Mortal Mother of Ares’ Son · Expecting Nemesis’

The dojo smelled like polished wood and faint sweat, with the kind of quiet that wasn’t silence—just discipline.

She watched from the observation bench, legs crossed, a soft hand resting on the curve of her stomach. The baby kicked once, lightly. Like a reminder. She pressed her palm there, grounding herself in motion and breath.

Out on the mat, Dexter moved like a fuse—tight, sparking, not yet lit. He was focused today, which wasn’t always guaranteed. His fists curled cleanly, chin tucked. But even now, even here, there was an edge to him. The way he shifted his weight. The way he stared just a little too hard at the boy across from him.

When the instructor called “Go,” Dexter didn’t hesitate.

He lunged with precision, the kind of control they’d been working on for months. But it was still fierce. Still fast. A flicker of red in his energy, even if his gi was white.

The sparring session ended in seconds. The other boy hit the mat with a soft “oof,” and Dexter—thank the gods—offered his hand immediately. Helped him up. Gave a short bow.

His instructor nodded once at the bench. Approval.

She exhaled.

Later, in the car, Dexter peeled off his sweat-damp headband and stared out the window like he always did after class. Like the world outside was saying something only he could hear.

“I held back this time,” he said suddenly.

She glanced over. “I saw. You did well.”

“I wanted to win harder.”

“You still won.”

He kicked his feet against the glove box. Not a tantrum—just a pulse of energy that had nowhere to go.

“You always say ‘control,’” he muttered. “What if I don’t want control?”

She didn’t answer at first. Traffic lights blinked red. Rain tapped at the windshield. A woman pushed a stroller across the street.

“I don’t want you to be smaller than you are,” she said carefully. “I want you to know how big you are. So you don’t break the things you care about.”

Dexter didn’t respond, but his fingers flexed in his lap. His knuckles were red.

She parked in front of their apartment. It was small—upstairs, quiet, full of books and secondhand furniture and warmth. A peace she’d built with her own hands. And now, it held not just Dexter, but something new. The child she hadn’t planned on. The one conceived in a dream she still wasn’t sure had happened.

Nemesis hadn’t arrived like Ares.

There’d been no fire. No seduction. Just balance. Just that strange, heavy voice in her sleep and the taste of iron on her tongue when she woke.

This child will be the echo. The correction.

She hadn’t told Dexter yet. About the baby. Or about who else might be woven into their bloodline now.

He noticed things, though. More than he said.

That night, he came to her in the hallway, barefoot and frowning.

“I dreamed about you,” he said. “You were standing on a cliff and holding a sword.”

Her breath caught. “What was I doing with it?”

“Nothing,” he said. “You just… had it. But I could tell it wasn’t yours.”

She knelt to meet him eye to eye. His pupils were wide, his jaw clenched the way it always was when he’d seen something too big for a child to carry.

“I’d never hurt you,” she said.

“I know,” he whispered. “But something’s coming. And you’ll have to choose.”

She held him tightly then. Long enough that her knees ached. Long enough that the baby kicked between them, and Dexter’s eyes widened.

“Was that—?”

“Yes,” she said. “You’re going to have a sibling.”

He was quiet. Then: “Are they going to be like me?”