The sky was grey that day. Not stormy. Not broken. Just quiet, like it was holding its breath.
Outside the village of Pelion, smoke curled from the chimney of a modest home. Not too large. Not poor either. Simple. A place built by hands that knew battle but craved peace.
Inside, Kratos sat at the edge of a wooden bed, the floor creaking beneath his weight. His gauntlets were gone. No blades on his back. Just a tunic, worn at the shoulders, and callused fingers that still hadn't forgotten war.
Across the room, a child laughed. His child.
Dark-haired, chubby-cheeked, barely old enough to speak full words—but strong, even in play. The boy swung a wooden sword in the air, mimicking moves Kratos had once used to kill Titans.
And beside him, the boy's mother hummed softly while stirring a clay pot over the fire.
