Heaven
The fighting stopped before anyone realized it had.
One moment, blades were swinging. The next, men were carrying men—enemies carrying enemies—because the bleeding didn't care about sides.
The battlefield became a hospital. Not by choice. By necessity.
Gods lay next to angels. Monsters leaned against broken pillars next to saints. Valkyries carried wounded Seraphim across cracked white stone. Greek healers knelt over angels with shattered wings, muturing old prayers that had never been meant for heavenly flesh. Egyptian priests pressed glowing hands against wounds that leaked golden light, whispering words older than Egypt itself.
No one argued.
No one had the energy.
Pain had made them all the same.
Ares stood near the edge of it all, sword on his shoulder, face twisted like he'd bitten into something rotten.
He hated this.
Didn't understand it.
