Ares strode through the great hall like a storm about to break—his eyes burning like embers, his fists clenched, and each step echoing like muffled thunder on the sacred marble. The aura surrounding him was heavy, wild, like the restrained roar of a war about to explode.
High on his throne, Zeus remained impassive. Majestic, cold, almost ethereal. His gray gaze, like storm clouds, showed no surprise—only the silent contempt of one who believes himself above the chaos he provokes.
"What exactly went through that rotten head of yours," growled Ares, his voice firm as steel about to be driven home, "to think that playing with the body of a Demonic Dragon was a... strategic decision?"
Zeus raised an eyebrow, vaguely bored, as if listening to the bark of a dog too tired to bite.
"I didn't play with anything," he replied at last, his voice like thunder and decree. "I merely claimed what was already lost. A useless corpse. Dead earth."
