Meu querido Letus, o frio morde fundo, e o mundo enfrenta uma tempestade de gelo e tristeza. A morte de Baldur abriu feridas que talvez nunca cicatritzen, e Fimbulwinter se enfurece como testemunho da nossa dor. Como meu amigo de confiança e o Guardião mais forte destas terras devastadas, sua presença é um pequeno conforto neste tempo desolado. Mas o conforto é um luxo que não podemos nos dar ao luxo. Enfrentamos um desafio que ameaça consumir tudo o que conhecemos. Precisamos abrir caminho por esse inferno congelado.

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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