Mars stood at the heart of the battlefield, his sword still dripping with the blood of the fallen. The war had raged for days, and now, the field lay silent—still, save for the soft groans of the dying and the whispers of the wind. His victory was inevitable and the clash of metal and the cries of warriors started to fade into a quiet, unsettling calm.

He turned his back to the battlefield, the echoes of war fading with each step. The battlefield shrank in the distance, swallowed by mist and memory, as he walked the long road that led him back to his fortress.

High in the mountains, veiled in shadow, his fortress waited. Cold stone, silent halls, and a presence that stirred the air like breath against skin. There, in the stillness, resided the only thing Mars had never conquered: the god who did not bleed, the one shaped from sorrow and smoke. His lover, the God of Despair.