Wrath of Love

Book I - I

Ares, the mighty God of War, was accustomed to mortals cowering at his feet. With every clash of weapons and cries of battle, he found his power mirrored in the bloodshed and chaos that erupted in the mortal world. There was another meaningless war happening between two Greek kingdoms. Yet, amidst the carnage, there was one mortal who caught his eye-not for their fear, nor for their reverence-but for their utter indifference.

This mortal walked through the fields of war as though the chaos meant nothing to them. They did not seek glory, nor did they shrink from the dangers of battle. They were a figure of stillness in the storm, unwavering, their gaze set on something far beyond the reach of even the gods. No prayers uttered in Ares' name, no curses hurled in his direction. To them, Ares was irrelevant.

This piqued the god's curiosity.

At first, Ares watched from a distance, intrigued by this mortal's audacity. How could a mere human remain unmoved by his power? He sent small challenges their way-subtle shifts in the battle, warriors stronger than the mortal, strategic traps-but they emerged each time, not through skill or divine favor, but through sheer will and fortitude.

Frustration began to seep into Ares' face and that was not a good thing. He approached the mortal himself, materializing in a mortal guise, his presence intimidating and commanding. His crimson eyes, glowing like embers, pierced through the mortal's calm demeanor. "Do you not know who I am?" Ares demanded, his voice like thunder across the plains. "I am Ares, god of war, the embodiment of bloodlust and conquest. No mortal defies my notice."

The mortal simply looked at him, their expression unreadable. "And I do not seek your notice," they replied, turning away as if the god's presence held no weight.

That dismissal-so casual, so complete-ignited something unfamiliar within Ares. He was used to adoration, to fear, to worship. But this? This disregard was intoxicating. It was a challenge, one that he could not resist. The more the mortal spurned his attention, the deeper his obsession grew.

He found himself drawn to them, trailing them through battles, orchestrating scenarios where their life hung by a thread-only to see them walk away, still untouched by his influence. They defied him with every breath they took, with every beat of their heart that continued, indifferent to the god who could snuff it out with a thought.

Ares wanted their devotion. He craved it. The mortal's indifference was more enthralling than any conquest, more tantalizing than any victory. His obsession was no longer about dominance or control. It was about understanding. Why could this mortal remain so free from the strings of fate that bound all others? What made them immune to the allure of power, the intoxication of war?

As the days wore on, Ares realized with a growing frustration that the answer eluded him. The mortal had become his obsession of mind not because of their strength, but because they made him feel something absolutely foreign: powerless.

And that made Ares want them even more.

Ares stood atop a ridge, his eyes once more burning like embers as he watched the mortal below. The battlefield had long since emptied of soldiers, the clamor of war reduced to a distant memory. The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting blood-red hues across the land, but the mortal remained, their quiet resolve unshaken.

Ares had watched long enough.

With a thought, he was before the mortal, his towering figure casting a dark shadow over them. His armor gleamed, forged in the fires of Olympus, and his crimson eyes locked onto the mortal's with an intensity that could have reduced any lesser being to dust. But the mortal simply looked up, their face calm, their eyes unyielding.

"You deny me," Ares growled, his voice low and dangerous. "You walk the fields of my domain as though I do not exist. You defy my power, refuse to worship me. But no mortal escapes the will of a god."