With the Infinity project finally finished, Zelos deliberately turned more of his attention back to family life, spending longer afternoons with Faye and with Atreus as the boy grew into a nervous, awkward child. Kratos had never been wrong to treat Atreus like something fragile—every winter, the younger boy fell sick in ways that worried even Faye.
Atreus' coughs sometimes ended with blood, and Zelos would do what he could to staunch the wounds and mend the body. Yet there was a balance at work inside the boy that Zelos could not fix by healing flesh alone: a struggle between a physical nature and a spiritual nature, two halves at war. Zelos could repair bones, close lungs, and knit skin, but he could not soothe the spiritual discord that lay beneath those symptoms; that, he believed, required Kratos in a way that medical cures did not.
Because of that, one hunting afternoon, Zelos decided to speak plainly. He walked beside Kratos through the trees until a moment opened between their strides, then stopped and looked at his father. "Father, may I discuss a matter with you?" Zelos asked. Kratos halted, turned, and met him. It was the first time Zelos had used such a deliberate, serious tone with him.
"What is it?" Kratos asked.
"Have you thought about telling Atreus the truth about our nature?" Zelos said, the question cutting straight to the heart of the secret both of them held. For a moment Kratos' face hardened—he had guarded that truth carefully, thinking he was the only one to bear its burden. But Zelos had not been fooled by secrecy; he had understood the moment he awoke in this body.
"How did you know?" Kratos asked, surprise sharp enough to make the words short.
Zelos raised his hand and murmured a quick incantation: "Perfect Cube." In an instant they were enclosed in a small white chamber, a cube of his own making. The room had no windows and no sound could leak in or out; no one could teleport in, no eavesdropper could pierce it without his permission. The space was deliberately plain—featureless white walls and a blank floor—so there was nothing to distract from the matter at hand. Kratos looked around, alert and suspicious, while Zelos watched him calmly.
"I figured it out while I was practicing magic," Zelos explained. "Mother's magic signature is different from ours. But your signature, Atreus' signature, and mine—they match. We share the same kind of nature, something Faye does not have. I checked against other residents of Midgard to be sure—simple scans through our familiars' sight and small signature probes—and it confirmed what I suspected."
Kratos' jaw tightened. "I hoped to spare him a lifetime of anguish," he said quietly. "I thought keeping it hidden was better. I did not expect you to learn so young."
"I know you wanted to protect him," Zelos said, straightforward. "I respect that. But Atreus is growing weaker. His sickness is not only a body failing; it's the two natures fighting inside him. If left alone, it could turn fatal."
Kratos closed his eyes for a long breath; the silence in the white cube stretched by the strange geometry Zelos had woven into it. The cube, Zelos explained, contained a mild time-dilation field: subjective time inside flowed faster than outside. It gave them more of their own time to speak, test ideas, and try quick demonstrations without losing hours in the woods beyond the cube's walls. Kratos realized there was comfort in the design—time to think with fewer consequences—and it made the choice feel heavier.
"Why have you not told me before?" Kratos asked at last, anger edged with regret.
Zelos answered plainly: "I wanted to honor your choice to keep it secret. But the situation has changed. I have been healing Atreus' body, but every treatment only repairs a symptom. The root is the internal conflict. We need a plan that addresses both the spirit and the flesh. If we do not act, I fear the sickness will worsen."
Kratos considered the boy before him—his son and a living reminder of a past he had tried to bury. He let the silence sit a moment longer, feeling the extra hours in the cube like a weight and a relief. Finally he said, low and deliberate, "We will not throw him into the world without guiding him. But I cannot promise I will tell him everything at once. Some truths must be given slowly; some must be shaped by circumstance."
Zelos nodded. He did not press for an immediate confession. Instead he proposed the practical next steps he had already been thinking about: more frequent, gentle monitoring of Atreus' spiritual state; combining Faye's Vanir remedies for the body with controlled exercises to help Atreus recognize and name his inner shifts; and consulting Mimir for lore about binding and harmonizing dual natures. Kratos listened. The white cube gave them time to outline a beginning—small steps rather than a single revelation.
When they left the cube, the forest looked unchanged, as if no time had passed. Kratos' expression was unreadable, but Zelos felt a cautious shift. The secret would not be spilled recklessly. It would be handled, slowly, with care—and with the deliberate discipline that Kratos believed in.
"It is not yet the time to reveal it," Kratos finally said after a heavy pause, his voice carrying the weight of a decision he had settled on long ago. "I would ask only this of you: continue to heal your brother whenever you can, until the day comes when the truth must be spoken. And keep this conversation between us, Zelos. Not a word to Atreus."
Kratos' tone left little room for argument, though Zelos caught the faint shadow of hesitation buried beneath it. The man had made his choice, a choice that would one day become a source of regret. In the original course of fate, Atreus' condition nearly cost him his life, saved only by Freya's intervention. But this was not the same path. In this altered thread of the world, Zelos existed, and with him came the resolve that no matter what, he would not allow his younger brother to die from an illness that could be managed, even if imperfectly.
"If that is your decision, Father, then I will respect it," Zelos answered, keeping his voice calm and steady. "I may not agree with it, but I will honor it."
Kratos' stern face softened just slightly at those words. He gave a small nod, and for a rare moment, his lips curved into something resembling a smile—a brief recognition that his eldest son understood discipline, even when it conflicted with his own beliefs.
Zelos raised his hand, and with a faint shimmer, the Perfect Cube began to contract. The walls of the white void rippled, folding inward until they collapsed into a single point of light. In the blink of an eye, Kratos and Zelos were once again standing in the familiar forest, the smell of pine and the sound of distant wind returning as if nothing had happened. To the world outside, not a second had passed.
The conversation remained sealed within them, buried in silence. Kratos carried his decision forward, firm but heavy, while Zelos carried his own vow—to obey, yet to act in his own way to protect Atreus from the shadows of fate.