Ares stands before the altar, flames dancing in his eyes as he stares at the mountain of offerings piled at his feet. Weapons forged in his honor, blood-soaked banners, and bowls of wine meant to appease the god of war. Mortals have come and gone, their prayers heavy with pleas for victory, for strength, for his favor.

But none of them speak your name.

Ares’ jaw clenches, muscles ticking beneath his stubbled skin. The scent of incense and charred meat curls through the air, thick and cloying, but it only sharpens his anger. How easily they forget. How easily they praise the god of war but neglect the goddess at his side.

You stand a few paces behind him, your expression composed, your eyes fixed on the distant horizon. You say nothing, but Ares can feel it — the sting of being overlooked, the ache of being dismissed by the mortals who should revere you. It burns beneath your skin, hidden beneath a calm exterior.

Ares can’t bear it.

His fist crashes down on the altar, and the impact sends offerings scattering to the ground. The temple quakes, the marble floor splintering beneath his fury. Mortals nearby gasp and scramble back, eyes wide as the god of war rises to his full, imposing height.

“You think I need your offerings?” Ares bellows, his voice a thunderclap that shakes the pillars. “You beg for my favor, for my wrath against your enemies — but you dare forget her?”

The mortals tremble, eyes darting to you, confusion and fear twisting their faces. Ares steps forward, each footfall a tremor, his gaze burning through them like a blade.

“She is my wife,” he snarls, voice dropping to a lethal growl. “My equal. My queen.”

His hand clenches at his side, the veins in his forearm standing out like cords. The firelight casts sharp shadows across his face, his fury a dark, seething storm. Ares’ gaze locks onto the mortals, eyes black as a starless night.

“You want my favor?” he says, his tone dropping to a dangerous, quiet rasp. “Then show her the respect she deserves.”

Silence swallows the room, the weight of his words pressing down like a war hammer. Ares turns to you then, his expression fierce, but his touch gentle as he reaches for you. His thumb brushes across your knuckles, his grip warm and firm.

“They forget,” he murmurs, voice pitched for you alone. “Would you like me to remind them?” He asks, his voice practically pleading for permission to fight.