The storm that had followed Zeus back to Olympus still curled faintly around the great hall.
The throne room glowed with its own light—pillars etched with the battles of gods, braziers burning blue flame that never dimmed. The throne itself was carved from storm, veins of lightning whispering across its surface, alive but tamed. Zeus sat upon it, one hand resting heavy on the armrest, the other lifted in command.
The air shimmered.
Ares appeared in a crackle of red fire, bronze armor catching the glow, his great spear leaning casually against his shoulder. His face carried the same smirk it always did—the smirk of a warrior who had never feared consequence.
"You called, Father," he said, voice dripping with mockery. "Does this concern the Spartan again? He screams my name louder than he screams for his gods."
Zeus's electric-blue gaze fixed on him, cold and unyielding. "Sit."
Ares laughed. "I stand."
