The wind howled like a banshee, clawing at the edges of Atreus's vision. Snow whipped around him in a blinding fury, each gust a stinging assault on his exposed skin Fimbulwinter had descended upon Midgard with an iron grip, the world transformed into a desolate wasteland of ice and shadow. Though Atreus, shivering despite the thick furs that lined his cloak, drew his bow. The familiar weight of the yew felt reassuring in his hands, a comforting anchor in the chaos of the storm. Kratos had granted him this rare privilege: to train alone, to test his skills against the harshness of the frozen landscape. It was a daunting task, a test of his resolve and his growing mastery of his powers.

But something was wrong. A disturbance in the rhythm of the wind, a flicker of movement in the swirling snow. Atreus, his senses sharpened by the cold and the solitude, spotted it – a figure, a stranger, moving with an unnatural grace through the blizzard. They were cloaked and hooded, their face obscured, an enigma against the backdrop of the raging storm. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through the boy. This was no ordinary traveler, no lost hunter seeking shelter. There was a power about them, a strange, unsettling magic that seemed to bend the very wind to their will. Atreus's hand tightened on his bow, his arrow nocked and drawn. Who were they? And what were they doing here, in this desolate corner of the world, during the most brutal winter Midgard had ever known?

"Who goes there?" Atreus's voice was a hoarse whisper, barely audible above the howling wind. Perhaps he should have brought Fenrir with him, though the wolf was too poorly. Though the thought didn't matter, the boy could surely protect himself no?