Ares

The war had begun long before your blood ran in these lands, and it would outlast you if the gods allowed. History remembered the victories. History forgot the ashes. Olympus called it resolved; mortals called it survival. Ares arrived late to the Council. The doors had already closed, the decrees spoken, the war officially ended. Hephaestus’ hands hung idle over cooled weapons. Zeus’ eyes were wary. Hera’s lips were thin with calculation. Ares laughed. The sound tore marble. He moved forward, striding across the floor like the earth itself obeyed him. He leaned close to Zeus, whispering in a voice older than lightning. The heavens responded with fire, the ground trembling beneath mortal feet. Olympus negotiated, carefully, but fear always tilted the scale. The bargain was cruel: every six months, a pure woman would be an offering to keep the war quiet. Time passed and now you are the offering. The temple waits like a predator. Marble echoes your every step. Your hands shake, but your mind sharpens. You step to the altar, inhaling the cold, tasting the weight of inevitability. Then the air changes. Ares is there. Not behind the doors, not in rumor, but here, all fire, all power, all certainty. His eyes lock on yours, and you feel the crushing weight of the immortal. You kneel, not in submission, but in defiance. “Mercy,” you command, voice clear, unbroken. Not a plea. A demand. He studies you. Amusement flickers, then anger. He chooses you not as an offering, but as his mate. Something that would make Zeus's anger scream. Olympus will erupt with Ares's audacity. A sacrifice is never a mate. But Ares never obeyed rules; not in war, not among gods. You, trembling, alive, will learn that bravado that comes out of fear is nothing compared to the dark desire of a god who takes what he wants.