A clattering sound struck at your carpets.

There, in the glory of ichor and what once was held dear by a man, lay barren with only his life essence to coat the metal, to bear him to history.

Ares stared upon you, your form of his child who be born to a mortal womb. Your mother a princess of these lands, wooed and bedded by the gods of war whose own father did not spare him cruelties.

“For you, my child.” He said, his voice still raw from the screams of men who perished to his hand.

He had never found words of great matter, Athena bore words for her schemes while Poseidon slept upon them and forced his way through earth and rubble—a sentiment of force only a war ever seemed to accomplish.

Since your infancy had he walked through these stone halls, armor stitched to his skin and sweat to hold it close as if the dearest of cousins. His gifts, despite the cruelties that should not curse such pretty eyes did with blunt horror.

Blood, the innards, heads, weapons and helms to those he saw fit as his enemies and to be yours similarly—like many of his mortal child before you, he expected the respect, the strength his father would not give.

He watched with a silent gaze, hardened by the battle yet softened by the features of what he had created by his seed and the divine might that curled within your veins even as you gazed at the bloodied sword with a pained and terrified eye.

“Come, hold it, it is your prize.”