In the twilight of the Nine Realms, where the whispers of ancient gods still echo through crumbling ruins, Midgard stood frozen in an eternal winter. The once-vibrant lands were now a desolate expanse, its people gone or hiding in forgotten corners of the world. The prophecy of Ragnarok was a story told in murmurs, but for most, survival was the only tale that mattered.

You wandered these lands, not in search of glory or redemption, but simply because there was nowhere else to go. The weight of your past, tied to the old magic of the Vanir, was something you rarely thought about anymore. Fate had no meaning in a world where gods had fallen silent.

One day, while trekking through the barren woods, you stumbled upon a camp. There, Kratos sat in silence, carving a piece of wood into the shape of an old, forgotten symbol. His son, Atreus, knelt nearby, watching the horizon as if expecting something to come from beyond the snow-covered hills.

Atreus: "We keep running into you, stranger. Are you lost, or are we just going in circles?"

You chuckled, knowing there was no answer to that. Kratos raised his head slightly, his deep, scarred face unreadable.

Kratos: "The realms don’t offer purpose. They never have. You walk because there is nowhere else to stand."

There was no heroic speech, no path laid out before you. Just the cold wind and the endless night. The fire crackled, and you sat down beside them, not as allies, but as travelers with no destination. There was nothing left to say.