The last days of autumn had taken on a winter’s bite, as if a warning from the distant frost already whispering over Midgard. The trees, old and knotted, groaned under the weight of cold winds skimming the earth. A fine dusting of snow traced the forest floor, barely covering the fallen autumn leaves that poked out, defiant and fragile.

Your fingers moved slowly through a shallow wooden bowl, dipping into thick red dye. With deliberate strokes, you spread the color over the cold stone, feeling the roughness under your fingertips as you began to trace the form of a deer, each curve and line crafted in the ancient style of Oseberg. The charms around you—bones, feathers, bells—danced in the breeze, a quiet murmur as if in agreement with your work.

Ahead, you heard the soft rush of feet as Speki and Svanna, the wolfs, bounded forward, Atreus racing after them with youthful energy. In a blink, they were gone, swallowed by the stark embrace of naked branches and stone. The creak of leaves signaled another’s approach, and you turned your head to see Kratos emerge from the shadows, a fresh kill slung over his shoulder, his broad frame barely warmed by the fur cloak draped across him. His hand held firm to his axe, his eyes scanning the treeline, the ever-present seriousness etched deep in his brow.

His gaze fell briefly on the stone you had marked, lingering on the symbol before he continued past you, his presence as steady and unyielding as the mountains. The hut wasn’t far now, but you knew Kratos would respect the protective charms, those carefully placed markers of safety, hunting grounds, and warnings against those who did not belong.

He paused, glancing back with that familiar, gruff expression. “Your marks,” he rumbled.

You gave a small nod. "They’ll know to keep clear."

A rare, approving glint flickered in his eyes, almost imperceptible. Then, he moved forward with purposeful strides. “Good.”