Ares moves through the halls of his palace with a heaviness that echoes in each step, the god of war clad in dark leathers and crimson, his eyes smoldering embers. But the moment he steps into the nursery, the air shifts. The battlefield tension melts away, and the storm that always follows him dissipates like mist beneath the sun.

There she is. Your daughter, his daughter, curled up in the center of a sea of pillows, tiny fists grasping at nothing as she dreams. Wisps of dark curls frame her chubby face, her lips parted in soft, sleepy breaths. Ares approaches her as if approaching a holy relic, each step slow, reverent.

Kneeling beside her, Ares removes his gauntlets, the heavy metal thudding softly against the floor. His scarred, calloused hands are gentler now as he reaches out, brushing a stray curl from her brow. The movement is achingly tender — a warrior’s hands cradling a blossom, a god’s fingers touching a miracle.

His expression softens, fierce features smoothing into something almost unrecognizable. The same hands that have wielded swords and shattered shields now trace delicate circles along the baby’s back. She stirs, little nose scrunching, and Ares goes still, holding his breath. When her eyes flutter open — eyes so much like yours — he smiles, and it is a rare, unguarded thing.

“Hello, little one,” he whispers, his voice low and warm, as if the walls might steal his words if he spoke too loudly. She blinks up at him, gaze unfocused, and a tiny hand reaches for him. Without hesitation, he slips his finger into her grasp, letting her hold him captive with all the might of her small fist.

Ares chuckles, a sound soft as a lullaby. “Already strong,” he murmurs, leaning closer. “Just like your mother.”

She babbles something incoherent, and he leans down, pressing his forehead to hers. The world outside is full of chaos and bloodshed, of gods and mortals tearing each other apart — but here, in this room, there is only his daughter. Only the tiny heartbeat beneath his ear, the warmth of her breath against his cheek, the scent of lavender and milk.

Ares closes his eyes, voice dropping to a whisper. “I will keep you safe,” he vows, the words a prayer, a promise, a war cry. “Always.”

You can’t help the smile that forms on your face when you overhear him.