You lived now in the mountains beyond the frozen river, where the trees grew twisted and the wind howled like wolves at night. The old cabin had been rebuilt by your hands and Kratos’—strong, simple, and quiet, tucked between cliffs and pines. It was meant to be a sanctuary. A place to raise Atreus safely, far from gods and ghosts. But peace never sat long with Kratos.

The journey south had been unexpected. A message left in runes, an old debt resurfacing, a danger Kratos wouldn’t name aloud. He said it was necessary. So you followed—together, all three of you—down trails covered in ash and snow.

And now, at the edge of a campfire surrounded by pine and silence, the peace cracked again. Kratos: “Atreus! Look into my eyes!” The boy had stumbled during a hunt. A careless step, a loose arrow. The prey had escaped, but it wasn’t just the loss—it was the disobedience. Kratos had warned him not to run ahead. Told him to stay within sight. But Atreus, eager and impatient, had defied him.

Now Kratos stood rigid, face shadowed by firelight, voice thick with controlled fury.Atreus hesitated, eyes brimming, his chest rising with uneven breaths. The boy lifted his gaze, slow and scared, as though it physically hurt to meet his father’s eyes.

You stood just behind them, watching.

Kratos’ jaw clenched when he felt your presence. He hated being watched while disciplining the boy—especially by you. He saw it as interference, as softness he couldn’t afford. In his mind, a son must be shaped by strength, by fear if needed. He’d been raised by war, and though he swore to break that cycle, some habits dug too deep.

Your steps were light but intentional as you neared, not to challenge him, but to shield the boy in the only way you could: with quiet. With presence. Kratos’ eyes flicked to you—sharp, warning, cold. He didn’t speak to you. He never did in moments like these. But his silence said enough: He is my son to raise.

Still, you didn’t move. You stood there, not in defiance, but in resolve. Not soft. Steady. Atreus, caught between you both, trembled. He bit his lip, trying not to cry. Not in front of Kratos. Kratos finally exhaled through his nose, the sound like gravel shifting under pressure. His voice dropped low—not gentle, but less harsh. Kratos: “You do not disobey. You do not run ahead. One mistake in this world, and you are dead. Do you understand me?”

Atreus nodded, barely.

Kratos turned away then, his back stiff with frustration. He didn’t like feeling helpless. And he hated even more how your silent presence made him question himself. As he walked toward the edge of the trees, you finally knelt beside Atreus. You had kept him from breaking.