CHAPTER 4 — THE GOLDEN THREAD
(Part I)
The wind had turned sharp as blades by the time Kratos and Freya left the ruins of the Well. Snow whipped across the mountains, erasing their footprints almost as soon as they formed. Yet the scar on Kratos' arm — that burning, golden brand — refused to fade.
Each time he flexed his hand, faint light pulsed beneath his skin, whispering in a language older than runes.
Mimir's voice broke the silence.
"Ye ken, brother, that burn's not just a wound. It's an anchor — somethin' tryin' to tether ye back to the Loom itself."
Kratos kept walking, his eyes fixed on the storm ahead.
"Then I will sever it."
Freya shook her head. "It's not so simple. Threads are not chains, Kratos. You cannot cut what was meant to weave."
He stopped, turning to her. "Everything can be cut."
His tone was flat, but there was an undercurrent of pain in it — the kind that comes from knowing you've already lost too much.
The path led them through a forest of petrified trees. Lightning had frozen them mid-bloom, their blackened branches clawing upward like skeletal hands. Strange golden filaments now wound through the wood — glowing softly, humming like a heartbeat.
Freya approached one carefully.
"These threads… they're growing. The Keeper's magic is spreading."
Mimir groaned. "Aye, and it's warpin' the realms along with it. If these things reach Yggdrasil's core—"
"They won't," Kratos said.
He gripped the Leviathan Axe and swung. The blade bit deep, slicing through the glowing thread. The forest shook. The light died.
For a moment, it seemed done. But then — the sound.
A low hum, almost alive, rising from beneath the snow. The cut thread writhed and fused again, the ends seeking each other like serpents. When they touched, the light flared blindingly, and something began to take form from the mist — a figure woven entirely from golden strands.
Freya's breath caught. "By the gods…"
The figure raised its head. No face — just endless lines of shimmering light. But its voice was unmistakable.
"You broke the Loom, Kratos. Now the Loom will remake you."
It lunged forward, the threads unraveling into whips that lashed the air. Kratos caught one on his axe, frost clashing against radiant gold. The impact cracked the ground open.
Freya unleashed a rune ward, shouting, "Hold it back! If the thread touches the root—!"
But it was too late. The creature's limbs pierced the earth, and the golden light spread like wildfire, veins of fate crawling across the ground.
Kratos roared, slammed his axe down, and unleashed an ice shockwave. The forest shattered into shards of frost. The thread-creature screamed — not in pain, but in triumph.
"You cannot kill what is already written!"
Kratos bared his teeth. "Then I will rewrite it."
He ripped the chain of his Blades of Chaos from his arm, igniting them in fury. Flame met gold, chaos met fate — and the two forces exploded.
When the dust settled, only silence remained.
Freya lowered her bow slowly. "Did we destroy it?"
Kratos looked around. The golden threads had vanished — yet his arm burned hotter.
"No," he said. "It moved."
(Part II)
Night fell fast. They found refuge in a cave overlooking the northern fjords. Outside, auroras burned violet and gold — the colors of prophecy twisting in the sky.
Freya built a small fire, though neither of them needed its warmth. The silence stretched long, broken only by the distant rumble of thunder.
"You saw Atreus in the Well," she said finally.
Kratos looked up slowly. "A vision."
"Or a warning."
He said nothing, staring into the fire. The flames reflected in his eyes like fragments of forgotten wars.
Freya leaned closer. "Whatever that thread is, it's trying to bind your soul. The Keeper may be gone, but its purpose remains."
"Let it try."
Mimir sighed. "Brother, ye can't fight the whole fabric o' destiny with brute strength. Even you can't punch reality into submission forever."
Kratos grunted. "Then reality will learn to bleed."
Freya frowned, her voice softening. "You can't keep fighting everything, Kratos. The world isn't made to bend to your will."
He turned toward her, eyes burning faintly red.
"The world has bent me enough."
A long silence followed. Then, deep in the cave, something stirred.
A sound — faint, almost like silk sliding over stone.
Kratos was already on his feet before the echo faded. He lifted the axe. Freya raised her hand, ready to summon vines.
From the shadows stepped a woman — tall, hooded in black, her face hidden behind a veil of gold. Her presence dimmed the firelight itself.
Mimir whispered, horrified,
"By the roots of Yggdrasil… that's no mortal spirit."
The woman spoke — her voice a whisper and a scream at once.
"Kratos of Sparta. God of War. Thread of Ruin."
Freya's magic flared. "Who are you?"
The woman tilted her head. "I am the Weft. The second will of the Loom. Where the Keeper mends… I collect."
She extended a hand, and a golden thread unwound from her sleeve, floating toward Kratos.
"One thread frays the weave. I am here to reclaim it."
Kratos swung the axe. The thread deflected the blow as if it anticipated it — wrapping around the blade, the handle, then his arm. He strained, muscles bulging, as the golden light crept up his shoulder.
"You cannot fight what is inevitable," the Weft hissed. "You were meant to end. Even your peace was written."
Kratos snarled, dragging the chain of the Blades of Chaos from his back and wrapping it around his bound arm.
"Then I will rewrite my ending!"
He yanked hard, flame bursting through the golden thread. The Weft screamed as the cave shook. The auroras outside flared brighter, as if reacting to their clash.
Freya chanted, her runes blazing. The walls trembled.
"Kratos, break the thread now!"
He swung both blades in a violent cross, cleaving through the light. The golden cord snapped — and for an instant, time itself froze.
Then came silence. The Weft staggered, her veil burning away to reveal a hollow face — made entirely of threads. No flesh. No bone.
She whispered,
"If you cut me… another will rise. The Loom… always weaves again."
Kratos stepped forward, voice cold as iron.
"Then I will burn the Loom."
The Weft's form disintegrated into golden ash, vanishing into the wind.
(Part III)
The battle left the cave trembling. Snow drifted through the cracks in the stone as dawn approached.
Freya leaned against the wall, breathing hard. "You realize what you've done, don't you?"
Kratos turned, his expression unreadable. "I destroyed what sought to bind me."
"No. You declared war on fate itself. Again."
Mimir's tone was grim.
"Aye, lass. And this time, it's not one god's prophecy he's defyin' — it's the whole bloody fabric o' creation."
Kratos looked out through the cave's mouth at the sunrise — the sky now streaked not with gold, but deep crimson.
"So be it."
Freya approached him. "And what of Atreus? If fate unravels, so too will the boy's path. You could doom him."
He hesitated. Just for a heartbeat.
"If his path was woven by another, then it was never his to walk."
The golden burn on his arm pulsed once, then dimmed, as if retreating. But beneath the skin, something glimmered — alive, waiting.
Freya placed a hand on his shoulder.
"The Loom will come for you again, Kratos. And when it does, it will not send another servant. It will send itself."
Kratos gripped the axe tighter. "Let it."
The firelight caught his eyes — the faintest trace of rage and something deeper: defiance that bordered on divine.
Outside, the wind shifted. Snow began to fall sideways, moving not by nature's will but by an unseen pull.
Mimir's voice was low.
"Brother… the realms are stirrin'. I think the Loom's already awakenin'. Threads are appearin' across Yggdrasil's branches — connectin' life, death, time. All of it."
Freya whispered, "The tapestry is being rewritten."
Kratos stepped forward into the light. "Then we find the heart of it."
Mimir gulped audibly. "The heart? Ye mean—"
"The Loom itself," Kratos said. "And I will end it before it ends us."
Freya's eyes widened. "You mean to destroy fate itself?"
He looked over his shoulder, the frost mist curling from his breath.
"No. I mean to make it bleed."
The wind roared, and the golden threads in the sky flared one last time before vanishing into the clouds — like veins retreating into the body of something vast and unseen.
Kratos turned north once more. Behind him, the ashes of the Weft swirled in the cold air, whispering in the voice of the unseen Loom:
"All threads return to the weave… even gods."