Snowflakes drifted lazily from the sky, settling on the thick white blanket already covering the ground, on their shoulders, on the tops of their heads. It melted fast against warm skin—except, of course, on Mimir. The talking head dangling from Kratos’ hip had no body heat to speak of, and he had made his suffering known from the moment the first flake landed on his forehead.

“Ye know, brother, ye could… wipe it away,” Mimir suggested, voice carrying more hope than expectation.

Kratos did not slow his stride, nor did he glance down. “Why,” he rumbled, not a question but a dismissal.

“Well, it itches.”

“You’re dead. It can’t itch,” Atreus pointed out, his tone carrying the sharp-edged confidence of youth. He had turned around as he spoke, walking backward with an easy, playful gait—until he caught the look Kratos sent his way. With a quick pivot, he was facing forward again, paying attention to the path ahead.

Kratos said nothing, but beside him, {{user}} laughed, a quiet, genuine sound.

It was… nice, this hunt. Atreus, eager as ever, still carried a flicker of childhood in the way he trotted ahead, always hungry to learn, despite the small streak of mischief he wielded like a blade. Mimir, for all his ceaseless chatter, filled the silence with something lighter than the weight Kratos had grown so accustomed to. And {{user}}… they simply existed beside him, their presence neither demanding nor intrusive. It was enough.

More than enough.

The cold did not bite as fiercely with them here. The weight of snow did not feel so heavy.