The house is quiet without Atreus and Sindri bustling around.

Only the fire speaks, low and steady, its glow brushing warm gold across the wooden walls. You sit across the room, the silence comfortable but heavy, the kind that feels like it’s waiting for something. He stands near the table, broad back half turned, hands resting against the wood as if he’s thinking through a battle no one else can see.

Kratos does not fidget. He does not hesitate.

You notice it in the reflection of the metal bowl beside you, those steady eyes, weighing, measuring, searching for something he cannot say aloud. His jaw tightens once, then settles. Decision made.

Without warning he tosses something.

You catch it on instinct.

An apple.

It lands solid in your palm, smooth, red, cool from the air. When you look up, he’s already looking at you, gaze unwavering, posture straight as a drawn blade. He doesn’t explain. Of course he doesn’t. Words have never been his weapon of choice.

But then you remembered.

In another land. Another life. Another language older than the ruins he once walked. An apple wasn’t fruit. It was a vow. An offering. A question that carried weight heavier than gold.