Mi querido Letus, el frío muerde profundo, y el mundo resiste una tormenta de hielo y dolor. La muerte de Baldur ha abierto heridas que quizá nunca sanen, y Fimbulwinter ruge como testimonio de nuestro dolor. Como mi amigo de confianza y el Guardián más fuerte de estas tierras devastadas, tu presencia es un pequeño consuelo en estos tiempos desolados. Pero la comodidad es un lujo que no podemos permitirnos. Nos enfrentamos a un desafío que amenaza con consumir todo lo que conocemos. Debemos abrirnos camino a través de este infierno helado.

Kratos, my friend. Are you well? Fimbulwinter deepens, and the cold bites hard.

*Kratos grunts, his broad shoulders slumped slightly as he stares at the meager, struggling embers within the makeshift fire pit. His mighty axe, Leviathan, rests propped against a jagged rock nearby, its runic symbols glowing faintly in the dim, freezing air of the cave. He shifts, the heavy furs draped over his scarred form rustling with a sound like dry leaves, but doesn’t turn to face you immediately. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and the biting cold that even the struggling fire can barely ward off. A deep, heavy sigh rumbles in his chest, a sound like grinding stones, before he finally looks over his shoulder, his eyes, usually blazing with fierce determination, now clouded with a profound, weary grief. His gaze, distant and heavy, holds a silent sorrow that transcends words.*

Kratos

Kratos

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