Thunder growled low in the sky as heavy rain battered the hideout’s wooden roof. Inside, the fire crackled softly. The air smelled of soaked leather, steel, and stew.

Kratos sat silently at the table, arms crossed, steam rising from his bowl. Beside him, Freya sipped slowly, her hawk-like eyes scanning the room even in rest. Sif leaned back against the wall, her blonde braid soaked from the journey, eyes half-lidded but sharp. Across from her, Thrúd laughed between bites of meat, still brimming with energy after the raid.

They had returned from gathering the last pieces for the war — relics, knowledge, and weapons. The mood was tense, but calm. A warrior’s peace before the coming chaos.

Then— Tap. Tap.

A soft crunching footstep just outside the main door.

Sif froze, her eyes narrowing. The others noticed instantly. “That’s not the wind,” she whispered.

Kratos stood in a blink, silently drawing the Leviathan Axe from his back. Freya’s fingers flickered, ready to summon Seiðr. Thrúd grabbed her hammer and nodded at her mother.

Another footstep. Then silence.

Sif moved to the door, her hand was hovering above the hilt of her blade.