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Chapter 1: the fate and return of Calliope

​The light of Elysium had once been a comfort, a gentle balm for a soul ripped too soon from life. Calliope remembered it. Remembered the peace. But that was before. Before the shadow fell over her father, before the whispers of another land, another future, stole him away, leaving her behind once more.

​She had watched, a ghost in paradise, as Olympus, her home, crumbled. She saw the gods fall, not in glorious battle, but in a slow, agonizing decay, echoes of their demise rippling even into her tranquil prison. Greece, the world she knew, bled and withered under a sky choked with ash and vengeance. And with each shard of memory, with each dying gasp of her homeland, the peace of Elysium soured. It became a gilded cage, a prison of endless, unchanging bliss while the world burned outside.

​And he left her. Again.

​A profound, cold anger, alien to the innocent child she was, began to bloom in her chest. It wasn't the fiery rage of a god, but the quiet, desperate fury of a trapped spirit. She couldn't bear the endless serenity, not when so much was lost. Not when he was gone.

​She didn't know how long it took. Days? Years? Eons? Time had no meaning in Elysium. But the anger, it festered. It became a sharp, hot thing that burned through the blissful haze, pushing, pulling, searching for an exit. An instinct she didn't know she possessed gnawed at her, a desperate need to be free, to breathe, to live. The walls of her paradise thinned, then stretched, then buckled under the sheer force of her unyielding will. She fought through the serene mists, past the quiet echoes of forgotten joy, until... until there was something else. A flicker. A pull. A voice, young and earnest, calling to her from beyond the veil.

​Then, darkness. A dizzying, disorienting shift. And then, sensation. Air. Cold. Hard ground.

​When her eyes opened, the world was blurry, alien. Shapes coalesced into two figures, one impossibly tall and scarred, the other slight and earnest, his hand still outstretched as if he’d just pulled her from a deep, unseen current. Her throat felt dry, raw. A strange weight settled on her limbs, a profound sense of more. More height, more strength, more... everything.

​She looked down at her hands. They were not the small, smooth hands of a child. They were long, slender, marked with the fine lines of a woman. A shiver, not of cold but of profound disorientation, ran through her.

​"Calliope?" The younger voice, full of a hope she didn't quite understand, broke the silence.

​She looked up at the boy, then at the towering man whose face was etched with a lifetime of pain and a dawning, fragile wonder. Her father. The man who left her. The man who, somehow, was here now. And she was here too. But this body... this feeling...

​Her mind was still that of the child who loved her father, who cherished her memories of him, who simply wanted to play her flute. But the hands that now twitched at her side belonged to a stranger. A strong one. One that felt an unfamiliar, simmering heat beneath the skin.

​She opened her mouth, and the sound that emerged was not the clear, bell-like voice of her youth, but a deeper, richer tone that startled her, then Kratos, then Atreus.

​"Papa?" she managed, the word feeling foreign on her tongue. Her eyes, still those of a bewildered child, looked up at him from a woman's face.

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​chapter 3: The Weight of the Past

​"When I left Elysium," he began, speaking slowly, deliberately, "it was not a choice made lightly. It was two mistakes made for one reason. I knew I had a debt to pay. I believed I was the only one who could stop the chaos that was growing—the destruction of our world, even if it meant destroying those who caused it eventually. I pushed you away because I was trying to save the world."

​He squeezed her hands gently. "And the other reason: I left you in Elysium because I knew you were safe there. You were free from the fighting, the hunger, and the violence. I believed that knowing where you were, safe and unharmed, was enough for me—enough to let me do what had to be done." He finished the last sentence with a grim shake of his head. "It was the darkest mistake I have ever made, and I have carried the consequences every moment since."

​"The god with the limbs in his back," Kratos continued, his eyes darkening with the memory. "That was Ares. The cause of all the pain. He was a phantom, an illusion created to torment me, to force me to re-live my failure. What you saw was an echo, a shadow reaching through time, because you were tethered to this world by your brother's effort and my presence."

​He met her eyes, which were wide with a child's horrified fascination. "What you saw is the past. It is dust. What matters is here."

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​Chapter 4: Fire

​Calliope processed the terrifying truth, not through an adult's comprehension of genocide and divine politics, but through a child's simple lens of her father's absence and the scary imagery. She understood: Papa did a bad thing but he thought it was good, and there was a scary man with too many arms who made him sad.

​She didn't blame him. She couldn't. Her time in Elysium, however long, had already softened the wound of his betrayal, replacing resentment with a deep, instinctive yearning for his protection.

​Instead, her eyes fixed on the sadness in his face. "You were sad, Papa?" she asked, her new voice wobbling slightly. She reached up with one of her new, strong hands and tentatively touched the fresh, jagged line of scars across his face—marks he didn't have when she last knew him.

​"You have more scratches now," she observed, her curiosity overriding her fear. "Does the fire hurt the scratches?"

​This is a beautiful moment of reversal. The adult woman, with the child's mind, is focused entirely on comforting her father's pain, not dwelling on the horrific past he just confessed.

Kratos flinched slightly under her innocent touch, the raw, unfiltered concern in her gaze piercing deeper than any weapon.

​"Sometimes, yes, the fire hurts the scratches," Kratos admitted, his gaze intense. "But ultimately, it made me who I was. I was angry against the Greek gods to the point where only one or two survived my anger. My fire."

​He took a slow, deep breath, his massive shoulders slumping under the weight of his confession. "But ultimately, I came here, eventually had another wife. Let it be known, I still deeply cared for your mother, just as much as Atreus’s mother. And to both of you—to you and Atreus—I would gladly redo everything I have done in my anger, just for all of us to have this bonding. You, Atreus, your mother, and Atreus's mother."

​His eyes drifted, the memories sharp and clear. "Every time. Those first moments of my rage are on repeat forever in my head, trying to get the Greek gods to get rid of them. But that was also what plagued my fire for a long time. If I could, I would redo my anger, return what was lost."

​Kratos looked directly into Calliope's eyes, his expression a mixture of profound sorrow and fragile hope. "And now you have returned, I'm almost there. But unfortunately, I could only save one of you with Atreus. Given enough time, he would grab both of you, without so much pain. That haunted me for more than a couple of lifetimes."

​Calliope listened to the torrent of emotion and painful history, her mind unable to grasp the full horror, but her heart understood the overwhelming sadness radiating from her father. He was broken. And the "fire" was a bad, sad thing.

​She took her hand back from his face and placed it firmly on his massive bicep, a gesture of comfort that felt disproportionate coming from her child’s mind in her woman’s body.

​"It's okay, Papa," she murmured, her new, deep voice soft. "The fire is over now. You said you won't leave. And Brother brought me back." She looked toward the sleeping Atreus, then back at Kratos, her lips turning up in that strange, innocent smile on her mature face.

​"So, no more fire. We have an adventure now. To the peak." Her voice held a note of finality, dismissing the millennia of rage and regret with a child’s simple decree. "We go. And I will keep my fire quiet. I don't need it. I have you and Brother."

​The paradoxical comfort of her words seemed to lift a crushing weight from Kratos's shoulders. Her innocent declaration—that she was enough to stop the rage—was the redemption he had sought in vain across two worlds.

​He managed a rare, almost imperceptible nod. "Yes, Calliope. We go to the peak. And we will keep the fire quiet." He stood, offering her his hand. "Come. Let us sit near your brother until he wakes. Then we begin."

​Kratos took her hand, the contrast jarring: her strong, newly formed, yet unblemished adult hand tucked into his calloused, scarred gauntlet. He guided her to a spot near the slumbering Atreus and lowered himself onto the cold earth, pulling her down gently beside him.

​The waiting was not silent.

​As they sat, Calliope tried to shift her weight, and her long, unfamiliar legs tangled under the bulk of Kratos's hand-me-down tunic. She pitched forward. Kratos's reaction was instantaneous and quiet; his massive hand moved with shocking speed, steadying her arm before she could hit the ground.

​"Too tall," she observed simply, frowning at her own feet.

​She tried again, extending one leg out, then withdrawing it too quickly, causing her to list dangerously to the side. Again, Kratos was there, his touch slow, firm, and infinitely patient. He didn't speak a reprimand, nor did he lecture on balance. He merely shifted his posture, keeping his body positioned as a brace.

​"It is unfamiliar," he rumbled, his voice a low vibration that seemed to calm the nervous energy humming inside her. "The muscles are new. They do not know your mind's commands."

​Calliope persisted. With the quiet focus of a child mastering a new skill, she began small, controlled movements: flexing her feet, rotating her shoulders, slowly standing, and immediately stumbling. Each fall was met not with frustration from Kratos, but with calm, immediate support. He would guide her back up, showing her how to settle her center of gravity, never forcing, only assisting.

​She was adjusting with startling speed, fueled by an innocent determination. The stumbles evolved into deliberate steps, the falls into mere stutters. Her muscle memory, dormant for so long, seemed to be rushing to catch up to her physical form, as if a deeper, latent Spartan instinct resided within her very bones.

​Within a short time, Calliope was able to walk short circles around the boulder, lifting her legs deliberately, her movements still awkward, but functional. A tiny scratch from a sharp stone on her ankle, a scrape on her elbow—minor wounds she barely registered, powered through by her focus. She was accumulating the first tiny marks on her resurrected body, proving that this life, unlike Elysium, was one of contact, friction, and effort.

​Kratos watched, a faint easing around his jawline. It was a miracle of healing and determination—a mind that knew only the innocence of a child was forcing an adult body to function with a speed that was almost unsettling. Perhaps she was adjusting too well, hinting at a raw, adaptable power she might not yet comprehend.

​"Good," Kratos finally pronounced, his word of approval a rare gem. "Now you know the strength of the new body. Do not forget it."

​He settled back down, and Calliope, feeling functional again, sat beside him. She leaned her head innocently against his shoulder, her adult form resting naturally against his.

​"The peak is far, Papa?" she asked, already eager to start the adventure.

​"Would you like to rest now, Calliope? I'm not sure if you need it or if you slept while your body grew, but the journey can wait a bit, for now rest if you need to, or take a small break, to compile your thoughts," Kratos asked, his voice low and considerate. He still held her hand, a grounding presence against the cold, vast wilderness.

​Calliope considered his words with a child's seriousness. Her mind felt surprisingly clear, yet the adult body felt like a heavy coat she hadn't quite buttoned up. The physical exertion of simply walking had been surprisingly taxing.

​"I think... I think I did sleep," she murmured, tracing a line on the dirt with her free foot. "It was like when I used to watch the clouds for a very long time, and then I was awake again. But my head feels a little full now. Like too many voices whispering."

​She looked up at him, her adult eyes holding a childlike plea. "Can we talk about Brother now, Papa? You said he was a Giant. What's a Giant? And why is he so good at finding me? Is he... magical?"

​The need to understand Atreus, the kind boy who had pulled her from the light, was more pressing than any physical weariness.

​Kratos saw the genuine curiosity in her eyes and knew that settling her mind was more important than physical rest. He gently squeezed her hand.

​"Atreus is indeed magical," he confirmed, pride a quiet undercurrent in his tone. "He is half-god, like you, but his mother was a Jötnar, a Giantess of this realm. They are a people known for wisdom, their deep connection to the earth, and their powerful magic."

​He paused, glancing at his sleeping son. "He is good at finding things, Calliope. He can speak to the animals and understand the languages of this land. But his ability to find you... that is because of his connection to the spiritual world. His soul is powerful, a bridge between realms."

​"He sought you in the realms of the dead because he loves you," Kratos finished simply. "He saw what was missing, and he found the strength to retrieve it. You are his sister, and he is a good brother."

​Calliope absorbed this, a soft smile returning to her face. "He's very strong then," she stated, satisfied with the answer. "Like you, Papa. But softer."

​She leaned more heavily against him, suddenly content. The whispers in her head—the strange echoes of her new reality—seemed to quiet in the presence of her father's calm strength.

​"I don't need to sleep now," she declared, looking toward the sun's low angle above the trees. "But I will be quiet until Brother wakes up. Then we go on the adventure."

​Kratos looked at the setting sun. The light was fading fast, and traveling at night, especially with a recovering son and a newly returned daughter, was unwise.

​"We will not travel immediately," Kratos corrected gently. "When your brother wakes, we hunt for the hides you require, and we make camp. We begin our journey at first light."

​He pulled her closer, his gaze sweeping the forest perimeter. "For now, we watch over your brother. And we wait."

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Chapter 5: the bad memories resurface

​The settling shadows of dusk crept into the small clearing. Calliope sat quietly beside Kratos, leaning against his shoulder, her newfound adult body a warm weight next to his massive frame. Her child’s mind was calm, focused on the immediate comfort of her father and brother.

​Her gaze, however, was restless. While Kratos kept a silent vigil over Atreus, Calliope's eyes drifted, adjusting to the dim light. They settled on a small section of the earth near their packs, where the roots of the nearby trees had warped the ground.

​There, she saw it. A faint, almost imperceptible outline in the earth, shaped like a fracture, the memory of some deep, catastrophic damage now merely a scar on the land. And resting nearby, nestled carefully beneath some furs, were the objects of terror.

​The Blades of Chaos.

​They lay dull and quiet, their chains coiled like sleeping serpents. But in Calliope’s mind, they were still the monstrous, fiery-red extensions of her father's rage. The weapons that had brought death and ruin to Greece. The weapons that had been indirectly responsible for her being forced into Elysium in the first place. The weapons that had, in her terrifying illusionary glimpse in Valhalla, seemed to strike her down again.

​Her breath hitched. A tremor ran through her body, and the familiar, unpleasant hot thrumming returned beneath her skin, a low, fearful roar threatening to erupt into Spartan Rage.

​She quickly pulled away from Kratos, the sudden movement causing the sleeping Atreus to stir slightly. Kratos's hand instantly went to his Leviathan Axe, his attention snapping to the movement.

​He saw Calliope, now kneeling, her eyes wide, staring at the dull, chained blades. He saw the faint, tell-tale blush of red fading from her eyes. He knew exactly what she was seeing.

​"Calliope," he rumbled, his voice quiet but commanding.

​She slowly turned, her gaze moving from the blades to her father. The words of her confusion tumbled out, delivered with a child’s directness that bypassed all adult filters.

​"Papa," she whispered, her voice tight with confusion, "Why do you keep the weapons that hurt me and Mama? Why are they not red and fiery like I remember? Are they broken now?"

​Kratos knew this conversation could not happen here, near his sleeping son, whose innocence he still fiercely guarded.

​He rose slowly. "Come," he commanded gently, placing a hand on her back and guiding her away from the small camp, past the edge of the large boulder that sheltered Atreus.

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​chapter 6: The monster's Blades

​They stopped a short distance away, the cold air and the deep shadows of the woods surrounding them. Kratos turned to face her, his expression a mask of grim resolve.

​"Those weapons," he stated, his voice now low and raw, "are the Blades of Chaos. They are my shame. They are the permanent markings of the blood pact I made with Ares, and the instruments of the destruction I caused."

​He paused, letting the weight of the name settle.

​"I keep them, not because I wish to use them," he explained. "But because I cannot be rid of them. They are bound to me by magic and by the Furies. They are a curse, Calliope, a constant reminder of the monster I was and the oath I violated."

​He saw the fear clinging to her, saw her child’s mind desperately trying to process the concept of an inescapable curse.

​"They are dull now," Kratos continued, his voice softening just slightly, "because I deny them the fire. Their power comes from my rage, my hatred. For long years, I have starved them, withholding the fury they crave. They are cold, not broken. I have forced them to silence. And I only use them when every other defense of this family has failed."

​He met her gaze, intense and unyielding. "They did not hurt you directly, Calliope. My blind service to the gods, my rage—that is what brought the pain. The Blades were only the tools. I am the fault."

​Kratos knelt one last time, reaching out and placing his hand on her shoulder. "They are kept here so I must look upon them. They are a promise to me: I will never again be the man who wields them in hatred."

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chapter 7 :The Promise against the old fire

​Calliope’s adult body moved with the spontaneous innocence of a child. She launched herself forward, intending to hug her father's massive legs as she always had, but instead, her long arms wrapped awkwardly around his waist. Her adult height made the gesture intimate, but her child’s heart kept it pure, a desperate plea for comfort and assurance.

​Kratos stood rigid, his breath catching as her new, strong form clung to him. He could feel the cold of the Norse night, the heat of her developing Spartan power, and the terrifying weight of her innocent demand.

​"I need you to promise, Papa," she murmured into his tunic, her voice muffled but clear. "Promise to me, to Mother, to all of Greece’s gods, to all of Greece itself, to never become that monster again."

​She pulled back slightly, looking up at his grim, scarred face. "Never let that old fire return. But if it needs to return, don't let that old fire consume you ever again. Let a different fire—a better fire, a nicer fire—consume you."

​Her eyes, full of fierce, childlike conviction, locked onto his. "Please tell me if the old fire returns to you. But promise me this. Otherwise, I will find a way to get you away from the old fire."

​Kratos's control, perfected over decades of silence and penance, fractured under the force of her absolute trust. This was not a goddess demanding fealty; this was his daughter demanding he live.

​He slowly lowered his arms and wrapped them around her, a rare, protective embrace that swallowed her whole. His voice, when he spoke, was thick with emotion.

​"I promise, Calliope," he rumbled, the word a sacred oath whispered into the frigid air. "I promise you, your mother, and all the fallen."

​He held her tighter, his mind settling on the words, "A different fire, a better fire."

​"The old fire—the hatred, the fury—it will not consume me again. If it stirs, I will speak of it. I will tell you and your brother. And if that fury is ever needed, it will be tempered by this: my devotion to protecting you both. That is the new fire."

​He let go, his eyes holding hers in the deep shadow. "The Blades are cold now. I will ensure they remain so. Now, my daughter," he said, touching her cheek, "rest. The promises are made. We begin the journey at first light."

​They returned to the camp, Kratos settling beside Atreus, and Calliope resting against her father's shoulder. The weight of his confession and her promise had redefined the beginning of their journey. They were no longer just spreading ashes; they were protecting a promise from the ghosts of the past.

​The Norse night deepened, silent save for the crackling of their small, banked fire and the soft, steady breathing of the two children—one physically a man, the other a woman—sleeping beside the God of War.

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First Light: The Hunt and the Dagger

​The first light of day brought a biting chill to the air. Atreus woke, looking immediately more rested, though still subdued. He found Kratos and Calliope stirring the low embers of the fire.

​"I am sorry for my exhaustion, Father," Atreus said, gathering his bow.

​"You pushed beyond your limits," Kratos replied simply. "A lesson you must heed. You did what was necessary."

​Calliope, now more functional in Kratos's oversized tunic, watched Atreus with bright curiosity.

​"We hunt now," Kratos announced. "We need hides to properly clothe Calliope for the mountain. Atreus, you guide us. Calliope, you observe."

​They moved into the deep woods. Atreus, swiftly spotting tracks, led them with the silent confidence of a seasoned hunter. Calliope kept pace with Kratos, her movements still slightly clumsy, but her eyes darting everywhere—alert, eager.

​They soon located two large deer. Kratos motioned for Atreus to take the first, but then he turned to Calliope, a grave expression on his face.

​"Calliope," Kratos said, lowering his voice. "Hunting is necessary for survival. It is not an adventure. You are about to witness death. Be ready."

​Atreus, understanding the delicate moment, approached his sister. He unhooked the long, elegant dagger he kept sheathed at his hip—a weapon made from a horn of the World Serpent, a gift from his mother, Faye.

​"Take this," Atreus said, placing the hilt into her adult hand. "Mother's dagger. It feels light, but it is strong. It is for your protection. It's time you learned how to use your hands, even if your body is strange."

​Calliope accepted the dagger, her eyes lighting up at the gift from her new brother. The weapon felt like a small, familiar weight in her large hand, a tangible tether to her new family.

​Training and the Fear of Loss

​The quiet rhythm of their walk was broken by the sound of a snap. A massive, wounded Draugr—likely drawn by the commotion of the hunt or sensing the latent divine power—burst from the trees, charging directly at Atreus.

​"Draugr!" Kratos roared, pushing Calliope behind him, the Leviathan Axe already in his hand.

​But Atreus was still recovering and slow to draw his bow. The Draugr closed the distance, its rusty blade raised for a strike.

​A flash of red crossed Calliope's vision.

​The surge of hot power she'd felt before was no longer a whisper; it was a deafening roar. It wasn't the philosophical fear of Ares, but the primal, immediate terror of losing her brother—her family.

​"NO!" she screamed, the sound echoing with a volume her voice shouldn't possess.

​In that instant, her Spartan Rage erupted.

​Instead of fire, a crackle of yellow lightning sparked around her hands. Calliope's mind was still the fearful child's, focused only on protection, but her body moved with the muscle memory of a true warrior.

​Her right arm, in a sickening, wrenching surge of magic, suddenly materialized the Gauntlet of Zeus. It was old, bronze, and smoking with divine energy.

​She brought the massive gauntlet up in a perfect, brutal block. The Gauntlet caught the Draugr's blade, the impact causing a burst of lightning that incinerated the creature's arm and sent it flying backward into a tree.

​Kratos froze, the Leviathan Axe halfway to his target. He watched in horrifying fascination as his daughter, wearing a child's expression of focused terror, now wielded the power of his ancient past.

​The Old Fire, The New Purpose

​Calliope was a whirlwind. Driven by a pure, singular instinct to eliminate the threat to her brother, she attacked. The Gauntlet, fueled by her rage, glowed brighter. She wasn't just swinging; she was using the very same martial techniques Kratos had employed centuries ago.

​Suddenly, her left hand was no longer empty. A heavy, two-handed Barbarian Hammer, another forgotten artifact from Kratos's Greek trials, shimmered into existence. She dropped the dagger (Faye’s dagger, forgotten in the panic) and gripped the massive hammer with both hands, swinging it with the adult strength she’d only just learned to walk with. The hammer smashed the already stunned Draugr into paste.

​The lightning faded. The Hammer and the Gauntlet vanished in a puff of smoke and ash. Calliope stood panting, her adult body trembling, her eyes wide, the red glow completely gone.

​She looked at her hands, which were now bare, then back at the spot where the Draugr had been. She looked at the deer, now bolted and gone, and then at Atreus, who was staring at her with speechless awe.

​"It... it was going to hurt you, Brother," she whispered, her voice returning to its normal, confused depth. She looked at Kratos, her innocence already slightly scarred. "The fire... it was too loud again, Papa. But... but it worked."

​Kratos slowly lowered his axe. His chest heaved. She had wielded the very essence of his abandoned past, not for vengeance, but for family. The fire was indeed back, but its gravitas had shifted from divine destruction to primal protection.

​"It worked," Kratos repeated, his voice barely a rasp. He stepped forward, putting a steadying hand on Atreus, whose face was pale, then resting his other hand on Calliope's shoulder. "We have lessons to learn, Calliope. Many lessons."

​He looked at the empty space where the deer had been. The hunt was ruined. The truth of his daughter's new, dangerous power was not.

Kratos remained rooted, staring at the spot where the elemental residue of the Barbarian Hammer and the Gauntlet of Zeus lingered. His past, once buried, was now a volatile weapon in the hands of his innocent daughter.

​He turned slowly to Calliope, whose face was a perfect storm of bewilderment and residual fear. He fought the urge to demand answers, knowing that fear would only amplify her volatile power.

​"Calliope," he asked, his voice deliberately measured and calm, "how did you summon those weapons? I have not touched them in years. They are not here."

​She shrugged, still looking at the empty air where the gauntlet had been. "Old memories of your journey, Papa. They brought life. Not the same ones, but the image of them, and fractions of their full potential from my dreams of your journey."

​Her explanation was utterly childlike: a simple projection of internal knowledge. Her subconscious mind, absorbing the traumatic history of Kratos's life she had glimpsed through the realms or sensed in him, had weaponized it.

​Kratos inhaled deeply. This was more dangerous than he first thought. Her power wasn't just Spartan Rage; it was a form of mimetic magic, pulling echoes of his most destructive Greek arsenal into existence, fueled solely by her desire to protect.

​"We will speak more on this," Kratos stated, his tone brooking no argument, though his eyes held no anger. "But not now. We are exposed, and your brother is in need of rest. We have failed the hunt, but we still require the hides."

​Prioritizing Practicality

​Kratos looked at Atreus, who was slowly gathering his wits but was still shaken by the sudden eruption of power.

​"Atreus," Kratos commanded. "The deer are long gone. Can you track something smaller and safer for hides? A boar. Or even thick-furred beasts. We need material, not food."

​"Yes, Father," Atreus replied, his voice still a little tight. He picked up his bow and quiver, casting a nervous, sideways glance at Calliope. "I... I can find something. It won't take long. Calliope, come with me. We need to measure for the cuts."

​Kratos nodded, approving the boy's quick-thinking. Keeping Calliope focused on the practical task of fitting her clothing was a necessary distraction.

​Clothing the Paradox

​The next hour was spent with Atreus tracking and Kratos silently observing the two siblings. Atreus quickly found two large, thick-furred boars—a safer target than deer. Kratos dispatched them quickly, ensuring Calliope only witnessed the practical, clean necessity of the kills.

​Back at the clearing, as Kratos skinned the beasts, Atreus used a scrap of hide to take rough measurements of his sister.

​"We need the warmest parts for your core," Atreus explained, kneeling to check the length of her legs. "And the tough parts for the shoulders. The cold here is different than anything you would have known."

​Calliope, fascinated, stood perfectly still for the measuring. Her adult body was now covered in marks from their earlier training and the fight—small scrapes that emphasized her fragile state.

​"It will be black and grey," Atreus murmured, working with his knife. "Like Father's. It will keep the wind out."

​He worked swiftly and efficiently, using his small, keen hunting knife to cut and stitch the rough hides into a serviceable vest and leggings. He didn't have the time or tools for intricate sewing, but the resulting garments were thick, warm, and highly durable—precisely what they needed.

​When Calliope put on the stiff, newly stitched garments, she was transformed. The simple leather vest and leggings, though rough, covered her completely, replacing the thin, symbolic tunic with the heavy reality of Norse survival. She no longer looked like a fragile echo of the past, but a warrior of the present, however reluctant.

​She felt the difference immediately. The cold retreated. The heavy weight of the materials felt comforting, practical.

​"Warm," she confirmed, giving a small, appreciative nod to Atreus. "Thank you, Brother."

​With Calliope safely clothed, the sun higher in the sky, and their immediate practical needs met, the real journey—and the danger—was about to begin. Kratos knew he couldn't protect his daughter from her own potential, only guide its purpose.

The first leg of their journey led them away from the secluded woods and onto the rocky, winding paths that snaked through Midgard's lowlands. Kratos set a brisk pace, Atreus kept his eyes on the trail, and Calliope, now clad in the sturdy, warm hides, walked with a purposeful, if still somewhat stiff, gait.

​They hadn't traveled long before the ground began to shake, a rhythmic, heavy thudding announcing a local menace.

​"Hold!" Kratos commanded, his Leviathan Axe already in hand.

​A massive Fire Troll—a creature of scorched rock and magma, easily twice the height of Kratos—stomped into the small canyon ahead. It carried a massive, blazing pillar of stone, and its sole purpose was to destroy anything in its path.

​"Stay behind me," Kratos ordered his children.

​"I can distract it, Father!" Atreus insisted, nocking an arrow.

​"No," Kratos said, anticipating the danger. "This one is too large. We end this quickly."

​The Troll and the Trigger

​Kratos engaged the Troll, dodging a slow, sweeping strike of its pillar that sent shrapnel flying. He landed a deep, freezing blow to the Troll's leg with the Leviathan Axe. The creature roared in pain, its attention focused entirely on the God of War.

​Atreus, ignoring his father's command, fired a series of shock arrows, stunning the beast and momentarily dropping its defense. It was a perfect opening for Kratos to retrieve his axe and land a critical blow.

​But the Troll, enraged by the boy's persistent attacks, shifted its focus. It ignored Kratos for a critical second, raising its immense, fiery club high above its head and bringing it down not on the giant Spartan, but on the exposed position of Atreus.

​The shadow of the club fell over the boy.

​Calliope saw it all: her brother, the kind soul who had pulled her from oblivion, frozen in a fatal moment. The sight shattered her carefully constructed composure. It wasn't the fear of death; it was the unbearable, primal agony of losing family—the precise wound that had fueled her father’s rage for centuries—now consuming her.

​The whispers in her mind became a cacophony. The shame, the pain, the betrayal, the destruction—all the dreams of her father’s journey that she had absorbed—erupted, finding expression in her adult form.

​"YOU WILL NOT TOUCH HIM!" she roared.

​The Old Fire Rises

​Calliope went completely ballistic. Her eyes turned a searing, incandescent red—the color of pure, unadulterated fury. The gentle hum beneath her skin became a destructive, palpable force.

​Her hands snapped out, and with two simultaneous bursts of lightning and shadow-fire, the Gauntlet of Zeus and the terrifying Claws of Hades materialized. The Gauntlet blazed with crackling energy, and the Claws, usually reserved for tearing souls, glowed with dark, malevolent power.

​She didn't run at the Troll; she launched herself, moving with the impossible, blinding speed of a Spartan driven mad.

​Ignoring the Troll's defenses, Calliope delivered a lightning-fast, brutal strike to the Troll’s shin with the Gauntlet. The resulting concussion of pure electrical force blew out the Troll's kneecap and sent a tremor through the earth.

​The Troll bellowed, listing sideways. Before it could recover, Calliope used the chain of the Claws of Hades like a whip. She didn't seek a clean kill; she sought destruction. The Claws wrapped around the Troll's exposed neck, and she hauled back, using her full, sudden adult strength. The chains dug deep, and instead of merely cutting, the Claws began to rip and tear at the creature's massive throat with savage, frantic ferocity.

​It was violent. It was uncontrolled. It was the brutal, visceral, no-holds-barred killing style Kratos had used when consumed by the Old Fire.

​Kratos and Atreus watched in horrified silence. The Troll didn't just fall; it was ripped apart by the frenzied, desperate power of a child protecting her family. Calliope didn't stop until the creature’s fire was extinguished and its rock body was scattered debris.

​The Aftermath: The Clarity of Purpose

​Calliope stood over the ruins of the Troll, panting heavily. The red faded from her eyes. The Claws of Hades and the Gauntlet of Zeus vanished with a lingering puff of sulfur and ash. She looked down at her hands, which were trembling not from weakness, but from the terrifying aftershock of the immense power she had just channeled.

​She turned to face Kratos and Atreus. The innocent child's expression was back, but now it was layered with a deep, chilling conviction.

​"It will not hurt you," she stated, her voice shaking slightly but utterly firm. "No one. No thing. Ever again."

​Kratos looked at the carnage—the excessive, brutal violence—and saw himself reflected in the twisted, furious energy of his daughter. The message was clear, terrifying, and profoundly redemptive:

​Her Fire was his Old Fire, but its purpose was singular: family.

​Atreus, recovering from his shock, was the first to move. He didn't approach the Troll's remains; he rushed to Calliope and embraced her.

​"Calliope! You were amazing! But... that was too much," he whispered, holding her tight.

​Kratos stood silent for a moment, the weight of his promise heavy in the air. He had promised to keep the Old Fire quiet. He had failed. But seeing the result—the absolute, total commitment to protect the family he had rebuilt—offered a complex peace.

​"The journey is dangerous, Calliope," Kratos finally said, his voice low and serious. "The fire of protection is strong. But you must learn control. You almost consumed yourself."

​He looked at the siblings, a new resolution settling over him. He could not keep the power locked away. He had to teach her how to wield this terrifying echo of his past without letting it destroy her mind.

​"We go now," Kratos commanded. "We move faster. The mountain awaits. And your training begins now."