Later that evening, Olympus was quieter. The sun had dipped just behind the edge of the mountain, casting long shadows across the golden halls. Torches lit the corridors with soft flickers of divine flame. Most of the gods had retreated to their chambers. The training ground was empty.
Ares walked alone.
His armor clinked softly as he moved, still half-dressed from earlier, his hair damp with sweat he hadn't bothered to wash off. His face was blank, but his thoughts weren't.
They kept replaying—his father's words, his mother's silence, Athena's warning.
He reached the grand door carved with peacocks and lilies. Hera's quarters. He didn't knock. He never had to.
The doors eased open as he stepped inside.
The room was warm, draped in wine-colored silk, gold accents glowing faintly in the low light. Incense burned gently in the corner, sweet and sharp. Pillars lined the walls, and a single garden tree bloomed from the center of the floor—olive, despite the irony.
