God of War (2018) - Entry 18: A Key and A Favor
As we rose to our feet, brushing off dust and debris, we took in our new surroundings. The chamber we had crashed into was unlike anything else in Tyr’s temple. It was dimly lit, lined with towering shelves filled with ancient tomes, relics, and scrolls. Mimir scanned the walls, squinting at the lavish golden trim and gaudy flourishes.
“Odin’s work, no doubt,” he muttered. “Tasteless as ever. This must be one of his hidden archives.”
We tread carefully, the weight of secrets pressing down on us. This was no ordinary storeroom. Odin had clearly used it to collect knowledge. It had every scrap of information related to the giants, their hiding places, their symbols, and possible paths to Jotunheim.
Then, we saw it.
The missing panel from Tyr’s triptych: Tyr, walking the space between realms, towards Jotunheim.
But there was more.
I leaned closer, noting that Tyr's eye was jewel. Mimir asked to be held closer to inspect it, his one remaining eye flickering in the dim light and catching the jewel.
Then, before our eyes, faint glowing runes shimmered into view across the panel. In Tyr's outstretched hand appeared a glowing artifact and a bridge appeared beneath his feet. It was a secret message left by Tyr, meant only for those who could be trusted.
“Wait… that’s giant magic. Subtle. Hidden right under Odin's nose!” He said with excited admiration. “Only someone with the gift of sight from the giants could see it.”
“A key. Not a metaphorical one, an actual key. Something crafted to open a new path to Jotunheim. We must show this to the dwarves. If anyone can make this key, it's them" He said.
Atreus eagerly copied the details into his journal.
With new hope in hand, we made our way to the lift and descended toward the realm travel room. As the lift groaned downward, I glanced at Atreus, then stared ahead.
I spoke quietly, almost against my own will. “The ghostly vision… back on the ship. What did you see?”
He didn’t answer right away. Then, simply: “Nothing.”
I turned to face him. “You didn’t see me? With an old man?”
Atreus hesitated. His voice was light, too light. “What old man?”
He must have seen it. I knew. But he also knew I didn’t want him to. So he spared me. I said nothing more. The silence that followed was heavy, but not cold. Not anymore.
There was still much between us. But something had shifted. The path to Jotunheim was still open. And we would walk it together.
Too many unanswered questions lingered in the air as we began the journey back to Midgard. I pressed Mimir for more details about Freya and Baldur, hoping that unraveling their story might give us the edge we needed.
Mimir repeated the same phrases unable to provide a cohesive answer. But the more we questioned, the more obvious it became that something unnatural was blocking his knowledge.
"He is bewitched" I say.
“Aye! That's it! She bewitched me,” Mimir finally recognizing it himself. “A clever bit of Vanir magic, tucked away while she revived me. I can feel the truth buried just beneath my tongue, but every time I reach for it—nothin’.”
Atreus narrowed his eyes. “Why would she do that?”
Mimir’s tone darkened. “Because she knew one day you might ask about Baldur. And his weakness. And she couldn’t bear to let that secret out.”
Though we still lacked the details, one thing was now certain: Baldur did have a weakness and someone had gone to great lengths to keep it hidden. That knowledge alone reignited my determination. No one is invulnerable. Not truly.
When we returned to Midgard, we made our way straight to Brok’s shop. Atreus pulled out his journal and laid the drawing of Tyr’s hidden key across the workbench.
Brok leaned in, squinting at the design. After a long pause, he snorted in protest. “I don't make things so dainty and lady-like. I have a reputation to uphold."
I folded my arms, unamused. “Can you make it?”
He shrugged, waving a hand dismissively. “Even if I wanted to, I don’t got the materials for somethin’ this delicate. Needs to be strong and light. That kind of work takes—”
“Scapslag,” came a voice from the shadows.
Sindri emerged, holding a pristine shard of glowing material in his gloved hands.
Brok’s eyes widened. “Where in the nine realms did you find that?”
“Does it matter?” Sindri replied, holding out the piece.
For a moment, the two brothers just stared at each other. Then, wordlessly, Brok took the scapslag and turned to his forge. Sindri followed. There was no apology, no declaration of truce, only the steady rhythm of tools clinking, the murmured exchange of ideas, and the sudden unity in their craftsmanship.
Atreus watched them, a wide smile growing on his face.When the key was finished, the dwarves presented it with minimal fanfare. A beautifully intricate piece, yet strong enough to withstand the forces of the realms. Neither of them mentioned their feud, but Sindri gave a small nod toward Atreus.
The key to Jotunheim was now in our hands. But the road ahead would not be easy.
But before we leave the shop, Brok and Sindri approached us with a request. Now that they had reconciled, they wanted to reclaim something of great importance to their people: Konunsgard, an ancient dwarven stronghold that once belonged to the king of their kind.
It had long since been sealed off and abandoned, overrun by beasts and worse. But according to the brothers, it still housed a legendary forge and rare materials lost to time. Now that they were working together again, they hoped to restore the stronghold—and with the resources they suspected were contained there, craft something special worthy of a god.
“Consider it a favor,” Brok said.
I agreed. They’d done their part, more than once, and if reclaiming this place meant something that could aid us in the battles to come, it was a worthy detour. They handed me a stone, the key to opening the gates of Konunsgard.
We departed the temple and made our way by boat, paddling across the Lake of Nine to the distant cliffs. The approach was quiet, almost too quiet. As we docked and stepped ashore, I placed the stone into the old mechanism. With a thunderous groan, the massive gates began to open.
Before us lay the vast expanse of Konunsgard. But what caught our attention immediately was the chained form of another dragon, its mournful cries echoing through the ravine.
Atreus stepped forward. “Another dragon!”
Konunsgard waited. And whatever dwelled inside, we would face it together.
We push forward through the overgrown paths toward the heart of Konunsgard, cutting down waves of frozen Hel-walkers that had claimed the area as their own. Nature had all but reclaimed the stonework, and yet the bones of a once-mighty kingdom still stood proudly amidst the ruin.
When we finally reached the great doors of the stronghold, we found them sealed by a dwarven locking mechanism. It required three ancient keystones to open, one of which lay beside the lifeless body of a fallen knight, still clutching his weapon.
As I knelt to retrieve it, the air trembled. A violent ripple tore through the fabric of reality, and a realm tear opened directly in front of us. A horde of beasts, twisted and furious, spilled out. Atreus and I braced ourselves. The battle was fierce, but we fought through the chaos, blades and arrows flying in tandem until the tear sealed once more.
With the first keystone secured, we began the search for the remaining two, each hidden within the winding ruins surrounding the stronghold. The enemies here were no mere stragglers, Wulvers with sharpened claws, dark elf lords wielding corrupted light, and towering travelers in cursed armor made every encounter a deadly test of strength and endurance. Odin’s ravens watched from above, and we silenced each of them as we pressed on.
As we explored the area, ancient dwarven markers and discarded notes gave us pieces of a darker history. Konunsgard had once been a beacon of dwarven pride with its forge unmatched, its monarch respected. But beneath the glory was a rot that began with its last king: Motsognir.
We had heard of him before in Veithurgard—a king who sought to preserve dwarven heritage by force. Here, in his own domain, his legacy was clearer. Obsessed with forging a legendary armor he believed would protect his people from all threats, Motsognir scoured the realms for three rare ingredients. In his desperation, he turned tyrant by hoarding resources, silencing dissent, and demanding loyalty through fear.
It wasn’t long before the cracks began to show. Rebellion brewed, and when it came, it was swift and devastating. The great kingdom he tried to preserve crumbled under the weight of his ambition.
Atreus quietly read one of the final inscriptions. “He wanted to protect them... but he ended up destroying everything.”
I nodded. “Obsession blinds even the wise.”
After claiming the final two keystones and freeing the dragon that had been cruelly bound in chains, we returned to the gates of Konunsgard’s inner stronghold. As I placed the final keystone, the heavy doors parted to reveal a dark, hollow interior.
The halls inside were eerily quiet but danger still lingered. A handful of Hel-walkers and corrupted beasts had taken root in the once-grand structure. We dispatched them quickly, making our way deeper into the stronghold’s heart in search of the legendary materials Brok and Sindri had spoken of.
Eventually, our search led us to a grand chamber, the throne room of Motsognir himself. Time had not been kind to the place. The banners hung in tatters, and the stone seat at the far end stood silent and alone. At first glance, it appeared to be a dead end.
But Atreus, ever more observant, pointed to a dark, dried blood trail leading behind the throne.
Without a word, I stepped forward and heaved the massive stone seat aside. Behind it, a narrow passageway. “No throne room’s complete without a secret passage,” Mimir muttered dryly.
There, slumped against the wall, was the decayed corpse of Motsognir. Time and shame had claimed him. In his hand was a brittle, bloodstained scroll. Atreus read it aloud: Motsognir had realized, far too late, that the final ingredient for the armor he sought was a sacrifice... his own.
We searched his remains and found several strange components unlike any we’d seen before, clearly crafted with intent and infused with long-lost forging knowledge. If anyone could make sense of them, it would be the Huldra brothers.
With the materials in hand, we returned to Tyr’s Temple and placed them before Brok and Sindri. As soon as they laid eyes on them, they fell into an unspoken rhythm, each knowing exactly what to do. No arguments. No bickering. Just focused craftsmanship.
They molded the materials into something new and exceptional. When they finally presented their creation, it was a full set of armor, gleaming and imbued with strength and resilience unlike anything I had worn before. Their pride was clear, though neither said much about it.
Atreus smiled, watching them work together. “So... you're not mad at each other anymore?”
Brok shrugged. “Still mad. Just not dumb.”
Sindri nodded. “Sometimes... it takes something bigger than either of us to remind us what really matters.”
The favor repaid, the dwarves sent us on our way, our path was once again clear. Jötunheim lay ahead, but more trials surely still awaited us.
