The next day passed like any other on Olympus.
Blue skies. Silver halls. Gods laughing, arguing, whispering about mortal offerings.
But Hera watched it all like a spider watching a web. Quiet. Still. Patient.
Ares trained harder than usual. He broke a dozen spears, bruised his own fists, and even snapped at Deimos when he didn't block fast enough. His mind wasn't on the fight anymore. Not really. His strikes were heavy, wild—just like the dreams that were starting to claw at him again. Fire. Screams. Wings that weren't wings.
He hadn't told anyone.
Especially not his father.
Zeus hadn't even noticed.
But Hera did.
—
That evening, while Ares bathed in the courtyard pool—rinsing blood from his chest—Aphrodite passed by.
Just a glance. A flicker of perfume. Her hips swayed like the tide, and for a second, Ares forgot how to breathe.
He looked away.
She didn't.
He caught her reflection in the water. Smiling. Eyes dancing with something dangerous.
