CHAPTER 2 — WHISPERS FROM HELHEIM
Snow whispered like secrets across the broken plain. The forests of Midgard had grown silent again, yet the world itself felt uneasy — like the very roots of Yggdrasil trembled beneath the surface. Kratos walked at the front, his axe resting against his shoulder, frost glinting in his beard. Freya followed behind, bow drawn, her eyes scanning every shadow.
"Helheim is stirring," she murmured.
"I can feel it in the winds. The dead are not at rest."
Mimir's voice broke through the heavy air, his tone both cautious and curious.
"Aye, I've heard the whispers meself. Spirits crossing the Veil without the Lady Hel's leave — that's no small matter, brother."
Kratos grunted. "Then we go to her."
Freya frowned. "Hel will not welcome you. Not after what you did to her father."
"Few welcome me," Kratos replied. "Yet they still fall."
Freya said nothing. The path ahead split the snow like a scar, winding into the gray mist where no birds flew. As they advanced, the light dimmed — and the world seemed to tilt. Frost thickened, forming twisted faces in the ice, each one frozen mid-scream. Kratos' eyes narrowed. The air was colder here — death clung to it.
Then the first whisper came.
Soft. Fragile. Like breath upon the ear.
"Father…"
He froze. His pulse thundered.
"Atreus?"
Freya turned sharply, but saw nothing. The voice was gone — replaced by silence.
Kratos looked to Mimir, whose carved brow furrowed deeply.
"Lad… that voice was no living thing. That was Helheim's echo. They speak with memories to lure the heart."
Kratos' jaw tightened. "Then Helheim remembers me well."
Hours passed as they descended into the frost-clad ravine that led toward the Veil — the border between Midgard and Helheim. There, a crimson glow cut through the snowstorm like a wound. Freya stopped.
"The passage is open," she said softly. "It shouldn't be."
Kratos stepped forward. His boots cracked the ice, revealing beneath it a reflection not of himself — but of another man. Pale skin, red tattoos, and eyes filled with rage. The Kratos he once was.
The reflection smirked.
"You can't build peace on bones, Ghost of Sparta."
He struck the ice with his fist — the vision shattered.
Freya flinched. "Kratos—"
"Memories," he muttered. "Nothing more."
But he was wrong. The ice had begun to bleed.
They entered the Veil.
The air turned greenish-black, swirling like smoke. The sound of chains rattled far below. The dead whispered in the dark — countless voices murmuring his name.
"Kratos… destroyer… murderer…"
Freya's face hardened as she raised her hand, weaving runes of light to keep the spirits at bay.
"Their pain is endless," she said. "They feed on your guilt."
Kratos said nothing. He pressed forward until the path opened into a valley of ice and bone — Helheim, the realm of the restless dead. The sky hung low and green, like a poisoned flame. In the distance rose the Iron Keep, where Hel, daughter of Loki, ruled the damned.
Mimir's tone turned grim.
"Hel herself may not forgive what we've done, brother. Ye freed her father's bane and broke the balance of realms. She'll not forget that easily."
Kratos tightened his grip on the axe. "I do not come for forgiveness."
The gates of Helheim stood before them — titanic, bound in runes that flickered like dying stars. As Kratos approached, they swung open on their own. No guards. No warning. Only a voice, drifting like mist through his mind:
"You return again, Ghost of Sparta. You never stay buried, do you?"
Hel's voice was cold, smooth, ancient. She appeared atop the frozen steps — half of her face alive and beautiful, the other half rotted and skeletal. Her eyes gleamed with terrible knowing.
"Last time you came here, you sought escape. Now you bring the scent of fate undone."
Kratos met her gaze without flinching. "Something walks your realm that should not."
Hel smiled — or what passed for a smile.
"And you think I do not feel it? The Keeper of Threads. A remnant of the Loom itself. You shattered the prophecy, and now the remnants rebuild it. Piece by piece."
Freya stepped forward. "We saw it — it marked Kratos with a rune."
Hel's eyes drifted to his hand. The faint blue glow still pulsed beneath the skin. She reached out, but Kratos pulled back, his tone a growl.
"Enough."
"It has chosen you," she whispered. "The cycle cannot end until you return what you've stolen."
Kratos frowned. "And what is that?"
Hel tilted her head. "Peace. The realm remembers your chaos. The dead whisper your name because your soul still burns with it. You cannot silence war. You can only bury it… until it wakes again."
Her skeletal hand gestured toward the shadows behind her. "Look."
From the darkness emerged shades of gods long dead — Ares, Athena, Zeus, and Odin — their bodies made of frost and smoke, their eyes empty yet burning with memory. They circled him slowly, silent phantoms of his past.
Freya raised her bow, but Hel's voice thundered.
"They are not yours to fight, witch of Vanaheim. They are his burden."
The phantoms closed in, whispering his name like a curse.
"Kratos… Kratos…"
He felt their touch — cold, accusing. His vision blurred. For a heartbeat, he was back in Athens, surrounded by flames. Then in Sparta, drenched in blood. Then before Zeus, blade in hand.
"You cannot change what you are," Athena's ghost hissed.
"Even gods cannot kill their nature."
Kratos roared, slamming the Leviathan Axe into the ground. Ice shattered outward in a blinding wave, blowing the spirits apart. The ground shook.
When the light faded, only Hel remained — her expression unreadable.
"You see? Even in peace, your first act is destruction."
He stepped closer. "Tell me how to stop this Keeper."
Hel's voice softened, but her eyes glowed with power.
"You cannot stop it. You can only confront it in the place where fate was first written — the Root of the Loom, beneath the Nine Realms."
Mimir gasped. "By the gods… ye mean the Well of Urd?"
Hel nodded. "Go there, Ghost of Sparta. Face what you broke. But beware — the threads will twist against you. And if you fall there, you will not die. You will unravel."
Kratos turned, his expression carved from stone.
"Then I will tear fate from its roots once more."
Hel's laughter followed them as they left her hall — a sound like ice cracking on a grave.
"You cannot escape what you are, Kratos. The dead will remind you. Always."
Outside Helheim's gates, the storm had worsened. Freya looked at him, her eyes shadowed with doubt.
"The Well of Urd… it's the birthplace of every prophecy. Even the Norns feared it."
Kratos tightened the straps of his armor. "Then it is where we go."
Mimir sighed. "Aye. To tear fate apart again. Ye never do learn, do ye?"
Kratos didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on the northern horizon, where lightning tore the sky open — shaped like the rune burned into his hand.
The voice of Atreus echoed faintly in his mind once more:
"Father… the roots remember everything."
He closed his fist, the rune blazing blue.
The storm swallowed his silhouette as he began to walk — slow, steady, relentless — toward the realm where gods themselves feared to tread.
The dead whispered after him, their voices blending into one:
"The Ghost walks again… and fate trembles."