GOD OF WAR

THE WITCH'S COUNSEL

They walked for hours through the frozen forest, putting distance between themselves and the ruined village. Neither spoke. There was too much to process, too many questions without answers.

Kratos's body ached in ways it hadn't for years. The cold from Vetrblod's grip had sunk deep, settling into his bones like poison. Every breath hurt. Every step required concentration. But he didn't slow down, didn't show weakness. Atreus needed to see strength right now, not doubt.

The boy walked beside him, bow ready, eyes constantly scanning the treeline. He'd been quiet since they left—too quiet. Kratos recognized that silence. He'd worn it himself many times, in the years after Lysandra and Calliope. The silence of someone trying to make sense of horror.

"We need information," Kratos finally said, breaking the oppressive quiet. "Someone who understands what we're facing."

"You mean Freya," Atreus said.

"Yes."

"She's not going to be happy to see us."

"She doesn't have to be happy. She just has to help."

Atreus kicked at the snow, frustration evident in the gesture. "What if she won't? What if she's still angry about... about Baldur?"

Kratos stopped walking. The name hung in the air between them like smoke—Baldur, Freya's son, the god Kratos had killed to protect his own child. The act that had shattered whatever fragile alliance they'd built.

"Then I'll convince her," Kratos said simply.

"How?"

"By reminding her that if Vetrblod spreads, everyone dies. Including her."

It was cold logic, practical and ruthless. But it was all they had. Freya was the only one who might know about something as ancient as Vetrblod. She'd walked the realms for centuries, learned secrets even the Aesir had forgotten. If anyone could tell them how to kill the Winter Blood permanently, it would be her.

They changed direction, heading southwest toward the river where Freya's sanctuary lay hidden. The forest gradually thinned as they walked, the oppressive feeling of being watched finally fading. Whatever influence Vetrblod had over these woods, it didn't extend this far.

Yet.

"Father," Atreus said as they crossed a frozen stream. "What Vetrblod said, about me... about what I am—"

"We're not discussing this now."

"When then? When it's too late? When I—" Atreus's voice cracked. "When I turn into whatever he thinks I'm going to become?"

Kratos turned to face him. The boy looked small suddenly, despite having grown half a foot in the past year. Small and scared and trying desperately not to show it.

"You are my son," Kratos said, each word deliberate. "That is what you are. Whatever else—god, giant, something between—it doesn't change that truth. Do you understand?"

Atreus nodded, but doubt still clouded his eyes.

"I've seen prophecies before," Kratos continued. "Heard oracles speak of destiny and fate. They're always trying to trap you, make you believe you have no choice. But you do. You always do."

"What if the choice is wrong? What if I choose wrong and people die because of it?"

"Then you learn. You live with it. You become better." Kratos put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "That's all any of us can do."

The words felt inadequate even as he spoke them. He'd made so many wrong choices, paid for them in blood and ash and the screams of innocents. What right did he have to offer wisdom?

But Atreus seemed to draw strength from them anyway, standing a little straighter, fear retreating behind determination.

"Come on," Kratos said. "We're losing daylight."

They reached Freya's sanctuary as the sun began its descent toward the horizon. The place looked the same as always—an island of life in the midst of winter, protected by magic older than the Norse gods. Green grass grew here despite the snow. Trees bore leaves. Flowers bloomed in defiance of the season.

And standing at the shore, as if she'd been expecting them, was Freya.

She looked different than the last time Kratos had seen her. Harder. The softness that had once defined her features had been replaced by something sharper, colder. Her eyes—once warm amber—now held the flat, predatory gleam of a hawk sizing up prey.

"Kratos," she said, voice empty of inflection. "I wondered when you'd come crawling back."

"We need your help," Kratos said bluntly. No point in pretense.

"My help." Freya laughed, a bitter sound. "You kill my son, doom me to this prison, and now you need my help. The audacity would be impressive if it wasn't so pathetic."

"Freya, please—" Atreus started.

"Don't." She held up a hand. "Don't you dare 'please' me, boy. You helped him. You stood by and let it happen."

"I was protecting my father!"

"And he was protecting you. That's what parents do. We sacrifice everything, endure anything, for our children." Her voice broke on the last word. "Even when those children are destined to kill us."

Silence fell, heavy and uncomfortable. Kratos could feel Atreus's guilt radiating off him in waves. The boy had been dealing with the weight of Baldur's death for months now, carrying it like a stone around his neck.

"If you're done," Kratos said, "we have something more immediate to discuss."

Freya's eyes snapped to him, cold and furious. "More immediate than murder?"

"Yes." Kratos met her glare without flinching. "Something is rising in the north. Ancient. Powerful. It's consuming villages, corrupting the dead, spreading like a plague. If it's not stopped, everyone in Midgard will die. Including you."

"Let them," Freya said. "Let it all burn. Or freeze, in this case. What do I care? I'm trapped here anyway, cursed to watch the world rot while I remain unchanging. At least if everything dies, I'll have company."

"You don't mean that," Atreus said quietly.

"Don't I?" But something in her expression wavered. "Tell me about this threat."

Kratos described the village, the creatures, the well and the chamber beneath. He told her about Vetrblod—his appearance, his words, the impossible cold that had nearly killed them both. Atreus added details about the runes on the corrupted villagers, the way the frost spread, the bodies frozen in the walls for centuries.

As they spoke, Freya's expression changed. The anger didn't fade, but something else emerged beneath it. Recognition. And beneath that, fear.

"Vetrblod," she whispered when they finished. "Gods, I'd hoped the stories were just myths."

"You know him?" Kratos asked.

"Know of him. Before the Aesir came to these lands, before even the first humans settled here, there was a time called the Long Dark. A period when winter lasted for generations, when the sun barely rose, when the cold claimed everything it touched." Freya moved to a nearby tree, touching its bark as if drawing strength from it. "The stories say something lived in that cold. Fed on it. Grew powerful from the death and suffering it caused. They called it many names—Vetrblod, the Frost Eater, the Winter That Walks. Eventually, the first gods managed to bind it, seal it away in the deep places where even starlight couldn't reach."

"But seals can break," Atreus said.

"Or be broken." Freya turned to face them. "What did you do, Kratos? What did you destroy to wake something like this?"

"I've destroyed many things."

"Don't play games with me. Vetrblod wouldn't just wake randomly. Something had to trigger it. Something had to—" She stopped, eyes widening. "Baldur."

"What?"

"When Baldur died, when you killed him, the spell Odin placed on him shattered. His invulnerability, his inability to feel—it was tied to ancient magic, the kind that requires sacrifice to maintain. When it broke..." Freya's face went pale. "It would have sent ripples through every binding in the Nine Realms. Weakened them. Maybe even destroyed some."

Kratos felt something cold settle in his stomach. Not guilt—he'd make the same choice again in a heartbeat—but recognition. Another consequence. Another price paid in blood he hadn't intended to spill.

"So I did this," he said flatly.

"You contributed. But the bindings were already old, already failing. Odin's attention has been... elsewhere lately. Distracted. If it wasn't Baldur's death, it would have been something else eventually." Freya wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly looking tired. "Doesn't change the fact that it's awake now. And it's going to keep spreading until it reclaims everything it lost during the Long Dark."

"How do we kill it?" Atreus asked.

"You don't. You can't. Vetrblod isn't alive in any meaningful sense. It's a force of nature given will and hunger. Trying to kill it would be like trying to kill winter itself."

"There has to be a way," Kratos insisted.

Freya studied him for a long moment, something calculating entering her expression. "Maybe. The old stories mention a weapon. Something forged during the Long Dark specifically to combat Vetrblod. They called it Sólbrand—the Sun Brand. A sword that burned with captured sunlight, hot enough to melt even the deepest winter."

"Where is it?"

"Lost. Hidden. Destroyed, for all I know. The stories disagree." She smiled without humor. "But there might be someone who knows. Someone who was there during the Long Dark."

"Who?"

"Mimir would know. He's old enough, knowledgeable enough. If anyone would have information about Sólbrand's location, it would be him." Freya's smile turned vicious. "Oh, but wait—Mimir's head is currently decorating Odin's trophy room in Asgard. Bit of a problem, that."

Kratos's jaw tightened. He'd heard the name before—Mimir, the smartest man alive, imprisoned by Odin for reasons no one quite understood. Getting to Asgard would be nearly impossible. Getting back out alive even more so.

"There's another option," Freya said, watching him process this. "The bindings that hold Vetrblod—they might be damaged, but they still exist. If you could find them, reinforce them, you might be able to trap it again. Push it back down into the deep places where it belongs."

"For how long?"

"Long enough for it to become someone else's problem. Assuming you survive the process, which is unlikely."

"Where are these bindings?"

Freya gestured vaguely north. "Scattered across the frozen wastes. The places where reality is thin, where the borders between worlds grow weak. Places no one goes anymore because everyone who tries dies screaming." She met his eyes. "But you're used to that, aren't you? Used to walking into certain death and somehow walking back out."

"I am."

"Then you're a fool. Both of you." But there was something in her voice now—not quite concern, but not complete indifference either. "The bindings are protected. Guarded by things that make Vetrblod's puppets look friendly. And even if you reach them, reinforcing them would require a sacrifice. Blood and life, freely given. Old magic always demands a price."

"I'll pay it," Kratos said immediately.

"Will you? What if the price is your son?"

The question hung in the air like a blade. Atreus went very still beside him.

"Then we find another way," Kratos said.

Freya laughed, sharp and cutting. "There is no other way. There's never another way. That's what being a parent means—impossible choices and prices too high to pay but paying them anyway." She turned away, shoulders tight. "Go. Chase your bindings or your sword or whatever fool's errand you think will save you. I've told you what I know. I've paid my debt of information. Now leave me alone with my grief."

"Freya—" Atreus tried again.

"Leave," she said, voice breaking. "Please. Just... leave."

They did, because there was nothing else to say. As they walked away from the sanctuary, Kratos could feel her eyes on their backs—watching, judging, perhaps even hoping they'd succeed despite everything.

Or perhaps hoping they'd fail. It was impossible to tell.

"What do we do?" Atreus asked once they were back in the frozen forest.

Kratos considered their options. Asgard was suicide. The bindings might work but required a sacrifice he wouldn't make. Which left—

"We find Sólbrand," he decided. "If it exists, we find it. If it doesn't, we make something that does."

"And if we can't?"

Then they'd die trying. But Kratos didn't say that. Instead, he put a hand on his son's shoulder and started walking north, toward the frozen wastes, toward the places where reality grew thin.

Toward answers, or death, or perhaps both.

Behind them, hidden in her eternal sanctuary, Freya watched them go. And for just a moment—so brief it might have been imagination—her expression softened.

"Fools," she whispered to the empty air. "Brave, stupid fools."

Then she turned away, and the moment passed, and she was alone again with her rage and her grief and the ghost of a son who'd wanted nothing more than to feel something, anything, before he died.

The wind picked up, carrying snow and the distant echo of children's laughter.

Winter was coming.

And this time, it had teeth.