The halls of Dreadspire stood quieter than they had in years.
Behind sealed doors, within a chamber few were ever permitted to enter, two presences sat across from one another—calm on the surface, yet carrying the weight of something far older than the academy itself.
Zeus stood near the window, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. Beside him, the air shifted subtly as Poseidon leaned against a stone pillar, arms folded, his expression more direct, less restrained.
For a time, neither spoke.
Then Poseidon broke the silence.
"Every time he returns… the world begins to fracture."
His voice carried no exaggeration, only observation. "The undead rising. Kingdoms destabilizing. War spreading faster than it should."
Zeus did not turn.
"It is not coincidence," Poseidon continued. "It follows him."
A pause.
Then, more pointed—
"Or perhaps… it answers him."
Zeus' gaze lowered slightly, his expression tightening in thought. "It has always been that way."
Poseidon's eyes narrowed. "You speak of it like it's inevitable."
Zeus finally turned.
"Ares is not like the others," he said, his voice calm but firm. "He was never meant to be."
He stepped forward slightly, the weight of his presence filling the room in a way that did not need to be shown.
"Men are born from mothers and fathers. They are shaped by love, by time, by choice."
A brief pause.
"Ares was not."
The words settled heavily.
"He was born from war itself. Not into it—of it."
Poseidon watched him carefully now, listening.
"He is not simply drawn to conflict," Zeus continued. "He embodies it. Wherever he exists, war finds its way to him. And where war exists… he grows stronger."
A quiet realization hung between them, unspoken but understood.
Poseidon exhaled slowly. "Then that makes him the best weapon you have against Hades."
"It does," Zeus replied.
"But it also makes him the most dangerous."
Poseidon straightened slightly, his tone sharpening. "And what happens when he stops holding back?"
Zeus did not answer immediately.
For a moment, his gaze drifted—not to the present, but somewhere far beyond it. To something remembered. Something regretted.
"…then he becomes what he was before."
Poseidon's expression hardened. "And if that happens?"
Zeus met his gaze directly now.
"Then he must be stopped."
The room grew still.
Poseidon already knew the answer, but he asked anyway.
"By who?"
Zeus did not hesitate.
"By Heracles."
Poseidon's brow furrowed slightly. "Your other son."
"The embodiment of strength," Zeus said. "Where Ares grows through conflict, Heracles stands as something constant. Enduring. Unyielding."
A pause.
"If Ares loses himself," Zeus continued, quieter now, "then Heracles is the one who must bring him down."
Poseidon studied him for a moment, searching for doubt.
He found none.
"…you're prepared for that," Poseidon said.
Zeus did not look away.
"I have to be."
—
Far from the academy—
The world felt different.
Darker.
Heavier.
Ares moved through it without pause.
The path stretched ahead of him, winding through forests and broken land, leading ever closer to something deeper, something waiting beneath the surface of the world.
His steps were steady.
His breathing controlled.
But his eyes—
They were different.
There was no hesitation in them. No uncertainty. Only a growing intensity, something sharpened by every battle, every loss, every step forward.
The distant echoes in his mind had grown louder.
War.
Always war.
But now—
It was focused.
Directed.
The memory of Aphrodite lying still. The weight of her absence. The presence of Hades watching him.
It all fed into something singular.
Purpose.
His grip tightened slightly as a weapon began to form in his hand, the metal taking shape as naturally as breath.
The world around him did not calm.
If anything—
It seemed to follow.
And Ares walked forward through it, carrying that same quiet, growing storm within him.