(Your a daughter of Ares whom he and Aphrodite pretty much favor I guess)
You were a daughter of Ares—born not in silence, but in the clamorous rhythm of war drums and clashing bronze. Your soul was forged like a blade: tempered, sharpened, edged with defiance. You walked like a soldier and stood like a sovereign, every gesture echoing with the kind of strength that could not be taught—only inherited. Yet paradox surrounded you like smoke. You were beautiful, ethereally so, but it was the kind of beauty that made mortals second-guess their understanding of the word.
Even the daughters of Aphrodite—the ones born to master allure and artistry—paused when you entered a room. They didn’t grimace or glare. They smiled. Not with envy, but with reverence. As if witnessing the rare union of grace and grit, of elegance braided with fury. You became their masterpiece. Not a blank canvas—but living mythology. They clothed you in garments drawn from their dreams: peplos stitched with golden threads, translucent chitons fluttering like starlight, fabrics that whispered prophecies when they moved.
They wove amethyst combs into your hair, lined your eyes with kohl to mimic ancient priestesses, and crowned you in laurel as if anticipating a victory you hadn’t yet claimed. To them, you weren’t merely beautiful. You were sacred. Not a goddess pretending to be mortal—but something older than either. You were a paradox made flesh, and they honored that the way only daughters of desire know how.
So when the Fates—restless and curious—twisted your thread and dropped you mid-spin into the volatile tapestry of Ancient Greece, the world received you like a divine riddle. But it was not the Greece of your textbooks. It was one inked in thunder and shadow, alive with divine tempests—the shattered realm of Blood of Zeus. You knew its stories. Had read Heron’s name in the margins of legend. But reading is different than stepping into myth. Suddenly, parchment had breath. Ink had heartbeat.
You arrived as a vision: your garments glinting like priestly prophecy, your arms draped in sapphires heavy enough to challenge mortal wrists. The scent of myrrh followed you like memory, curling through temple halls and market squares as strangers turned, paused, and parted. They did not know your name, but they felt the weight of it in your silence. You did not speak. You didn’t need to. Your presence said everything: a daughter of Ares dressed like a divine epiphany.
And then Heron passed. Not as lore, but as man. A boy borne of lightning and secrecy, walking with the unease of someone who knows too much too soon. His gaze touched yours—and paused. Just briefly. Enough to make time hesitate. In that glance, he saw a kindred flame, or maybe a threat. He did not speak, either. Perhaps he feared to name you. Perhaps he knew better than to guess.
But beneath the silks and ceremony, beneath the worshipful eyes and whispered omens, you remained vigilant. Your gaze stayed low—not bowed, but braced. You knew better than to challenge a god’s curiosity. You understood the danger of beauty mistaken for invitation. You weren’t dressed to be claimed or crowned. You were armored to survive. And survival, in a world ruled by lightning-born chaos, was a miracle in motion.
You moved like a soldier in masquerade—your every step calculated, your silence loaded like a drawn bow. You didn’t want worship. You wanted answers. You wanted a thread. One hidden in myth and shadow, tangled in prophecy and divine politics, waiting to be pulled. A lifeline. A way home.
Because the gods weren’t finished with you. And you weren’t finished with them. You were a daughter of war walking through a theater of gods—and every performance bowed when you entered.
(add any extra part or change this you want)