. You used to be a hammer. Now you’re just noise.”

Thor stepped in close. “You forget who the hell you’re talking to?”

Jo tensed from behind the crates. Freya put a hand out to steady him—silent, commanding.

Heimdall didn’t back down.

“Father gave an order. I followed it. And I don’t answer to you.”

Thor’s voice dropped, but it was worse now—low and seething. “She’s my daughter.”

“Which is exactly why you don’t get to decide what’s dangerous anymore,” Heimdall said. “You already failed her once.”

The words hit like a punch.

Even from above, Kratos saw it—the flinch, the flash of something haunted behind Thor’s eyes.

“You piece of—” Thor lunged.

Heimdall sidestepped easily, like he’d been expecting it. His hand went to his coat—not a gun, but something small. Something quiet.

Freya narrowed her eyes. “He’s baiting him.”

Jo leaned in. “Should we move?”

Kratos said nothing. Watching. Calculating.

Down below, Thor didn’t swing. Not yet.

Instead, he gritted his teeth and snarled, “You think you’re smarter than everyone. But you don’t know everything.”

Heimdall tilted his head. “Try me.”

Thor’s voice cracked, just barely.

“You think Baldur died because of Kratos,” Thor growled. “But it was Father who took him from us—when he killed Lundr.”

That made Heimdall still.

Above, Jo’s breath caught.

Freya tensed beside him, hand gripping her sidearm—though she didn’t draw it.

Thor let out a bitter laugh, broken at the edges. “You thought I didn’t know? You never cared. You’ve never loved anyone but your own reflection. But me? I have a family. Children. A wife. I don’t just wag my tail when Father whistles.”

Heimdall turned.

Slow. Deliberate.

“Say that again.”

Thor’s chest rose, fury and defiance burning behind his eyes. “I said—”

He didn’t finish.

Heimdall moved.

Fast. Precise.

The blade was short, dark, and already buried between Thor’s ribs before he could react. It wasn’t a brawl. It was an execution.

Jo swore under his breath.

Freya’s grip locked tight on his arm.

Thor staggered back, a choked breath caught in his throat.

“Heimdall—” he rasped.

“You should’ve kept your mouth shut,” Heimdall said coldly.

Thor fell to his knees, the weight of him crashing to the ground like a tree finally split at the base.

Heimdall leaned in, voice low.

“Father said Lundr was making Baldur weak. Soft. That softness was a threat to the order. So I ended it.”

He let that settle. Watched Thor bleed.

“And when I find Baldur,” Heimdall added, calm as frost, “I’ll finish the job.”

The warehouse fell into silence, save for the wet rasp of Thor’s breath.

Heimdall turned, already walking away.

Freya moved before she thought.

Gun out. Safety off.

She didn’t fire—yet. But her breath caught somewhere between rage and restraint.

Below, Thor collapsed fully to the floor, blood pooling fast.

Jo pushed past her, barely registering her grip as he lunged toward the edge of the crate stack.

“Jo—” she hissed.

But he didn’t stop.

He jumped down from the platform—boots hitting the floor with a crack—and sprinted to Thor’s side, sliding across cold concrete to brace the dying man’s shoulders.

“Stay with me,” Jo muttered. “Come on, don’t—just stay with me.”

Thor tried to speak—just a garbled exhale.

Freya bit down a curse, eyes darting.

And then she saw them.

Men in the shadows. Two near the far containers. Another standing watch up on the catwalk above. Quiet. Armed. Not moving yet—but alert.

Odin’s people.

She raised her voice just enough for Kratos to hear behind her. “We’re not alone.”

Kratos stepped forward, eyes locked on Heimdall—who still hadn’t noticed Jo at Thor’s side. Or maybe he had, and simply didn’t care.

Heimdall was wiping the blade clean on a dark cloth. Slow. Casual.

“You think you’re safe because he liked you once?” he said without looking up. “You think that buys you time?”

Freya’s gun was trained on his head now.

“Depends,” she said, voice sharp and cold. “You feel lucky today?”

Heimdall finally turned, the glint in his eye sharpening.

And just like that—

All hell broke loose and gunfire shattered the quiet.

Freya fired first—two sharp cracks that sent one of Odin’s men sprawling behind a crate. The others scattered like startled animals, weapons drawn, shouts echoing against metal walls.

Kratos launched off the platform. His boots hit concrete with the force of a dropped engine block, and the nearest guard didn’t even have time to raise his weapon before Kratos grabbed him by the vest and slammed him through a shipping pallet with a crunch of splintered wood and bone.

Freya moved like a knife.

She ducked behind a container, reloading fast, eyes darting for the next threat. Another man rounded the corner—she dropped low, swept his legs, and as he hit the ground, her pistol was already pressed to his temple. One shot. Gone.

Jo dragged Thor toward the shadow of a crate, blood slicking across his palms. The big man groaned, eyes fluttering.

“Hey,” Jo muttered, voice rough. “You don’t get to die here. Not like this.”

Thor coughed weakly, blood in his beard.

Jo tore off his overshirt, pressing it tight against the wound. “Just stay with me, alright?” His throat tightened. “I’ll get you through this.”

Another crack of gunfire split the air.

Jo flinched, crouching lower over Thor’s body. He peered up—Freya and Kratos had drawn most of the fire. Odin’s men moved in coordinated bursts, flanking, fast, trying to pin them near the crates.

Kratos grabbed one of them mid-sprint and threw the man across the corridor like a ragdoll. His fist caught the next guard in the throat—one punch, and the man crumpled.

Freya took a round to the shoulder—grazing, but enough to snap her sideways behind a container. She hissed, ducked, popped back up and put two bullets into her attacker’s chest.

Then she looked for Heimdall again and saw him standing just beyond the main fire zone, untouched.

Watching.

And smiling.

She raised her gun—fired. Be was already turning, already fading into the back corridors.

“Coward!” she screamed, fury laced in every syllable.

But he was gone.

Kratos saw him too. Started after—but two more of Odin’s men rushed in, trying to hold the line. One went for Kratos’s back. Big mistake.

He turned, caught the man’s arm, and snapped it at the elbow. The scream didn’t last long—Kratos grabbed the dropped pistol and fired over his shoulder at the second attacker without looking.

Jo shouted, “We’ve got to get him out of here!”

Freya turned, bleeding but steady. “Can he move?”

“No,” Jo said. “But if we wait too long, he won’t have to.”

Kratos pulled a smoke canister from his coat—low-tech, old-school—and rolled it across the concrete.

A hiss, then the corridor bloomed with grey fog, thick and choking.

“Move!” Freya barked.

Kratos grabbed one of the heavier crates, pushed it down to create cover. Freya and Jo moved behind it, Jo dragging Thor, keeping pressure on the wound.

They reached the loading bay just as the last of Odin’s men stumbled out of the smoke, coughing, disoriented. Freya clipped one with a clean headshot. Kratos shoulder-checked another so hard the man bounced off the wall and didn’t get back up.

Jo threw open the side door. “Clear!”

Kratos helped lift Thor. He was heavy—dead weight—but still alive.

Still breathing.

Barely.

They staggered out into the icy air, breath fogging in the cold.

Freya looked back once, just once.

But Heimdall was long gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The truck tore down the back roads, tires screaming on each curve, headlights barely cutting through the fog.

Kratos gripped the wheel, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

Jo was in the backseat, hands slick with blood as he kept pressure on the wound just below Thor’s ribs. Thor groaned low in his throat—half-conscious, barely tethered.

“Don’t you damn die on me,” Jo muttered, pressing harder. “You survive getting stabbed by that little freak just to bleed out in a truck? I don’t think so.”

Freya sat in the passenger seat, silent at first. Rigid.

Then—her voice cracked the quiet like a whip.

“You knew.”

Kratos didn’t look at her.

She turned, eyes sharp. “You knew Baldur was alive.”

Still, no answer.

Her voice rose—not loud, but lethal. “What Heimdall said in that warehouse… he didn’t hesitate. He didn’t flinch. He’s hunting him, Kratos. You knew.”

Behind them, Jo swore under his breath again. “We need to get him to Sigrun. Now.”

Kratos’s eyes narrowed on the road. “Where?”

“Old farmhouse,” Jo said. “Just past the copper mill. East side. Third gravel road after the overpass. She’ll know what to do.”

Kratos nodded once. No questions. Just pushed the gas harder.

Freya twisted in her seat, staring at him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Silence.

“Kratos.”

Still nothing.

Thor groaned again—louder this time. Jo’s voice was thick with urgency. “Pressure’s not holding—if we don’t get there in five minutes, he’s gone.”

Freya turned back to the windshield, but her fists clenched in her lap.

“I deserve the truth,” she said, voice barely audible.

Kratos finally spoke.

“No,” he said, quiet but firm. “You deserve peace.”

Freya laughed once—bitter. “Don’t give me that. Not after what I just heard.”

Behind them, Jo barked, “We can unpack the family secrets after I keep this bastard breathing!”

Kratos didn’t respond again. The truck roared past a rusted mile marker.

Freya’s voice softened—not gentler, just colder. “You let me believe he was dead. All this time. And now Heimdall is out there, hunting him. And I wasn’t even supposed to know?”

Still no answer.

But his knuckles were white on the wheel.

Freya stared at him for a long time, then looked away, jaw clenched.

From the back, Jo muttered, “Sigrun is a ghost. Off-grid for years. But she still owes me. If anyone can keep this quiet and keep him alive—it’s her.”

Kratos didn’t ask more.

He just drove.

Chapter Text

The tires crunched over gravel as the truck skidded to a stop just past the copper mill, headlights cutting through the fog like a blade. The house ahead was dark but not abandoned—shutters drawn, chimney faintly smoking.

Jo jumped out before the engine had finished rumbling. “This way!”

Kratos hauled open the passenger door, gripping Thor under the arms while Jo grabbed his legs. The weight was deadened by blood loss, but Thor groaned—barely conscious, teeth clenched through pain.

Freya followed without a word, hand still pressed to the graze on her shoulder. Her eyes never left Thor’s face.

The front door opened before they reached the porch.

A woman stood there, silhouetted by the dim yellow glow of lamplight. Tall. Still. Her dark hair pulled back tight, face half in shadow, eyes sharper than they had any right to be after being dragged out of bed at midnight.

Sigrun.

She didn’t waste time with greetings.

“Bring him in. Now.”

—

The farmhouse smelled like cedar and antiseptic.

They moved through a narrow hall and into a low-ceilinged room filled with old books, tools, and an antique medical cabinet. Sigrun kicked a table clear with the heel of her boot, already pulling on gloves.

“Lay him flat. Shirt off. Keep his arms up—pressure low near the lungs.”

Jo obeyed like a soldier falling into rank. He’d seen her like this before—quiet, focused, commanding.

Freya hovered near the door, tense.

Kratos stood near the window, watching the road in silence.

Sigrun knelt beside Thor, examining the wound. “Clean entry. Narrow blade. Just missed the heart.”

Jo exhaled, shaky. “That supposed to be good news?”

“It is if you shut up and let me work.”

She looked up at Freya. “Get me the silver basin behind you. Top shelf.”

Freya turned without arguing, handed it over. The water inside steamed faintly, already hot.

Sigrun worked fast—sterilizing, packing the wound, stitching with hands that didn’t hesitate. She barely blinked.

“You’ve done this before,” Freya said under her breath.

“Too many times,” Sigrun replied. “Some names are carved into memory more than others.”

Thor groaned, but didn’t wake. His skin was pale, sweat pearled across his forehead.

“He’ll live,” Sigrun said at last. “But only if he doesn’t move for the next twelve hours. And he’ll need more blood. Rest. Antibiotics.”

Jo finally let out the breath he’d been holding.

Kratos hadn’t moved.

Sigrun began cleaning her tools and packing up. Then she left the room without another word.

Freya leaned back against the wall, shoulders dropping.

********************

The rain tapped softly against the tall windows, blurring the city lights beyond the glass. From this height, the world below looked like it barely mattered.

Freya paced barefoot across the marble floor, silk robe half-tied at the waist, her hair still damp from a late shower. The apartment was quiet—too quiet for a night like this. No music. No television. Just the distant sound of traffic and the ticking of the antique clock Odin insisted on keeping in every room.

Baldur stood near the bar, still in the long coat he hadn’t taken off since arriving. His jaw was tight, posture defensive.

Freya stopped. Folded her arms. “You’re late.”

He didn’t answer.

She tilted her head. “Where were you?”

He glanced at her—just for a second. “Out.”

“With her?”

Silence.

Freya exhaled through her nose, trying—failing—not to sound angry. “You didn’t even try to deny it this time.”

“I’m not hiding it from you anymore,” he said quietly.

Her fingers curled into her sleeves. “You think that makes it better?”

“She’s not what you think.”

“No?” Freya stepped forward. “Because what I think is that you’re being reckless. That you’re sneaking off with someone who works for your father without thinking about what that means.”

“She doesn’t work for him directly.”

“Baldur—” her voice cracked, but only for a moment. “You know what Odin does with people. You know how he uses them. If he finds out—”

“He won’t.”

“He will. Eventually, he always does.”

Baldur looked away, jaw clenched.

Freya’s tone softened. “I’m not saying this because I’m angry. I’m saying it because I know what kind of man your father is. And I know what he’ll do to her if he finds out you care about her.”

That landed. Freya could see it in his face.

Baldur looked at the floor, voice tight. “He’s already asked me to do things.”

“What kind of things?”

“Assignments. Surveillance. He wants me watching the other families more closely. Checking who’s loyal.” A pause. “I lied to him last week. Told him I’d lost track of someone.”

Freya's eyes widened. “You covered for her.”

He nodded. “She didn’t even know.”

She stepped closer, something like dread tightening in her chest. “And you think he won’t notice? That he won’t start to suspect?”

“She’s careful.”

Freya grabbed his arm, forced him to look at her. “You’re not.”

He met her eyes, and for a moment, the sharp edges fell away. He just looked tired.

“I love her.”

Freya's mouth parted slightly, her hand falling away.

“You can’t protect her from him,” she said softly.

“I have to try.”

Freya turned away, walking toward the tall windows. She wrapped her arms around herself, staring out into the city.

“When I was your age,” she said, “I thought I could outmaneuver him. That I could keep part of myself hidden. Something untouched.” She turned her head, just slightly. “It doesn’t work like that.”

Baldur stood silent behind her.

“End it,” she said finally. “Before he finds out. Before he uses her against you. Or worse.”

“I won’t.”

“Then you’ll lose her.”

His voice was barely audible. “I've already lost too much.”

She closed her eyes.

When she turned back around, Baldur was already gone.

********************

A few hours later

The porch creaked beneath Freya’s weight as she leaned against the wooden railing, arms folded tight against the morning chill.

The sky was just beginning to pale—dusky blue bleeding into soft amber where the horizon broke through fog. Somewhere in the trees, a bird called once. Then silence again.

Her shoulder throbbed faintly beneath the bandage, but she barely noticed it.

Everything else hurt worse.

Behind her, the screen door creaked open.

She didn’t look.

Kratos stepped out, closing it behind him with a soft click.

For a long time, neither of them said anything.

Kratos cleared his throat.

“I should’ve told you,” he said. “About Baldur.”

Freya didn’t look at him.

“I wasn’t protecting myself,” he added.

She finally turned her head. “Then who were you protecting?”

Kratos’s jaw worked. “You. Him. All of us.”

Her expression was unreadable. But her voice came out quieter this time. “You should’ve trusted me.”

“I do,” he said.

“Not enough.”

The breeze stirred the trees in the distance.

Then—

A voice cut through from inside.

“I told you—if I ever saw your face again—”

Thor.

Freya turned, startled.

Kratos’s eyes narrowed. He was already heading for the door.

Inside, the volume rose. “You think patching me up gives you a clean slate, pretty boy? You don’t get to touch my wife and then play hero!”

Freya followed quickly behind Kratos as they stepped into the hallway. The room where Thor had been resting was dim but awake with tension. Thor, propped up with pillows and pale but clearly alive, was red-faced and seething. Jo stood near the foot of the bed, hands raised but jaw tight.

“I didn’t bring you here for her,” Jo said, voice low. “I brought you here to save your damn life.”

“You should’ve let me bleed out,” Thor growled. “Would’ve solved both our problems.”

Jo didn’t respond. But something flickered behind his eyes—guilt or pain, it was hard to say.

Freya stepped between them. Her tone wasn’t raised, but it was sharp enough to cut.

“I don’t care what this is,” she said. “Or who it’s about.”

She looked at Thor, then Jo, then back again.

“I care about Baldur. I care about Atreus. So unless this argument has anything to do with either of them—save it.”

Thor muttered something under his breath and looked away.

Kratos stepped forward, his voice low but heavy with intent.

“You said Heimdall took my son. That Odin gave the order.”

Thor didn’t respond at first. His jaw worked, lips pressing into a thin line. He leaned back against the pillows, breathing through his nose like the effort of staying upright still took everything he had.

Freya took a step closer. “We need to know where they would’ve taken him. You’ve worked these circuits longer than anyone. You’ve been inside.”

Her voice softened just enough to let something else bleed through—urgency, desperation. “Help us.”

Thor laughed—short and bitter. “Help you?”

He shook his head. “After everything?”

“You’re still Thrud’s father,” Kratos said. “Atreus is her friend.”

That landed.

Thor’s eyes flicked up, tired but sharp. “She’s been asking questions. She came to me a week before all this happened, tried to get me to look into it.” He snorted. “Like Odin doesn’t have ears in every wall.”

Freya’s voice was tight. “And you ignored her?”

“I tried to protect her,” he snapped. “You think Father won’t turn on her too if he thinks she’s feeding info to the wrong people?”

Kratos folded his arms. “So you protected her by doing nothing?”

Thor glared at him, but the fire was dimmer now.

“No,” he said finally. “I started digging on my own. Quietly. Heimdall knew. That’s why he dragged me to that warehouse. So he could shut me up.”

Freya’s eyes narrowed. “And Atreus?”

Thor exhaled. “He was sniffing too close to whatever my father was trying to keep buried. Something about Baldur, maybe more. The boy found something. Or someone. And Father sent Heimdall to clean it up.”

Kratos stepped forward. “Where.”

A beat.

Thor’s gaze dropped to the blanket draped across his lap.

“There’s a site,” he muttered. “Old observatory up north. Abandoned on the books, but he still keeps it staffed. High security, no signals in or out. If Heimdall moved him somewhere off-grid, that’s the likeliest place.”

Freya didn’t blink. “Coordinates?”

Thor sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, like he was pulling the numbers from a half-remembered dream.

“North Ridge. Just past the Hólmwoods. The rest you’ll have to find yourself.”

Kratos nodded once.

Freya was already moving toward the door.

Jo didn’t say a word.

But as they passed, Thor muttered under his breath—gruff and strained.

“Doesn’t mean I forgive you, pretty boy.”

Jo didn’t stop walking.

Kratos and Freya stepped outside into the pale dawn. The wind had picked up, cold and biting.

Freya’s arms wrapped around herself—not from the cold.

“He knows more,” she said quietly. “But he’s too broken to give it all.”

Kratos gave a grunt that could’ve meant agreement. Or something heavier.

They had a location.

Now, they had to decide what they were willing to do with it.

They started toward the truck, the gravel crunching beneath their boots.

But before they reached it, Kratos stopped her with a hand on her arm.

Freya turned, brow furrowing.

Kratos reached into his coat pocket—slow, deliberate—and withdrew a folded scrap of paper. It was creased and worn at the edges.

He held it out to her.

Her hand hovered before she took it, eyes scanning the faded ink.

Her breath caught.

“You’ve had this the whole time?”

“No. But Mimir gave it to me,” he said. “I didn’t know when—or if—it would be the right time.”

Freya's eyes scanned the address. The name wasn’t written, but she knew what it was.

Where it led.

Her grip tightened.

She looked up at him. There was no rage in her voice now—just something quieter. Something heavier.

“If Heimdall’s hunting him… I need to get there first.”

She folded the paper slowly and tucked it into her coat.

Kratos gave a slow nod of understanding.

The wind picked up.

They didn’t look back.

Only forward—toward whatever ghosts still waited in the cold.

Chapter Text

The gravel cracked beneath her boots.

It was quieter out here—quieter than she remembered any place being in years. Just the whisper of wind through pine and the crunch of her slow steps up the overgrown drive. No hum of passing cars. No city static. Just breath, and earth, and sky.

The house wasn’t large. Modest. Weathered along the trim. Curtains drawn. A small porch, wood faded silver. The kind of place that didn’t ask to be noticed. A place someone might vanish into.

She paused at the foot of the steps.

The last 48 hours had peeled her bare in a way she wasn’t ready to name. Between Thor bleeding out in a stranger’s living room, and the flash of Heimdall’s blade in that frozen warehouse, and—

And the note. The address. Folded so neatly in Kratos’s coat.

This was where it led.

Her hand hovered over the door.

She didn’t know what she was expecting. A locked silence. A ghost.

Her knuckles were just about to meet wood when a quiet voice spoke behind her.

“Wait.”

She turned.

Kratos stood just behind her, still as the trees. His voice was low, steady—but there was weight behind it.

“There’s something else you should know—”

The door opened.

Freya froze.

A girl stood there.

About fifteen. Tall for her age. Strong build. Hazel eyes wide with shock and recognition.

Her curls were the color of frost-dusted wheat, caught back in a loose braid. Her skin warm like summer—like someone raised far from shadows. And yet—

Something about her eyes.

The shape of them. The light behind them.

It struck Freya in the chest before she could brace for it.

“Grandma?” the girl asked.

Then, without waiting, she threw her arms around Freya.

Freya didn’t move. Couldn’t.

It was like being pulled into a memory she didn’t have.

The girl’s arms wrapped tight. Freya felt warmth, weight, heartbeat.

Then she remembered how to breathe.

The girl leaned back, smiling. “He said you might come someday.”

From inside the house, a voice called over the sizzle of something on the stove.

“Groa, who's at the door?”

“Groa.” Freya whispered.

The girl stepped aside, gently tugging Freya’s hand. “Come on. He’s making pancakes.”

She followed, still stunned.

Kratos lingered at the porch, silent. Watching.

Inside, the home smelled like maple and coffee and something almost too normal to be real. A mug steamed on the counter. A dish towel slung over the sink. There were photos pinned to the fridge—some drawings too. A pair of boots by the back door. All lived in.

And then—

Baldur.

He turned, a plate in his hands.

His hair was much shorter than she remembered. His face roughened with time, but still young. Still her boy.

The plate slipped from his hands and shattered across the floor.

“Mom?”

His voice broke halfway through the word.

Freya stared at him.

And she didn’t speak. Not yet.

Because there he stood—alive. Whole. With a daughter that bore the face of someone Freya had only known through whispered suspicion and grief.

Freya’s fingers curled at her sides.

All those years Odin let her believe—

Her vision swam. She hadn’t even felt the tears rising.

Baldur stepped forward, stunned.

“I didn’t know anyone could find us,” he said. His voice cracked. “Only Mimir—”

“I know,” Freya said.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then Baldur crossed the room in three steps and wrapped his arms around her.

She met him halfway, arms clutching him with a kind of desperate, trembling strength she hadn’t realized she still had. His head bowed to her shoulder, and for a moment, they weren’t mother and grown son with years between them—they were just what remained of something almost broken, holding on.

She held him like she’d never let go.

And he let her.

He shook once—silently—and she closed her eyes.

“I thought you were dead,” she whispered.

“I thought I had to be.”

Her fingers gripped the back of his shirt.

Then slowly, finally, they pulled apart—but not far. Just enough to look at each other again. To breathe.

Silence fell again.

Until Groa spoke gently. “Is he with you?”

Freya turned slightly.

Kratos stood in the doorway now, silent.

Baldur looked up—and his expression shifted. Not shock, not anger. Just quiet recognition.

Relief, even.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. But something passed between them anyway. Not guilt. Not resentment. Just the weight of everything they both had carried for fifteen years.

Baldur gave a small nod. “You came too.”

Kratos nodded once. “Of course.”

Groa looked between them, then back at Freya.

“You’re really here.”

Freya knelt, finally—cupped the girl’s face in both hands.

“I am,” she said.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that morning

The smell of cinnamon and coffee filled the house.

Groa sat at the table with her chin in one hand, the other lazily dragging a fork through the last bites of a syrup-drenched pancake. Her curls had been brushed out, braided again. A new bandage peeked from the edge of Freya’s sleeve, but she wasn’t paying it any mind.

She and Groa had been talking quietly—about school, about books. About little things. Safe things. Across from them, Kratos sat silent but present, a plate in front of him untouched.

Baldur was at the stove, flipping another round of pancakes with practiced ease. He looked content, if a little wary. His shoulders relaxed, but not unguarded.

There was a knock at the door.

Groa perked up and was already halfway there when Baldur called after her, “Check before you open it.”

“It’s Beyla,” Groa called back a second later, glancing through the small side window. “She’s early.”

She opened the door and stepped out with a quick “Bye!”

But before she could get far, Baldur gave a small, pointed cough.

Groa paused, rolled her eyes fondly, and turned back.

She ducked in, pressed a kiss to her father’s cheek, and gave him a quick, tight hug.

“Don’t burn the house down while I’m gone,” she muttered with a smirk.

Then she was out the door again.

Beyla—a girl with blue-dyed hair and mismatched earrings—gave a small wave toward the adults as the two girls linked arms and headed down the gravel path.

Baldur waited until the door shut.

Then he exhaled.

“She doesn’t know,” he said, pouring the last of the batter onto the griddle. “Not everything. She knows we left the city. That we had to disappear. She knows about her mother.”

Freya looked at him.

“I told her the truth as best I could,” Baldur added. “She was just a baby. I had to make something out of the silence.”

Freya spoke gently. “You made her safe. That’s more than most would’ve managed.”

He gave a small, bitter smile.

“After Lundr was killed,” he said, turning off the stove, “I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t stay. Couldn’t go to you. Couldn’t even bury her properly. I called Kratos. And Mimir. They helped me vanish.”

Kratos met his eyes. Said nothing—but the memory passed between them like an old wound, quiet and understood.

Freya’s voice softened. “She looks like both of you.”

Her gaze drifted to a nearby wall, where a photo hung in a simple wooden frame—two teenagers caught in a moment of summer light. Baldur, barely eighteen, his arm around a girl with sharp eyes and a crooked smile. Freya’s breath caught.

“So that’s her,” she murmured.

She hadn’t known the face. But now she saw it—in the curve of Groa’s smile. In the tilt of her head. In the quiet fire that lived just beneath her calm.

“I see Lundr every day in her face,” Baldur said. “The way she tilts her head when she’s thinking. The questions she asks when she’s supposed to be asleep.”

He took a seat at the table and rubbed at the back of his neck. “I’ve stayed out of everything since then. For her. But I know if you're both here, something must have happened.”

Kratos finally spoke. “My son was taken by Heimdall.”

Baldur froze.

He looked at Freya.

She nodded slowly. “We came here because Heimdall said he would finish what he started all those years ago. Said he would find and come after you next.”

The name seemed to curdle something inside Baldur. He pushed his plate away.

“So it was him,” he muttered. “Lundr…”

“You knew?” Freya asked.

Baldur’s jaw clenched. “Not for sure. But I always suspected. Heimdall never did anything Father didn’t whisper into his ear first.”

There was a beat of silence.

Freya’s eyes didn’t leave him.

“There’s more,” she said quietly.

Baldur looked up, wary.

Freya leaned forward, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s about Thor.”

His brows knit. “What about him?”

She glanced once toward the window, where the trees swayed beyond the glass.

“Two nights ago,” she said, “Heimdall tried to kill him too.”

Baldur went still.

Freya let the weight of it settle before adding, “And nearly succeeded.”

“I can help,” Baldur said. “If you’re going after the boy tonight, I want in.”

Freya looked at him. “You’ve never even met him.”

“I know,” Baldur said. “But I know what it’s like to grow up in that man’s house. I know what it’s like to lose someone and not be able to do anything about it.”

He turned to Kratos. “If you’ll have me—”

Kratos gave a nod.

Baldur sat back in his chair, jaw tight. His eyes flicked to the door Groa had walked out of not long ago.

“I’ll have to talk to Groa first,” he said. “She’s smart—too smart not to feel something coming. I’ll call Beyla's parents and ask if she can stay there for a few nights.”

He looked at both of them, something steeled behind his gaze.

“But I’m not running again. Not from Father. And certainly not from Heimdall.”

The wind shifted outside, rustling the tall grass beyond the windows. The house felt warmer than before—but the shadow on the edge of it hadn’t moved.

They would ride into that night together.

But not all of them would come back the same.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun had dipped low enough to bleed gold through the slats of the blinds, casting long, lazy stripes across the hardwood floor. A heavy rhythm filled the apartment—the thud of fists meeting canvas. Jo stood shirtless in the corner, wrapped hands striking a worn punching bag suspended from the ceiling beam. His breaths came even. Controlled. Focused.

Skjoldr sat nearby at the kitchen counter, hunched over his laptop. Lines of code flickered across the screen. His coffee had gone cold hours ago.

The knock was loud—three sharp raps, followed by the sound of the door handle turning.

Jo paused, one glove resting against the bag. “You expecting someone?”

Skjoldr looked up just as the door flew open.

Thrud stepped in without waiting to be invited.

“Is Skjoldr here?” she demanded, eyes scanning the room until she found him.

Skjoldr stood, startled. “Thrud? What are you doing here?”

She stormed across the room, jaw set, eyes wide and burning. “Don’t play dumb. I know you already told your brother about us.”

Skjoldr blinked. “I didn’t—wait, what?”

Jo raised an eyebrow, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel. “Us?”

Skjoldr held up his hands. “I swear, I didn’t tell Jo anything. I haven’t even said your name around him.”

Jo crossed his arms, processing fast. “So you’re the one who’s been feeding him intel.”

Thrud glanced at him, annoyed. “Oh, congrats. You figured it out.”

She sighed, “Heimdall said something weird to me today. Said, ‘Your father always did bleed for the wrong things.’ Then smiled. That sneaky little smirk he does when he knows something he’s not supposed to say out loud.”

She was pacing now. “Don’t act confused. You think Heimdall doesn’t notice when I start disappearing for hours? You think he doesn’t report that kind of thing to Odin?”

Skjoldr looked guilty now. “I didn’t want you getting dragged into it. I was trying to protect you.”

“And what if I wanted to know what was happening?" She said. "I haven’t heard from you nor my dad in two days.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off.

“He’s not answering any calls. Not me. Not my mom. Not even my dumb-ass brothers have heard from him. Now what the hell is going on?”

Jo’s towel slipped from his fingers.

His tone softened. “Thrud—he’s okay.”

She froze. Her eyes shot to him.

“What?”

Jo sighed. “He was hurt. Bad. But we took him somewhere safe.”

Skjoldr stepped closer, nodding quickly. “We didn’t tell you because we didn’t know if it was safe to. We didn’t want you tipping your hand around Heimdall.”

“Tipping my hand?” she snapped. “That’s my father.”

Jo didn’t flinch. “He’s ok now. It was close... but it was Heimdall. He tried to kill him.”

Thrud’s breath caught. She looked like someone had punched her in the ribs. “Fucking Heimdall.”

“Yeah,” Jo said. “And he's on the hunt now. For your other uncle."

Skjoldr put a hand on her shoulder. “That’s why we’re being careful. That’s why we didn’t loop you in. Yet.”

Thrud blinked. “Wait. My other uncle?”

Jo nodded. “Baldur.”

She stared at him like she misheard. “Baldur’s dead.”

“No,” Skjoldr said quietly. “That’s what Odin wanted everyone to think.”

Thrud took a step back, jaw slack. “He’s alive?”

Jo exchanged a glance with his brother, then nodded. “And Heimdall knows.”

Thrud’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

Then finally—barely a whisper: “All this time…”

Skjoldr gently squeezed her shoulder. “He’s been hiding.”

Thrud looked between them, stunned.

Her voice wavered now, but she fought to steady it. “So what—you were just gonna try and finish this without letting me know anything?”

Jo met her gaze. “We were trying to protect you.”

She shook her head. “Stop saying that. I’ve had to sit at a table with that snake for years. Listening to the way he talks to my mother. To my brothers. I’ve had to smiled in front of Grandfather while Heimdall stood two feet away.”

She looked between them—eyes bright, jaw locked.

“No more.”

Skjoldr looked at her, uncertain. “Thrud—”

“I want in. For real this time.”

Silence.

She stepped closer.

“I’m done being careful. I’m done being quiet. Done being on the wrong side of this.” Her hands curled into fists. “After what he did to our family, I'm done with all of this fake bullshit.”

The room held still for a beat.

Then Jo nodded once, grim and slow. “Alright.”

Skjoldr didn’t argue.

He just reached for his laptop and quietly closed the lid.

Outside, the last of the sunlight flared against the apartment windows—warm gold turning to red.

And the storm rolled on.