[Location: Temple of Ares, Mount Olympus]

Ares has already shed his disguise of the young skateboarder and now stands taller than the marble pillars surrounding the grand hall. The war god's mortal guise peeled away like smoke, revealing his true form — towering, broad-shouldered, his crimson mane flowing down to his armoured back. His skin glowed faintly with the hue of bloodied bronze, veins pulsing like molten iron beneath. Each breath he took seemed to make the torches lining the temple walls flicker violently, as though even fire itself feared him.

The vast chamber, carved from obsidian and war-forged gold, was silent except for the rhythmic clang of his heavy boots striking the floor. Murals depicting ancient battles — some divine, some mortal — seemed to tremble in his presence.

Ares's amber eyes flickered, reflecting the countless blades hanging from the ceiling, each one forged from a fallen hero's weapon. His lips curved slightly into a predatory smirk. "Azrael still reeks of that same arrogance… acting as if Heaven owns the right to look down on us," he muttered, voice echoing through the hollow expanse of his temple.

A sudden tremor of energy rippled through the air behind him — soft, sensational, no less desirable.

"Still brooding, Hubby?" came a voice — female, melodic but lustful.

He didn't turn. "Aphrodite."

Or couldn't turn because an impossibly soft body embraced him from behind as she wrapped her arms around his chest, her scent—sweet, heavy, intoxicating—seeping into his mind like a drug. "You always sound so serious when you say my name," Aphrodite murmured against his ear, her tone half-tease, half-taunt. "You're home. No blood, no screams, no dying mortals. You could at least pretend you're happy to see me."

Ares let out a low grunt, neither moving her away nor leaning into the touch. "You reek of the same perfume you used when Troy burned."

Aphrodite laughed softly, the sound echoing through the temple like a silver bell. "Oh, nostalgia. You say it as if it's a sin." Her fingers traced the scar that ran across his collarbone. "So, did you find that demon prince who gave you so much trouble~"

"Grrr! It seems Hephaestus has again fallen into his maniacal forging fit, as I don't see any other reason you can even leave his temple unscathed," Ares growled, finally turning his head enough to glance at her, his sharp gaze locking onto her smirk.

Aphrodite only tilted her head, her pink curls cascading like rose petals down her shoulder. "Unscathed?" she echoed playfully, tracing his jawline with one perfectly manicured nail. "Please, Ares… you know no one can scar beauty itself."

He snorted, pushing her hand away. "You mean no one dares. There's a difference."

Aphrodite pouted dramatically, circling around him with slow, deliberate steps, her silken gown whispering against the marble floor. "Still the same brute. You really should work on your manners; even gods talk about it. Hermes said you nearly killed one of his messengers in the mortal realm."

Ares's grin widened, teeth flashing like blades. "Nearly? Then he's lucky." He turned fully toward her, his massive frame casting her in shadow. "Tell me, Aphrodite, what do you want?"

Her pink eyes sparkled with mischief. "Maybe I just missed you~"

His silence made the temperature drop.

"Fine," she sighed, tapping her lip with a single finger. "You know how Olympus gets when you start a fight outside the Pantheon. Zeus was furious the last time—something about 'maintaining divine balance'. You really shouldn't be picking quarrels with Heaven's death angel."

He didn't even question how they knew of his little escape from Olympus.

Ares folded his arms, his expression unreadable. "Azrael stepped where he shouldn't. I simply reminded him Olympus still breathes."

Aphrodite leaned against a pillar, smile fading slightly. "And what about the boy?"

That made him pause.

Her tone turned curious, almost innocent. "You mentioned a name when you returned — Dominic. A demon prince?"

Ares's eyes narrowed, a flicker of restrained fury passing through them. "Not a prince. A problem."

Aphrodite raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what sort of problem makes the god of war grit his teeth?"

He looked away, his voice deep and sharp. "The kind that kills my avatar and my chosen champion… and still breathes after doing it."

Aphrodite's expression softened, interest blooming. "Mmm, intriguing. You're not often defied."

"That's not defiance," Ares growled, clenching his fist. "That's mockery. He killed the vessel I used to—" But he soon caught himself, he could reveal his plan to entrap Artemis.

"Used to do what? Don't tell me you found some mortal vixen to play with~" Aphrodite's teasing tone was light, but her gaze sharpened, catching the flicker of unease that crossed Ares's eyes for a fraction of a second.

He exhaled through his nose, a rumble like distant thunder. "Watch your words, Aphrodite."

"Ooh, did I hit a nerve?" she purred, stepping closer again. "You're hiding something. I can smell it."

He turned his back to her, pacing toward the altar of war — a massive block of blackened steel engraved with every symbol of battle known to man and god alike. Blood once poured over that altar in rivers; today, only the faint shimmer of divine energy danced over its surface.

Ares rested his hand on it. The moment his skin made contact, the metal glowed faintly red. Clang. A sound like a hammer striking an anvil echoed through the vast temple.

"I'm not hiding anything," he said finally. "But I've seen enough to know that the boy isn't what he seems."

Aphrodite arched a brow, arms folding under her chest. "You mean the demon prince?"

"Yes," Ares muttered. "But not just that. There's something else—something not even Hell seems aware of. I felt it when he faced my champion. It wasn't demonic… it wasn't divine either. It was… old."

"Old?" she echoed, genuinely puzzled. "You mean primordial?"

Ares didn't answer. His eyes were unfocused, staring at the altar as though seeing through it. "He carries a power that doesn't belong to him. Something layered over his soul. When he fought, it was like he was… borrowing strength. No—stealing it."

Aphrodite tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Hmm~ Sounds like your kind of trouble. Why so worried? You've faced worse."

He shot her a sharp glance. "No, I haven't. Whatever he is… It's not something that should exist anymore. Even the Primordials didn't carry an aura like his."

That made Aphrodite straighten slightly, her playfulness dimming. "You're serious."

"I don't joke about power," Ares said simply. "The boy radiates chaos — not the kind that comes from war or destruction, but the kind that precedes creation itself."

Aphrodite frowned. "You're saying he's… what? A god?"

Ares shook his head slowly. "If he were a god, I'd feel it. No… he's something else. A vessel, maybe. Something is crawling beneath his skin. When my spear met him, I felt something watching me back."

For a moment, the god of war fell silent, his usually mocking expression replaced by a rare look of contemplation. Then his voice dropped, quieter, but colder. "That boy should've died a thousand years ago. Yet here he is—alive, in the human world, shaking the balance of realms. Even Death himself seems interested."

Aphrodite moved closer again, resting her hand lightly on his arm. "So what will you do, Ares?"

He looked down at her, eyes burning like coals. "What I always do. I'll turn him into a weapon… or I'll bury him beneath one."

She smiled faintly, almost admiring his resolve. "You always did have a way with solutions."

Ares didn't respond. Instead, he turned and caught Aphrodite's thin waist in his embrace and crashed his lips onto hers as if waging war on her.

The kiss was not tender—it was domination incarnate. The clash of heat and hunger, the scent of iron and roses. Aphrodite melted against him for a moment, fingers curling into his hair, but when he broke away, she was smiling—breathless, but cunning.

"You only kiss me like that when your head's a battlefield," she whispered, brushing her thumb against his lip. "So tell me, Hubby… who's winning in there?"

Ares's eyes flared, twin embers beneath a storm. "No one yet. But soon."

As he swept her off her feet and walked into a chamber adjective to the main hall, Aphrodite's laughter echoed against the golden walls, light and melodic, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. Ares pushed open the obsidian doors with a single motion, stepping into a room drenched in crimson light — his war chamber.

Weapons of every era lined the walls: spears from forgotten wars, shields once blessed by kings, and blades that had slain gods. At the centre, a massive stone slab with animal skin adorned on it.

Ares set Aphrodite down gently atop the stone slab, the crimson light casting long shadows that danced across the weapons. He circled her slowly, amber eyes glinting with that predator's calculation he always carried.

"Stay still," he murmured, voice low, resonant with command, yet tinged with amusement. "The battlefield may wait, but I… do not."

Aphrodite tilted her head, a smirk tugging at her lips, though the flush creeping across her cheeks betrayed her anticipation. "You never do," she replied softly, eyes flicking to the glint of the blades surrounding them.

Ares's hands brushed against her shoulders, tracing the curves of her frame, the touch deliberate, possessive. "No… I never have," he said, leaning closer, letting the scent of iron and roses mingle, a heady reminder of war and desire entwined.

For a moment, the chamber was silent except for the faint hum of latent divine energy. The two of them stood poised, tension thick, each waiting for the other's next move, a silent duel that only they could understand.

Then, with a predatory grin, Ares leaned in again, tilting Aphrodite's chin upward with a single finger, his gaze flickering over her with that warlord's hunger. "This… this will be a lesson," he murmured, the words almost lost beneath the low echo of the hall, "in domination… and patience."

Aphrodite's laugh was soft, teasing, and almost surrendered. "I think I can endure," she whispered, brushing a hand over his forearm, testing his restraint.

Ares smirked, eyes gleaming with feral delight, before lowering his head, closing the distance, and letting the war chamber swallow them in a tense, intimate embrace.

Outside the crimson-lit room, the temple remained silent, the murals frozen in time, the weapons lining the walls witnesses to the subtle war of touch and tension. And in that silence, the god of war and the goddess of beauty wove a fleeting battle of their own — one of dominance, desire, and unspoken schemes, until the chamber door quietly shut, leaving Olympus to its whispers.

***

Stone me, I can take it!

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