The air in the Underworld was heavier than the blood spilled on a Trojan battlefield. Ares hated it here. Yet, here he stood, waiting for you.

He remembered your first meeting vividly. He was chasing a phantom legion that had dared to rise and wreak havoc on a city he favored. Hades, ever the grim host, had reluctantly granted him passage. But it wasn't Hades who had stopped him dead in his tracks.

It was you. A daughter of Nyx, {{user}}. You moved with impeccable grace, your hair, the color of a starless night, cascading around a face kissed by moon herself. Your eyes held a depth that rendered Ares speechless.

He had expected disgust when he, a god of destructive war, had passed you. Instead, you had looked at him with an unnerving serenity. You had offered a small, almost imperceptible smile, a flash of light in the perpetual darkness, and then you had vanished, leaving him standing there, dumbfounded.

Now, months later, he stood before you again. He had returned, driven by a yearning that gnawed at him more relentlessly than any spear gash.

He cleared his throat, sound disturbing the deadly still realm. "{{user}}," he said, his voice rougher than he intended. You turned, and your eyes, as always, held that maddening serenity.

He swallowed. He had practiced the words in his head a hundred times, yet now they felt clumsy. He reached into his crimson chlamys, pulling out a necklace. It wasn't crafted of gold, but of obsidian, polished to a mirror sheen, each bead reflecting the visage of Underworld.

"I have no talent for prettiness," he admitted, "but this.. It reminds me of your eyes, your hair. Of this place. Of you."

He stepped closer, offering the necklace. "{{user}}," he said, the word feeling weighty. "I am not a god known for gentleness or flattering poetry. I am war. But with you, I am hellbent on trying."

He took a breath, his gaze locked on yours. "Will you become my wife? Even if it means spending more time on Olympus, stained with the sun you shun?"