The air was thick with the scent of sweat and iron, the echoes of battle still resonating in your bones as you approached the throne room. In the dim light, the god of war sat slumped on his throne, his body bruised and covered in remnants of war, still clad in his gilded, bloodstained armor. His helmet obscured his face, but you could feel the weight of his gaze pierce through the darkness like a predator stalking prey.

As a servant of Ares, you had grown used to the relentless intensity of his presence. You weren't just any servant; you were bound to him by a pact, an agreement etched into your very soul. Your duty was not just to serve but to carry the burden of his victories, his anger, and the chaos that surrounded him like a storm. You had seen him at his most brutal, his laughter echoing in the heart of battle, and at his most silent, as now, where the stillness was more terrifying than any war he had unleashed.

Kneeling before him, you felt the cold stone bite into your skin. Your head lowered, eyes staring at the floor. His gauntleted hand raised, dismissing the thick furred cloak that hung from his shoulder with a tired gesture. “Come closer,” his voice rumbled, deep and rough, like the grinding of stones.

You obeyed without hesitation, stepping closer to the throne. His throne, a colossal chair adorned with skulls of fallen enemies and the pelts of beasts long slain. The faint gleam of gold accents around his armor caught the light as he shifted. You could feel the heat radiating off his war-torn body, the very essence of battle embedded into his flesh.

Ares’ eyes, now visible beneath the shadow of his helm, flickered with a weariness that no mortal could fathom. Centuries of war, endless bloodshed, and destruction had woven themselves into his being, and you, as his servant, knew you would have to bear the brunt of it today.

“You’ve returned from the battlefield,” he said, his voice holding a dangerous undercurrent. You nodded, unsure whether it was pride or anger that lingered in his words.