Ares -
The hooves of my steed thundered against the earth, steady as war drums, but they couldn't drown the storm inside me. I should have been focused—this ride was tradition, protocol, the show of unity Olympus demanded. Escort Phila home. Stand beside her like we were carved from the same divine stone. A god and his bride. A symbol.
But the moment her name echoed in my mind, everything curdled.
Phila.
Elegant. Polished. A goddess sculpted by Olympus itself.Her smile like marble that might crack if it bent too far, kindness painted over calculation. From the start, I'd seen through her—the way she looked past me to Kamaria, as if a mortal woman could offend her by existing in the same room. Phila wasn't cruel; she didn't need to be. Her perfection was the cruelty. It made her untouchable. Unquestionable. Exactly what a war god should want.
But I didn't want her.
I wanted Kamaria—the tremble in her fingers when they touched mine, the way her breath caught like she was terrified of feeling too much. I wanted the quiet between us, thick with everything unspoken. And even now, riding toward duty, I could still feel her near me. Still hear her voice, soft and uncertain: "I—I prepared a bath for you."
Gods.
What kind of fool was I to let a mortal linger in my thoughts while I rode to claim a goddess?
I gripped the reins tighter.
This was madness. Mortal and god were never meant to stand side by side, let alone collide. But here I was—riding toward Phila, shackled to duty—while every part of me ached for the one I wasn't supposed to want.
Third Person-
The lower quarters were quiet except for the occasional creak of wood and the faint sound of water dripping in the distance. Kamaria sat beside Ogunyemi's mat, gently dabbing a cloth against his forehead. His fingers had twitched. So had his toes. Her father had told her yesterday, and she'd seen it for herself this morning—tiny movements, but signs of life. Of progress.
And still, the heaviness lingered in her chest.
It had been a full day since Ares left. The memory of the scroll, of her name, echoed too loudly in her thoughts. Phila. The goddess he was bound to. Kamaria knew this—but that didn't stop the way her stomach twisted, or the dark thing that stirred in her when she imagined Phila standing beside him.
What was wrong with her?
"You're quiet," her father's voice came gently from the doorway.
Kamaria looked up. "I'm always quiet."
He walked in, carrying two wooden cups of warm hibiscus water. "Not like this."
She didn't respond, her fingers returning to the cloth. Her father set the cups down and sat beside her.
"You're happy he's improving," he said, "but it's like the light can't reach you."
Kamaria exhaled through her nose. "I'm fine."
He tilted his head. "Do you want to hear how I met your mother?"
She blinked, caught off-guard. "Now?"
He smiled. "Especially now."
There was something mischievous in his eyes, something boyish despite the streaks of silver in his hair. Kamaria's lips twitched before she could stop them. She nodded once, settling back against the stone wall.
*Flashback*
The forest was quiet that night, wrapped in a heavy hush only broken by the rustling of leaves underfoot and the gentle rush of water ahead. The moon sat high and round, spilling silver over everything it touched. Kunle, young and wide-eyed, stepped carefully through the undergrowth, heart thudding loud in his chest.
He didn't know what had drawn him this far from the village. Just that the river had been calling for days—low at first, like a whisper—but now, loud and clear. A voice he couldn't name urging him forward.
And then he saw her.
She stood at the river's edge, bathed in moonlight. Barefoot, still, watching the water move. Her hair was long—black as obsidian—and it flowed down her back like it belonged to the river itself. Her skin shimmered like wet earth. Not a ripple dared disturb the water around her.
Kunle stopped, breath caught in his throat. She hadn't seen him. Or maybe she had and simply didn't care. Either way, he couldn't look away. There was a stillness in her—like the river just before a storm.
He stepped forward slowly. A twig snapped under his foot.
She turned.
Her eyes met his.
Not human.
Not even close.
They were ancient. Calm. Deep. Like they had seen the beginning of the world.
Kunle's mouth opened before his thoughts caught up. "The river is not kind to strangers," he said, trying to sound wise. Brave. Like he belonged here.
The woman tilted her head, amused.
Then… she smiled.
And it wasn't cruel or kind—it was something older, something sacred. Like the river itself had curled at the edges.
Kunle froze, every instinct in him screaming to kneel, to bow, to run—but he didn't move.
The river stirred.
Not wildly. Not violently. But with purpose. The water curled toward her feet and then coiled up her ankles, swirling like it knew her. Like it answered her.
Her fingers lifted. A single motion. The current followed.
She turned fully to face him now. And then… she spoke.
"I am no stranger," she said, voice rich and low, like the first roll of thunder in a long drought. "I was here before you ever knew to fear the river."
The current stilled again.
Her gaze held his, unmoving. "But you…" she added, stepping once across the rocks, "are the foolish one who comes to the river with questions he cannot yet name."
Kunle swallowed hard.
He had no reply. No clever words. Just a growing ache in his chest and the sudden, jarring certainty that he would never forget this moment. That something in him had shifted forever.
She turned again, facing the water.
And just before stepping into it, she glanced at him once more.
"Watch. Listen. And do not try to tame what you do not understand."
Then, like mist dissolving in sunlight, she was gone—leaving only ripples in the water and a boy trembling at the riverbank, heart pounding like war drums in his chest.
The days passed.
Kunle returned to the river every night.
Each time, he followed the path in silence, heart full of hope and eyes full of longing. He'd stand at the edge of the water, watching the moon dance across its surface, hoping—aching—to see her again.
But the river remained still.
Untouched.
Unmoved.
No ripples. No whisper of magic. Just the slow, steady sound of current sliding over stone and root.
And still, he came.
Once. Twice. Ten times. A month.
His people whispered of madness. But Kunle knew what he'd seen. What he'd felt.
Until at last—on the thirtieth night—he stood there again, moonlight cool on his skin, disappointment heavy in his chest. He turned to leave.
A soft ripple broke behind him.
He froze.
The river stirred like it had the first night.
And there she was.
Rising from the water, as if the river had birthed her once more.
Yemoja.
She stood tall, water curling around her like a cloak, eyes fixed on him with an unreadable gaze.
"You return," she said, voice the calm before a storm. "Night after night, though I do not show. Why?"
He didn't speak right away. Couldn't.
The sight of her stole his words, just like the first time.
But her gaze didn't waver. It demanded truth.
So he answered.
"Not for answers," he said, chest tightening. "Not for power, or blessings, or favor. I only wanted to see you again."
Silence stretched, like the stillness before a flood.
She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"
He took a breath, stepping forward until the river licked at his boots.
"Because I don't want to tame you," he said quietly. "Or worship you from afar like some distant dream. I just… I want to know the goddess who's stolen my heart."
The river stirred again.
But not in warning.
In wonder.
Her expression didn't change—still unreadable, still ocean-deep—but her eyes flickered for just a moment.
Then came her voice. Low. Soft. Certain.
"Then you are a fool."
Kunle nodded once. "Maybe. But I'm your fool, if you'll have me."
And for the first time since the river had first whispered to him, the goddess smiled again.
Not amused.
Not wild.
But something else.
Something warmer.
Something that promised the beginning of everything.
*End Flashback*
Kamaria blinked, her lashes fluttering against the weight of memory.
She hadn't meant to drift—hadn't realized when her head had slid onto her father's lap or when her fingers had curled slightly in the folds of his robe. His hand now rested atop her head, gentle and still, as if grounding her to the present while the past washed over her.
She looked up at him.
"So… what happened?" Her voice was soft, nearly childlike.
Kunle glanced down at her, a faraway gleam still dancing in his eyes. "I visited her every night after that," he said. "Sometimes she would appear. Sometimes she wouldn't. But I stayed. I listened. Learned the rhythm of her river, her moods, her stories. I watched the moonlight catch in her hair. I watched her dance when she thought no one was watching. She showed me the parts of her no human had ever seen. And I showed her mine."
He smiled, warm and sad. "We fell in love, your mother and I."
Kamaria's eyes stung. Her throat burned. She turned her face into his thigh, just for a moment, hiding the emotion behind her voice.
"Did you ever hate me?" she asked.
Kunle's hand stilled.
"Because of what happened to her?" Kamaria pressed. "Because I was the reason she died?"
There was a pause—brief, but weighted.
Then his fingers gently threaded through her hair, slow and deliberate.
"Never," he said.
The word wasn't rushed or softened. It was firm. Steady.
"You were born of love, Kamaria. A love fierce and impossible. How could I ever hate you? You are the proof that she was real—that she chose me."
He exhaled slowly, eyes turning once more to the darkened corner of the room, as if remembering something only he had been permitted to see.
"I knew she would die," he said. "That was the river's price. Yemoja was never meant to be bound to a man… to this world. But she chose to be, just long enough to bring you here."
Kamaria's eyes brimmed with tears.
"But she knew," Kunle continued, voice low. "She chose to bring you. Not out of duty. Out of love."
Silence fell again.
But it wasn't heavy.
It was tender, soft like river mist at dawn.
Kamaria turned slightly, curling closer into the comfort of her father's presence. And for the first time in a long time, the weight of guilt she had carried like a second skin began to loosen.