NOVEL WEB Chapter 5: Chapter 5: The Observer
The crisp dawn air bit at Eirik's cheeks as he stood opposite Kratos in the clearing. His father's massive frame loomed like a mountain, the Leviathan Axe gleaming in his hand. At four years old, Eirik's strength already rivaled Kratos' pre-Ares power, but his movements still lacked the Spartan's lethal precision.
"Focus," Kratos growled, parrying Eirik's wooden training axe with a flick of his wrist. The blow sent the boy skidding backward, his boots carving furrows in the soil. "Speed means nothing without intent."
Eirik grinned, undeterred. He lunged again, this time feinting left before twisting mid-air to strike from the right. Kratos blocked, but a flicker of approval crossed his stony face.
"Better," he grunted. "But arrogance blinds."
"Arrogance?" Eirik laughed, twirling his axe. "I call it confidence, Father!"
Kratos' brow furrowed, but Faye's voice cut through the tension. "Breakfast!" she called from the cabin. Atreus poked his head out, already scribbling runes onto a scrap of parchment.
"Come, boy," Kratos said, sheathing his axe. "We resume tomorrow."
Eirik nodded, but his mind was already elsewhere.
After breakfast, while Atreus practiced archery and Kratos patrolled the woods, Eirik slipped away. The forest's wards hummed faintly—Faye's magic meant to shield them—but Eirik's Essence allowed him to phase through undetected. He emerged into a sunlit meadow, wildflowers swaying in the breeze. Midgard's beauty stunned him: rolling hills, jagged peaks crowned with snow, and rivers snaking like silver threads.
No Fimbulwinter yet, he mused, recalling the timeline. The world was still vibrant, untouched by Odin's scheming. But his gaze sharpened as he spotted movement on a distant ridge.
Freya.
The Vanir goddess stood atop the cliff, her cloak of falcon feathers rippling in the wind. Even from afar, Eirik recognized her grief—the slump of her shoulders, the way her fingers brushed the space where her Valkyrie wings once were. His past-life memories surged: Freya's curse on Baldur, her exile, her rage.
But thanks to his Essence, she couldn't sense him. Not her magic, not her instincts. To Freya, Eirik was a ghost.
He crept closer, hiding behind a boulder. Freya knelt, pressing her palm to the earth. Golden light pulsed beneath her fingers—a spell to track Baldur, perhaps? Her lips moved silently, tears streaking her cheeks.
Eirik's chest tightened. He knew her fate: a mother's love twisted into vengeance, a goddess reduced to a wraith. Part of him wanted to step forward, to warn her—but he clenched his fists. Not yet.
For days, he returned. Watched her grieve. Studied her magic. And plotted.
That evening, Faye met him at the cabin door, her arms crossed. "You've been wandering," she said, her tone sharp but eyes curious.
Eirik shrugged, adopting his best innocent grin. "Just exploring, Mother."
Faye studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. The runes had never spoken of him, and his presence was a mystery even to her. She wondered what secrets he carried, what plans he might be weaving. But she said nothing, her thoughts kept to herself.
Before she could reply, Atreus bounded over, clutching a rabbit he'd hunted. "Eirik! Did you see the Eagles today? They were—"
"Later, brother," Eirik said, tousling Atreus' hair. He glanced back at the forest's edge, where Freya's silhouette had vanished.
Soon, he vowed.