[Location: Wildwoods, Midgard]
Warmth. Cozy.
That was the first thing I felt as my consciousness clawed its way back from the black void. My last memory was cold snow in my mouth, blood in my lungs, and a blur of steel and fire tearing me apart. Yet here I was, wrapped in something soft.
A pelt. Wolf fur, thick and heavy.
The faint crackle of fire reached my ears. The scent of roasted herbs and pine resin filled my nose. For a moment, I thought I had woken in some afterlife hall — Valhalla or Hel's pit, whichever my fate deserved.
Then a voice. Calm. Gentle. But layered with strength.
"You heal fast."
My eyes snapped open.
The dim interior of a hut. Shadows danced on wooden walls carved with runes. Pots of herbs hung from the rafters, their fragrance masking the iron tang of blood. A firepit burned low in the center.
And beside it—
A woman.
She stood tall, her presence commanding yet gentle, as though the forest itself bent to her quiet grace. Bright blue eyes—clear as a summer sky—regarded me with a softness that both soothed and unsettled, for there was wisdom in them, and weight. Her medium-length strawberry-blonde hair tumbled in waves down her back, strands gleaming gold in the shifting light, while three thick, reverse-braided strands crowned the top of her head. The braids were slightly tousled, windswept, giving her hair a voluminous, untamed beauty.
Her face bore a quiet perfection, not without its mortal marks. A small mole rested just beside her upper lip on the left, a detail so subtle yet so real it only deepened her allure. Her skin was fair, kissed with faint freckles that danced across her cheeks, while her lips, a natural reddish-pink, curved with a warmth that promised kindness, yet concealed an unshakable resolve.
She wore a loose, cream-yellow tunic that draped comfortably across her frame, its neckline and sleeves adorned with delicate patterns, woven or embroidered in care, marking it as the garb of someone both practical and proud of her heritage. Around her neck hung two necklaces—layered, light in color, either gold or soft brown—catching glints of light whenever she moved.
At her waist rested a worn, brownish-red leather satchel, aged and scarred from use, with a knife sheathed into its side. Pieces of dark fabric and leather hung from her hips, swaying as she shifted, practical for travel or work. Her pants were a rugged brown, loose and puffed until bound tight near the calves, leading down into well-worn, medium-length boots built for the wild paths she walked.
She did not need armour, nor jewels, nor ceremony. Her presence alone was enough.
Warmth—that was the first thing I felt. And now, looking upon her, I realized why.
"W-Who are you?"
My voice betrayed me, rasping with weakness.
Her gaze did not waver, but it softened as though she expected the question. She rose from her stool near the fire, the motion fluid, as natural as the swaying of a tree in wind. Her presence filled the room—not oppressive, not overwhelming, but inevitable, like the forest that surrounded us.
"You are safe," she said first, as though that answer mattered more than her name. Her tone was calm, measured, yet it carried a weight I couldn't ignore. "For now."
She walked closer, the firelight drawing gold from her hair and shadows across her freckled cheeks. My eyes followed her despite myself. There was something… steady about her, like she wasn't simply standing in this hut but anchoring it, as though without her, it might collapse into snow and ash.
Still, instinct pushed me to press, to demand answers. My throat burned as I tried again.
"Your name."
A pause. Then, with the faintest hint of a smile—gentle, knowing, perhaps even testing—she replied.
"Laufey. But… most here know me as Faye."
Laufey.
The name struck a chord deep in my chest, a vibration I didn't understand but couldn't ignore. Laufey—the giantess, mother of Atreus, wife of Ghost of Uchiha—I mean Sparta Aka Kratos.
She should be dead, whether the plot has already started or not...
But here she was—flesh and blood, warmth and firelight, speaking to me not as some untouchable legend but as if I were simply… a man who had stumbled half-dead into her care.
My lips parted, words caught between disbelief and some strange instinct that warned me to keep silent.
"You know the name," she said. Not a question. A statement.
Her eyes narrowed just slightly, like the faint sharpening of a blade against whetstone. It wasn't hostile—no, it was worse. It was measured. She was gauging me, weighing my reaction against something she already suspected.
I swallowed, the act burning my throat as if each word I might utter carried the risk of shattering the fragile peace in this hut.
"I've… heard it."
It was the safest truth I could offer. Not a lie, not the full truth.
Something flickered across her lips—amusement? No. It was something heavier, older. A sadness veiled in restraint. Her gaze dropped briefly to the satchel at her side, then back to me.
"You shouldn't be alive," she murmured.
The words hit harder than any blade. Not alive? The memory of steel rending flesh, the fire that consumed me, the cold grip of death—I remembered it too well.
And yet here I was.
My body shifted under the wolf pelt, muscles twitching with phantom pain. The wounds that should have crippled me were now nothing but faint, dark scars etched along my skin.
"How—"
She raised a hand, silencing me before I could finish. It wasn't forceful, but the gesture carried authority, as though she had long commanded silence and obedience from those stronger than I.
"You heal fast," she repeated. Her voice lowered, not quite a whisper, but enough that the crackle of the fire nearly swallowed it. "Too fast."
Her eyes lingered on me with a depth that made my chest tighten. Not suspicion, but… recognition. As if she had seen this before.
I tried to sit up, my body protesting with stiffness, and the wolf pelt slipped from my shoulders. Her eyes did not avert. She wasn't some timid maiden flustered by bare skin—no, she looked at me the way a warrior assesses another warrior, the way a hunter inspects prey for scars and strength.
"You're no ordinary man," she said finally.
I gave a humorless laugh, the sound bitter in my throat. "You have no idea."
Her brows arched ever so slightly at that, and for the first time, I thought I saw the ghost of a smile tug at her lips. Not mockery. Not amusement. Something closer to respect, though veiled beneath layers of restraint.
The silence stretched, broken only by the fire's crackle and the occasional sigh of the wind pressing against the wooden walls.
Finally, she turned, moving to the firepit. The hem of her tunic brushed the ground as she crouched, stirring the herbs simmering in a small pot. The scent filled the hut—pine, spruce, something faintly floral. Healing. Grounding.
"You should eat," she said simply, her tone shifting to something almost… domestic. The sudden change was jarring, and yet oddly comforting. "Strength will return faster with food."
I hesitated, then forced myself to nod. My stomach twisted in hunger I hadn't realized until now.
She ladled the mixture into a wooden bowl and brought it to me. As she did, I caught the faintest details—the small scar near her wrist, half-hidden by a leather strap; the calluses along her fingers, not of a maiden's work, but of one who had held blade, bow, and axe.
I took the bowl, my fingers brushing hers for the briefest moment. Warm. Solid. Real.
The taste was earthy, bitter yet oddly soothing. The warmth spread through me, grounding me in this moment, pulling me away from the void of memory.
But even as I ate, my eyes remained on her.
Where the heck is Kratos?
I should probe; otherwise, my brain might commit suicide.
Warm broth steadied my hands. The wooden bowl was simple, carved smooth with years of use, yet it felt heavier than steel. Not because of its weight, but because of the woman who had handed it to me.
Laufey. Faye. The Laufey.
I ate slowly, forcing myself not to devour it like a starved wolf. My body wanted to—my stomach growled, my muscles craved fuel—but my mind wouldn't let me. Every bite tasted of pine, herbs, and the uncomfortable truth that I wasn't just eating food. I was eating time. Time I didn't deserve. Time I shouldn't have.
Across the fire, Laufey moved with unhurried precision. She set herbs aside, cleaned a blade with cloth, checked the simmering pot. None of it wasted. None of it unnecessary. She carried herself like someone who knew every movement mattered in the wild.
Her presence was both… grounding and dangerous. Like a river—gentle on the surface, yet strong enough to drag you under if you misjudged it.
Finally, she spoke.
"You fought them."
Not a question.
I set the empty bowl down, my throat working. "…Yeah."
"Draugr. Raiders." She turned, her eyes narrowing. "Alone."
"Wasn't exactly by choice," I muttered, trying to mask the rasp in my voice. "They didn't exactly stop to ask for backup."
Her gaze lingered, unblinking. It wasn't accusation—it was calculation. She studied me the way a blacksmith studies metal in the forge, deciding if it would break or temper.
"You survived," she said simply.
I almost laughed. Barely. But I caught myself. A joke wouldn't land here, not with her. So instead, I asked the question pressing against my skull.
"Where's… the man of the house?"
Her head tilted, ever so slightly. A shift so small I almost missed it, but the air in the hut thickened like frost.
"There is no man of this house," she said. Voice calm. Too calm.
I froze. My mind scrambled. If Kratos wasn't here—if Laufey was still alone—then the prophecy hadn't reached the path I knew. Which meant everything was still in flux. Which meant—
The silence that followed her words was not silence at all. It was filled with the crackle of firewood, the sigh of wind through the gaps in the walls, the slow rhythm of my breathing, still uneven but growing steadier with every heartbeat.
There is no man of this house.
The statement clung to me like frostbite.
I knew what it meant—or thought I did. In the story I knew, this woman was supposed to become the wife of the Ghost of Sparta, mother to the boy who would change the realms. She was meant to die, her ashes spread, her voice lingering only in whispers.
And yet here she stood. Living. Breathing. Watching me with eyes that seemed to look through flesh and into the marrow of my bones.
The prophecy was already broken.
But if she lived… if Kratos had not yet come to Midgard… then whose path had I crossed into?
"Your brow is heavy with thoughts," Laufey said. Not accusing, not curious. Simply… observing.
I blinked, tearing my gaze from the fire. "I've… had a long week."
Her lips quirked—not into a smile, but into something resembling one, the faintest acknowledgement that she had caught the half-truth. She returned to her work, running cloth along the edge of her knife until it gleamed faintly in the firelight.
"You are not from here."
Another statement, not a question.
I shifted beneath the pelt. "…What gave me away? The accent?"
This time, there was the ghost of amusement in her eyes. But it vanished quickly, replaced by the same steady calm.
"I haven't heard or read about someone whose fury, rage, or wrath itself rolls off of his skin," Laufey finished quietly, her tone as even as the fire's crackle.
Her words froze me.
Not because of what she said, but how she said it.
Measured. Calm. Like she wasn't speculating but confirming something.
I shifted under the wolf pelt, the lingering heat of the broth settling in my stomach. My mouth opened, closed, opened again. No words came.
She set her knife aside and finally met my gaze. Her blue eyes caught the firelight and, for a brief moment, they looked… almost mournful.
"You carry it like a cloak," she continued, voice low. "That fury. It does not fade when you rest. It does not wait for battle to call it. It burns in you. Always."
The words pressed against me like weights. I wanted to deny it, to laugh it off with some snide remark. But my throat was dry, my mind replaying the vision of fire exploding out of me against the Draugr. The way my veins had seared, my voice had cracked into something not mine.
Mantra of Wrath.
She saw it. She felt it.
"…Maybe I'm just angry," I muttered, forcing levity into my tone.
Then I thought of something and asked. Her hand froze when I asked the question.
"Have you died before?"
The fire popped. Outside, the wind brushed against wooden walls like a whisper. The only sound inside was the faint creak of the rafters and the soft hiss of herbs boiling in the pot.
Laufey's eyes, bright as a clear sky, shifted to mine. Unblinking. Searching.
For a long, stretching moment, she said nothing. The silence wasn't emptiness. It was… weight. The kind of silence that forced you to confront what you had just asked.
Finally, she tilted her head slightly, the braids in her hair swaying with the motion. "Why do you ask such a question?"
I swallowed. My throat still burned raw, but I forced the words out. "…Because I remember dying."
The words hung there. Her gaze sharpened, the faintest narrowing, like a blade being drawn an inch from its sheath.
"You remember? But you are alive," she repeated, slow and deliberate.
I nodded, fingers tightening against the pelt. "My wrath. It brought me back."
The words scraped from my throat like rusted steel. Too raw. Too real.
Her eyes didn't soften. They sharpened. And in that firelight, I realized—she wasn't afraid of my wrath. She recognized it.
***
Advance chapter available on my (P) account.
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