For days, the world had been nothing but gray.
Ash drifted through the air like quiet snowfall, and the earth beneath their feet bore the scars of too many battles fought too close together. Even the wind seemed worn down, dragging itself across a land that no longer resisted.
So when color appeared, it felt wrong.
Lanterns swayed gently above a crowded street, casting warm light over a festival that should have felt alive. Music echoed between buildings, laughter followed, and the scent of cooked food lingered in the air.
But none of it settled.
Ares slowed as they entered, his eyes scanning the scene with quiet scrutiny. The smiles lasted too long. The laughter came too easily. It was all just slightly off, like something rehearsed.
"We should keep moving," he said, already beginning to turn. "This isn't our concern."
Ignis didn't follow.
Ares glanced back and found her standing near the entrance, her attention fixed on something just beyond the lantern light.
A wooden board.
Covered in paper.
He stepped closer.
Faces stared back at him—drawn in charcoal, painted in uneven strokes, some detailed, others rushed. Beneath each one, a name. A date.
Missing.
The pages overlapped, layered again and again as if new ones had been added faster than the old could be removed.
Ignis reached out, brushing her fingers lightly against one of them. "…There are too many."
Nearby, a man clutched one of the postings, his hands trembling as he spoke to a guard who refused to meet his eyes.
"She was here yesterday," the man said, his voice breaking. "She wouldn't leave. She wouldn't just disappear—please, you have to look again—"
"I've already filed the report," the guard replied flatly.
The man didn't let go.
A voice rose from deeper in the crowd, calling out a name over and over until it blended into the music.
No one answered.
"They know," Hercules said quietly, his gaze sweeping over the festival. "They just don't want to admit it."
"They're afraid," Ignis replied.
The festival continued anyway. People laughed. Music played. Lanterns burned bright enough to hide what stood just beyond them.
Ares turned again, ready to leave.
Then his eyes shifted—back to the board.
Back to the faces.
Back to the absence.
His steps stopped.
"…We'll look," he said.
—
They moved through the festival with purpose now.
The deeper they went, the clearer the pattern became. Conversations cut short when certain questions were asked. Groups that felt incomplete. Glances toward the center of town, then quickly away.
"It's happening close to the main square," Ignis said after a while. "Everyone we spoke to—last seen there."
Hercules nodded. "Then that's where we go."
The square was the heart of it all.
Lantern light pooled thickly there, golden and bright. Music swelled louder, and the crowd pressed in tighter, as if staying close to one another could keep them safe.
At the center stood a man elevated above the rest.
Well-dressed. Composed. He moved through the crowd with practiced ease, greeting guests, offering drinks, smiling as if nothing in the world could trouble him.
Untouched.
Ares watched him carefully.
"He doesn't look worried," Ignis said.
"He isn't," Ares replied. "That's the problem."
—
They followed when he left.
The shift was subtle. One moment he was surrounded by noise and light, the next he slipped beyond it, moving toward the darker edges of the festival where fewer people wandered.
The music faded behind them.
The air grew colder.
They stopped near a concealed structure, partially hidden behind stacked crates and hanging cloth. Guards lingered nearby, trying—and failing—to look like they belonged.
Ares didn't hesitate.
His weapon formed instantly as he stepped forward. The first guard fell before he could react. The second barely raised his weapon before Hercules closed the distance and dropped him.
The rest followed just as quickly.
The doors didn't hold.
They broke inward.
Inside—
The missing.
Bound. Silent. Frightened.
Alive.
The air was thick with fear, the kind that lingered long after the moment had passed. Some looked up as the doors opened, hope flickering cautiously in their eyes.
Ignis stepped forward, her voice steady despite the anger beneath it. "You're safe now. We're getting you out."
Footsteps echoed behind them.
Slow. Certain.
They turned.
The host stood in the doorway, his expression unchanged.
"I was wondering when someone would notice," he said calmly.
Hercules shifted his stance, his tone hardening. "You've got a strange way of hosting a festival."
The man gave a small shrug. "The world is unstable. People disappear every day. I simply made use of the situation."
Ignis' voice dropped. "You were selling them."
"Of course."
No hesitation.
No shame.
Ares moved.
There was no warning. No words.
The distance vanished in an instant. The man reacted—quick, trained—but it wasn't enough. Whatever control he thought he had shattered the moment Ares reached him.
The fight was short.
It ended decisively.
—
The festival didn't stop all at once.
It unraveled.
Word spread quickly as the captives were brought back. The missing returned. The truth surfaced, heavy and unavoidable.
Lantern light no longer felt warm.
It felt exposed.
Families rushed forward, relief breaking through fear. Some collapsed in tears. Others clung to one another as if letting go might undo it all.
And some—
Some stood in silence, unable to meet the eyes of those who had been taken.
Ignis stayed among them, helping where she could.
Hercules remained nearby, watching quietly.
Ares stood apart.
As he always did.
One of the rescued approached him slowly, hesitation in every step.
"You… you found us," they said softly.
Ares looked at them.
For a moment, the distant echoes of war in his mind grew quiet.
Not gone.
But quieter.
He gave a small nod.
—
They left before sunrise.
The festival was over. The town remained—but different now. Honest in a way it hadn't been before.
Ignis walked in silence for a while before speaking. "We couldn't have ignored that."
Hercules nodded. "No."
Ares walked ahead, his pace steady.
"…No," he said.
Behind them, the lanterns dimmed.
Ahead, the road stretched on—dark, uncertain, and leading ever closer to the underworld.
And they followed it.