The wind died. The mountain itself seemed to be holding its breath.
Ares took a single, ground-shaking step forward, the point of his greatsword scraping a furrow in the stone. The fire along its edge roared, hungry for kindling.
"Do not go all out on him, Ares."
The voice was a thunderclap inside his own skull. His father's. Ares's head twitched a fraction, his burning gaze snapping from Kratos to the high throne where Zeus sat, impassive. A flicker of confusion, then irritation, crossed what little of his face was visible. Don't go all out? This was an insult. He was being asked to swat a fly with a careful tap, not the satisfying crush it deserved.
He shrugged, a massive rolling of iron-clad shoulders, and looked back at the silent Spartan. The order chafed, but it changed nothing. A quick, controlled kill would still be a kill.
