Chapter 25 – The Veil of Endless Night
The remnants of the shadowed phantoms lay scattered across the frozen ground, dissolving into mist that rose like smoke and vanished into the jagged sky. Kratos stood, chest heaving, the Leviathan axe resting against his shoulder. Helheim's wind howled around them, carrying with it an eerie echo of the figure's final words: "The Nine remember… and they demand their due." The weight of that statement pressed down like a stone in his chest, a reminder that the realm itself was alive with vengeance and malice.
Atreus shifted beside him, shivering—not entirely from the cold, though the frozen air gnawed at his skin—but from the lingering touch of fear, a cold tendril coiling around his spine. His small hands flexed around the bow, knuckles white. "Father… who was that?" he asked, voice barely above the wind.
Kratos' eyes scanned the horizon, narrowing against the dim gray light. "Something older than even the gods we have faced," he said. His tone was measured, but a tension lingered beneath it. "The Nine… they are not just realms, Atreus. They are wills… powers… things that do not forget."
The boy swallowed hard, glancing at the distant mountains where shadows pooled like spilled ink. "Do they… watch us now?"
Kratos' jaw tightened. "Always. That is why we move. That is why we survive. Fear is not our enemy—it is our guide, if we wield it right." He turned, motioning toward the narrow path that wound down the mountainside. The runes carved into the stones beneath their feet pulsed faintly, still alive, faintly guiding them—or warning them—through the treacherous terrain.
The descent was slow. Every step crunched through frost, every gust of wind carrying whispers of the past: screams, laughter, curses. Kratos moved first, shielded by years of vigilance, axe ready. Atreus followed, eyes darting, sensing more than seeing. The shadows clung to the cliffs like dark veins, twitching and writhing at the edges of their perception.
Hours passed in silence, broken only by the distant crash of ice against rock. As the sun—or what little light Helheim allowed—began to dip below the horizon, a fog rolled in, thick and suffocating. It crept along the ground like liquid smoke, curling around their ankles and rising toward their knees. Visibility shrank to a few feet. The faint pulsing of the runes beneath their boots became their only compass.
And then… a sound.
A low, grinding hum vibrated through the air, so subtle that it almost seemed imagined. Atreus froze, his bow raised instinctively. "Father… do you hear that?"
Kratos' hand went to the axe. "I hear it," he muttered. "And it is not friendly."
The fog thickened suddenly, and from its heart, shadows began to rise—this time not phantoms of the fallen, but shapes taller, broader, darker. They moved like living smoke, shifting, morphing, almost sentient. Their eyes—if they could be called that—glowed faintly red, like embers waiting to ignite.
One stepped forward, its voice a whisper that cut directly into the mind. "Kratos… the oath is broken. The debt unpaid. You cannot outrun what has been written."
Kratos' grip on the axe tightened until his knuckles turned white. "We will pay what is necessary," he growled. "But we do not kneel."
The shadow shifted again, splitting into three distinct figures. Each bore the semblance of warriors, yet their forms twisted unnaturally. Their movements were jerky, inhuman, yet deliberate. Atreus' breath caught as he saw one of them—familiar, almost like the memory of a god he had glimpsed in the old stories—but its face was hollow, eyes black as void.
"You cannot fight what is eternal," one of the shadows hissed. "You are but flesh, and your son… he is but clay to be shaped."
Kratos stepped forward, voice a low growl that seemed to carry its own weight. "I am more than flesh. And he is more than clay." He swung the Leviathan axe in a wide arc. The shadow shifted, avoiding the strike as though it had anticipated it, moving like liquid, reforming instantly on the other side.
The battle began with a suddenness that left Atreus momentarily frozen. Kratos moved with lethal precision, striking at forms that seemed endless, vanishing only to appear moments later from a new angle. Atreus' arrows flew in quick succession, each bolt imbued with runic magic that flared on impact—but still, the shadows adapted. Every strike, every incantation, met resistance, testing their endurance, their skill, their will.
In the midst of the fight, Kratos caught a flicker at the edge of his vision—a rune glowing brighter than before, etched into a cliff face. He leapt toward it, axe in hand, landing just as one of the shadows lunged. The strike severed the creature midair, but two more immediately replaced it, forming an unbroken circle.
Atreus' voice rang out, panic creeping in. "Father! There are too many!"
Kratos' eyes narrowed. "Then we do what we must!" With a roar, he slammed the axe into the ground. The runes beneath them ignited, sending a shockwave that threw the shadows back, though not destroying them. Atreus followed suit, channeling every ounce of his growing magic into a blast that momentarily pushed the enemy into the fog.
They paused only for a heartbeat before the shadows reformed, more cohesive, more terrifying. They moved as one, surrounding father and son, whispering in voices that sounded like a chorus of the damned.
Kratos' mind raced. Helheim had always tested him, but this… this was something more. The shadows were not merely guardians—they were sentinels, judges of a debt written long before the Nine themselves had been called into being.
"Father…" Atreus whispered, voice trembling, "we can't—"
Kratos cut him off, voice calm but absolute. "We can. We will. Remember what I taught you. Focus. Strike when they falter. And never, ever show fear."
The shadows surged closer. Kratos pivoted, swinging the axe with deliberate force, carving through one that lunged at his side. Atreus fired an arrow, striking another that loomed over him. Sparks of magic and ice collided with darkness and shadow, filling the fog with flashes of light and darkness, a strobe of life and death.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, the shadows recoiled, as if some invisible force had called them back. Silence descended, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the labored breathing of father and son.
From the fog, a figure emerged—not one of shadow, but of flesh, draped in tattered robes that seemed older than time itself. Its eyes glowed with a pale, sickly light, and in its hands it held a staff topped with a shard of black ice.
"You have survived the first trial," the figure intoned, voice echoing like a cavern collapsing. "But survival alone is meaningless. To walk the path of the Nine is to sacrifice… everything you hold dear."
Kratos tightened his jaw, muscles taut, but there was a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "We have sacrificed already. We will sacrifice more. But we will not break."
The figure's lips twisted in a shadow of a smile. "Bravery is a fleeting flame in a storm of eternity. Remember that, Spartan. And remember your son. The Nine are patient… and they are watching."
The fog began to lift, revealing the path ahead, jagged and treacherous, leading into darkness so deep it seemed to swallow the weak light of Helheim itself. Kratos and Atreus stepped forward together, side by side, leaving behind the remnants of the shadows—but not their fear.
The realm had shifted. Every step forward was now a journey into unknown perils. The Nine would remember. They would judge. And Kratos, as always, would defy them—whatever the cost.
In the silence that followed, only the crunch of frost beneath their boots marked the beginning of the next trial. And in that silence, Atreus understood what his father had always known: the shadows of the Nine were patient, relentless, and the darkness ahead was only just beginning.