Ares had lost his mind.His anger burned low and ugly. His hands hurt. The sand had found its way into every place it didn't belong.
He stomped through the gray waste, throwing handfuls of sand into the air, watching them fall in wild arcs. The shapes flickered around him — soft outlines, things that shouldn't be there and yet were. He could see them now even without the sand, their bodies half-formed, their presence like pressure on the air.
He had tried to talk to them, begged them to stay, but they always vanished. Always just out of reach. Always at the edge of something he couldn't cross.
Now he was done with them.He wanted the old man.That was the only thing that mattered.
He shouted into the emptiness."You don't want to talk to me? You don't want to see me? Fine!" He kicked the sand. His voice cracked. "Stay hiding, you old bastard! I'll show you what hiding gets you!"
He yanked at his belt and pulled his trousers down, panting, half laughing. His hands trembled as he scooped a handful of sand so he wouldn't soil his own hand. He crouched low, muttering through gritted teeth."Let's see if you can ignore this, huh?"
But before anything could come of it, the world clenched.Pain rolled through him like a wave, deep and silent. His body twisted; the air folded, and he felt himself squeezed through a hole that wasn't there.
Then—Silence.
He was standing in the hallway again. Light from the burning sea poured through the far arch, making pale bars across the floor. His body ached in every joint. His breath rasped.
Something felt wrong.The silence was too heavy.
Then came a small sound—a soft thud against his hand.
Ares froze. He looked down, groaned, and nearly gagged.
Then, from his left, came a quiet ahem.
He didn't want to turn.He knew that voice.
He turned anyway.
Emma stood there, one brow slightly raised, face unreadable. For a heartbeat, a flicker of something—shock, maybe—broke her calm. Then it vanished.
Ares stared at the floor, mortified. He tried to act natural, pretending to brush sand from his fingers, flicking the foul thing into the corner as if it were nothing but dirt. He clapped his hands, too fast, trying to play it off.
"I—uh—" He cleared his throat. "That was—well—"
Emma's face remained still."I think," she said evenly, "you should get a shower, Master Everest. And maybe eat something. Clearly, your current approach is… not working."
Ares wanted to crawl into the floor.
Emma continued, her tone calm but edged with warning."There are three months left before the semester starts. You've already wasted one. Before you can even enter, you must learn the basics with the children. Time is not on your side."
She stepped past him and stopped at the door."I would suggest a bath. Eat something. Then try again. Perhaps with less… enthusiasm."
Then she walked away.
The bath was near the pantry.He stripped, washed, and stayed under the hot water until the steam turned his skin red. The gray washed away easily. The smell did not. The shame didn't either. It clung like sand to wet skin.
When he came out, the air was thick with food. His stomach clenched. His hands ached, raw and cut, but the pain kept him grounded. He followed the smell to the pantry and sat.
Beth was there.She always was.She looked up from the pot and smiled, warm and round, like home.
"The old man hasn't been kind to you?" she said. Beth had become familiar with the old man from listening to Ares when he raved while wolfing down his food.
"Something like that," he muttered.
"Well, sit then. Eat. You look like you might bite someone."
He sat.
The food came in waves—roasted birds, a plate of lamb, a few strange meats whose smell made him think of the shifting shapes in the gray world. There was soup again, the golden one, thick and rich and glowing faintly under the light. He spooned it down fast. It hit something deep inside him.
Beth leaned on the counter, watching."You've been at it again, haven't you?"
Ares swallowed. "At what?"
She shrugged. "At that poor old man. You keep shouting at him like he owes you something."
He tried to grin, but it came out stiff. "It's not working."
"No," she said simply. "Maybe stop yelling at him." She stirred the pot and gave him a sideways look. "People rarely listen when you throw… things at them."
He froze. Her words were soft, but the meaning landed sharp.
Beth smiled to herself. "Show a bit of care. Maybe then he'll come out of hiding. Sometimes a kind word can do wonders."
Ares rubbed his neck. "You think that'll work?"
She shrugged again. "Couldn't hurt. And it'll save me some cleaning, won't it?"
He let out a short, embarrassed laugh. It was the only thing he could do.
When he finished eating, he sat there for a while, feeling the ache of his hands and the quiet hum of the stone in his pocket. The shame was still there, but it had softened into something else—resolve, maybe.
He nodded to himself, stood, and went back toward his room.
He didn't have a plan yet. But he would.
Next time, he'd try something different.Words, maybe.Patience.Something the old man couldn't simply push away.
In an unknown room, Emma stood stunned."Master Ares has unique hobbies. I probably shouldn't shake his hand, or let him near me…" she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else.