CHAPTER 3 — THE WELL OF URD
The journey to the Well of Urd began beneath a sky that had forgotten warmth. Thunder grumbled like old gods arguing in their sleep, and frost clawed through the trees. The Leviathan Axe shimmered faintly on Kratos' back — restless, humming with power it hadn't known in centuries.
Freya walked beside him, cloak drawn tight, her eyes distant.
"You truly mean to face the roots of fate itself," she said. "No one returns unchanged from that place."
Kratos grunted. "I have faced worse."
"Have you?" she countered softly. "You faced war, loss, gods. But never yourself."
Kratos said nothing. The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the ghosts of words unsaid. Mimir's head, dangling from Kratos' belt, tried to break the gloom.
"Ye ken, lass, I think our friend here's run out o' self to face. He's a hammer now — just swingin' at whatever stands between him and peace."
Kratos muttered, "Peace does not swing."
Freya almost smiled. "No, Kratos. But you do."
The trail narrowed as they reached the River of Mirrors, a black current reflecting not the sky — but memory. Every ripple carried faces: those Kratos had slain, those he'd failed to save. The river whispered in every voice he ever silenced.
"Coward."
"Murderer."
"Father."
He knelt by the water, staring at the reflection that shifted between man and monster.
"The past still hunts me," he murmured.
Freya crouched beside him. "Only because you keep feeding it."
Then the ground shook. The river flashed white, and a shape rose from its depths — towering, armored, dripping shadow. Its face was a blur, but its voice… was Kratos'.
"You should have stayed dead."
The mirror double lunged forward, chains forming from its arms — glowing red, the mark of his Spartan Rage.
Kratos dodged aside as the phantom's blades struck, cutting frost and fire together. The clash echoed across the valley. Mimir shouted:
"By the Nine! It's you, brother! Your rage given form!"
Freya unleashed a volley of runic arrows, but they passed through the phantom harmlessly. It turned its gaze on her — and smiled with Kratos' mouth.
"She will die as they all did."
Kratos' roar cut through the storm. He slammed into the phantom, grappling it with raw fury. They crashed through the trees, striking with mirrored precision. Axe met chain, frost met flame — a god against himself.
"You are nothing without war!" the phantom bellowed.
"You were born from blood!"
Kratos' voice thundered back, deeper, colder.
"Then I will make blood my last act!"
With a swing born of sheer defiance, he cleaved the phantom's chest. The reflection cracked like glass, light spilling through it — then it shattered, scattering into the river like dying stars.
Freya approached carefully. "You fought your shadow… and won."
Kratos breathed hard. "No. I silenced it. Shadows always return."
Mimir hummed quietly. "Then mayhap, lad, it's time ye learned to speak with 'em instead o' breaking 'em."
Kratos said nothing, but his hand trembled slightly before tightening again around the axe.
By nightfall, they reached the edge of the World Tree's deepest roots — the entrance to the Well of Urd.
It was no simple pool. The Well was alive — an endless vortex of silver light swirling in silence, fed by veins of glowing roots that pulsed like the veins of a god. Runes drifted above its surface, whispering prophecies that rewrote themselves with every breath.
Freya bowed her head.
"The Norns once wove destiny here. But when Ragnarok broke the Loom, the Well began to write its own fate."
Mimir muttered uneasily.
"Aye, and it's said if ye gaze too long into the Well, it starts writin' you into its story. Best to keep blinkin', brother."
Kratos stepped forward. "We seek the Keeper."
The Well responded — the light flickered, forming vague figures of the three Norns: Urd, Verdandi, and Skuld. But their faces were blurred, empty. Their voices came as echoes of wind and water.
"You seek what should not be sought."
"The Keeper restores what you destroyed."
"Fate has no patience for ghosts."
Freya whispered, "They're fragments. The Well remembers them but not their form."
Kratos raised his head.
"Then the Well remembers me too."
"It remembers everything," the voices replied in unison.
The surface rippled, and suddenly the world around them shifted — not physically, but through memory. They stood on a battlefield of ash and bone, where gods screamed and worlds burned. The past come alive.
Kratos looked around, eyes narrowing.
"Sparta," he muttered.
Freya gasped as the landscape twisted again — now Asgard, torn apart by lightning and fire. In every image, Kratos stood at the center, weapon raised.
"This is what the Well knows of you," the voices said. "A cycle. Endless. A god born to kill gods."
Kratos gritted his teeth. "I ended the cycle."
"No. You paused it."
The Well blazed, and from within the light emerged a shape cloaked in gold and black. Its form was humanoid but vast, face hidden by a mask of shifting runes. Its voice was calm, melodic, and merciless.
"I am the Keeper of Threads. You tore my Loom apart when you defied the prophecy. I am here to mend it… with you."
Freya raised her bow. "You cannot bind him again!"
The Keeper lifted a hand, and her arrows froze midair, turning to dust.
"Mortals should not speak in the language of fate."
Then it turned to Kratos.
"You were the blade that cut destiny's cord. Now you will be its thread."
Kratos drew the Leviathan Axe. "You will try."
The Keeper's cloak flared like a storm of gold. Runes whirled, slamming into Kratos like invisible chains. He fell to one knee as visions exploded through his mind — every death he'd ever caused, every scream, every failure. His axe flickered, its power dimming.
"You are not meant to end stories," the Keeper whispered. "You are meant to preserve them… as part of me."
Freya shouted a spell, summoning a barrier of runes. "Kratos, fight it! It feeds on your guilt!"
Kratos roared, forcing himself to his feet. "Then let it starve!"
He hurled the axe, cleaving through the chains. The Well erupted in blinding light. For a heartbeat, he saw Atreus standing in the radiance — older, distant, reaching toward him.
"Father… let it go."
Kratos hesitated — and the Keeper struck.
A chain of gold wrapped around his arm, burning through flesh and bone. Kratos howled in pain, pulling back with all his strength. The Well screamed with him — its surface boiling.
Freya ran forward, chanting, and Mimir bellowed:
"Strike the root, brother! Where it binds!"
Kratos drove the axe deep into the earth, hitting the glowing root beneath. A thunderous crack echoed across the realms. The Well flickered, the Keeper's form shattering like shattered prophecy.
The light vanished. The silence that followed was absolute.
When the world settled, the Well was still — but its water had turned black.
Freya looked around. "What have we done?"
Mimir sighed, voice low. "Ye broke fate's heart, lass. Again."
Kratos knelt by the edge, his arm still glowing faintly from the golden chain's burn. He whispered, almost to himself,
"If fate cannot be broken, then it will learn to fear me."
Freya touched his shoulder. "You've wounded something ancient, Kratos. It will not rest."
He stood, eyes fixed on the darkened Well. "Neither will I."
Thunder rolled above them, not from the storm — but from something vast awakening deep within the roots of the world.
Mimir spoke softly, voice edged with dread.
"The Keeper's gone, aye… but the Loom stirs again. It's rebuildin' itself — and this time, brother, it might be writin' a war that none of us can unmake."
Kratos' face hardened.
"Then it will meet me there."
He turned north, toward the unseen realms beyond Yggdrasil. His axe shimmered with the last dying light of the Well, blue fire tracing its edge.
Behind him, the water rippled once — and a single thread of gold rose to the surface,."