Ares-
Blood. Everywhere.
It soaked my hands, my arms, my chest. It smeared across my face in hot streaks, seeping into every crevice of my armor like it belonged there—like it had always belonged.
I didn't stop.
Even after Ogun's screams dulled into gurgles, even after he could no longer thrash beneath me—I didn't stop.
I slammed his head into the dirt again.
And again.
And again.
The ground cracked before his skull did.
But when it finally gave way—when I felt the bone shatter, soft and sickening beneath my grip—it was like something in me split open. I panted, face twisted, teeth bared like an animal. Ogun's blood was thick on my fingers, still warm, and his lifeless body sagged beneath me like a felled beast.
It was done. The great god of iron had fallen.
But I didn't have time to savor it.
A cry rang out—sharp, grief-stricken, furious—and a boy charged me, blade gleaming, tears streaming. His swing was wild, fueled by raw rage. I barely turned before I caught him by the throat.
I didn't think—I reacted.
My hand wrapped around his neck, lifting him like a ragdoll. His feet kicked, claws raked at my wrist, his weapon clattered from his grasp, but I didn't flinch. I squeezed. Harder. His life flickered in his eyes like a dying flame. I could see the desperation, the fear—and it thrilled something cold inside me.
"You thought you could kill me?" I snarled, watching his struggles weaken. "You dare raise your blade—?"
Then I heard it.
A whisper. A soft, desperate plea.
"Please… please don't."
It wasn't from the boy.
I turned.
And there she was.
A woman—no, more than a woman, though she tried to hide it. She stood just a few feet away, hands raised in surrender, lips trembling. Her eyes locked onto mine, wide and glassy with terror. But it wasn't fear for herself I saw.
It was for him.
Who was she?
I didn't know yet, but there was something about her that made me pause. She wasn't a warrior. Her presence—her aura—it wasn't like anyone else's on the battlefield. It buzzed with something… strange. Something not entirely human.
My grip on the boy's neck faltered, and I dropped him. He crumpled to the ground, weak but alive, while I studied her. She wasn't like the others. There was something wrong—something that didn't fit with the world I knew.
I looked down at the boy. His face—so much like Ogun's, the same eyes, the same blood—was a mirror of his father's, and I understood the connection in an instant. This was Ogun's son.
And the woman—her eyes, dark and intense, not afraid but something else entirely. They seemed to see right through me.
Then, as if the realization hit me all at once, I saw her kneel by the boy. Her hands moved quickly, glowing with a soft light, and I froze. The air around her seemed to shimmer. The boy's bruises vanished. The bloodstains faded from his skin, and the color returned to his face as the light emanating from her hands mended him.
I stared, feeling an unfamiliar pull in my chest.
She was doing this. She was raising the dead.
The pieces clicked together in that moment. The warriors who had fallen. The ones who rose again, stronger, fiercer than before.
It was her.
She wasn't just some innocent bystander. She was manipulating the very essence of life and death, pulling the strings of the fallen like they were nothing but clay. She had the power to give life—or perhaps to make death mean nothing at all.
But that was something I had to understand. And I would.
I turned back to the boy. His breathing had slowed, and though he had regained some of his strength, he still looked weak from the near-death experience. There was no time for him now.
I couldn't let this woman escape my notice.
I had to know her. I had to learn what she could do.
And maybe, just maybe, in that twisted moment, I understood something else as well. This wasn't just a battle for dominance. It was a test. A test for her, for me, for all of us.
My warriors, my enemies, all of it—it wasn't the end. It was just the beginning.
And I wasn't finished with them yet.
Not by a long shot.