They landed hard.
Kratos rolled onto his side, one arm shielding Mithra as shards of black ice rained down around them. The world was cold, blue, and sharp. Wind howled like a banshee between jagged towers of frozen stone.
Kratos (worried): "Are you hurt?"
Mithra (softly): "No… I'm okay. Thanks to you."
Her hands trembled, not from the cold, but from the weight of the unknown pressing against her chest.
Mithra glanced around the icy wasteland, shivering
Mithra (shivering): "Where… where are we?"
Kratos rises to his feet, scanning the horizon with narrowed eyes, hand tightening on the Leviathan Axe.
Kratos (growling): "A trap. Or a trial."
(The frozen air bit against their skin, every breath hanging in pale mist. Before them, the humanoid figures of ice began to take shape—one of Kratos, one of Mithra. Their features were perfect mirrors, carved in frost, even down to the weapons in their hands.)
Mithra (tense): "They're watching us…"
(Kratos studied the one bearing his face. It lifted an axe of gleaming ice—the exact twin of the Leviathan Axe. His single eye narrowed. Slowly, he slid his real axe behind his back and stepped forward, unarmed.)
Mithra (worried):
"Master Kratos—what are you doing?!"
Kratos (low, steady): "Let them come."
Lesson of frost
(The ice-Kratos advanced, the frozen axe gleaming. But instead of bracing for combat, Kratos slid the Leviathan behind his back and began to walk forward. Slowly. Calmly. His eyes never left the mirror.)
(The double lifted its axe high, charging with an echoing roar. Mithra shut her eyes, bracing for the strike. But no impact came.)
(Silence.)
(When she opened them, the ice-Kratos stood frozen mid-swing. The axe hung suspended above Kratos' head, unmoving. Kratos stared directly into the hollow sockets where eyes should be, his face hard, unshaken.)
Kratos (calm, deep):
"…Just as I thought. You are not a reflection of the body alone… but of intent."
(The ice-double trembled, as though uncertain.)
Kratos:
"I carry no desire to harm you. Therefore… you cannot harm me."
(The weapon dissolved, crumbling to snow. The figure slowly lowered its arms and stepped back. The other ice-figures faltered, wavering like broken illusions. One by one, they melted into the frost mist, vanishing.)
(Mithra stared in awe, her small hand clutching her chest. Kratos turned slightly toward her, his voice softer now.)
Kratos:
"Remember this, girl. Strength is not only in the hand that strikes… but in the choice not to strike."
Child's play
(The ice figure lowered its weapon, uncertain. Kratos continued walking, Mithra hurrying close behind. More icy doubles formed along their path, lining the frozen corridor like silent statues. As they passed, one of the Mithra-shaped figures suddenly opened its eyes—glowing an eerie blue. It slipped from the line and padded after them on silent toes.)
(Mithra sensed something. She turned quickly—but found only still figures staring blankly. Frowning, she hurried after Kratos again. The blue-eyed figure darted behind the others, hiding. Then it crept forward once more and, with a mischievous flick, tapped Mithra's shoulder. She gasped, spinning around—only to see nothing. Her pulse quickened. When she turned back, the figure in her likeness was inches from her face, nose to nose.)
Mithra (screaming):"Aahhh!"
(The figure itself staggered back at her scream, almost as startled as she was. Kratos spun with the Leviathan Axe in hand, ready to strike. But the glowing-eyed figure panicked, dodging every swing, until it darted behind Mithra like a frightened child. It peeked over her shoulder, trembling.)
Kratos (growling, raising the axe):
"Out of the way."
Mithra (urgent, holding out her arms):
"Wait! Master Kratos—please. Something is different about this one."
(She glanced down. The figure trembled behind her, its glowing blue eyes wide, its icy hands clutching her tunic as though seeking shelter. Unlike the others, it didn't attack — it simply hid.)
Mithra (softly, kneeling):
"It's scared…"
(The figure froze, then slowly sank into the icy floor, its body half-submerged in frost. Only a single blue eye peeked out, glimmering nervously. Mithra's voice gentled further, her tone patient and warm.)
Mithra:
"Don't run… it's all right. We won't hurt you. I promise."
(Slowly, shakily, the figure rose from the frost. Still shaped like her, but smaller now, fragile. It studied her warily, then inched closer. Mithra extended her hand, palm open, her fingers trembling slightly. The ice-Mithra hesitated, then lifted its own crystalline hand, laying it carefully into hers.)
(She pulled it free, gentle as if drawing a child out of hiding. The figure's lips cracked into the faintest smile — not cruel, not mocking, but soft. A smile that seemed to whisper: thank you.)