CHAPTER 91: “YOU BELONG TO ME.”

Later that evening, Olympus was quieter. The sun had dipped just behind the edge of the mountain, casting long shadows across the golden halls. Torches lit the corridors with soft flickers of divine flame. Most of the gods had retreated to their chambers. The training ground was empty.

Ares walked alone.

His armor clinked softly as he moved, still half-dressed from earlier, his hair damp with sweat he hadn’t bothered to wash off. His face was blank, but his thoughts weren’t.

They kept replaying—his father’s words, his mother’s silence, Athena’s warning.

He reached the grand door carved with peacocks and lilies. Hera’s quarters. He didn’t knock. He never had to.

The doors eased open as he stepped inside.

The room was warm, draped in wine-colored silk, gold accents glowing faintly in the low light. Incense burned gently in the corner, sweet and sharp. Pillars lined the walls, and a single garden tree bloomed from the center of the floor—olive, despite the irony.

Hera sat near the balcony, wrapped in a soft robe, her hair unpinned, falling freely down her back. She didn’t turn around when he entered.

"I knew you’d come," she said quietly.

Ares didn’t respond at first. He walked in and stood behind her, arms at his sides.

"You saw us," she said again, not asking.

"I did."

She nodded slowly. "And what did you see?"

Ares looked past her, at the stars outside. "You and him... talking. Fighting."

"Was that all?"

He hesitated. "He warned you."

Her shoulders shifted slightly, but she still didn’t face him. "Of course he did."

"He thinks you’re planning something."

"He always does," Hera said softly. "Even when I’m not."

Ares stepped beside her now, leaning against the railing. "Are you?"

She finally looked at him, her green eyes sharp even in the dim light. "Do you want the truth, Ares?"

He met her gaze, and for a moment, he didn’t look like a warrior.

He looked like a boy.

She stood and walked over to a nearby table. Poured two small cups of ambrosia—just enough to calm, not enough to intoxicate. She handed him one.

"I’ve been by your father’s side since before Olympus was Olympus," she began. "Before the crown. Before the lightning."

Ares didn’t say anything. He sipped.

"I fought beside him. I bled beside him. I believed in him."

She turned to face him again, her tone changing—quieter, colder.

"And yet... Metis wears the crown. Because she played her part better. Smiled sweeter. Said the right things."

"That’s not your fault," Ares said.

"No," Hera agreed, "but it’s not fair either. And your father, for all his power, does not care about fair."

Ares looked into his cup. "He said you were scheming."

Hera smiled faintly. "Maybe I am."

Ares looked at her, brows pulled.

"You shouldn’t say that."

"Why not?" she asked softly, stepping closer. "Because he might hear it? Because it might make him angry? Ares... your father lives in a world where power is law. Where only the loudest voice and the sharpest strike matter."

"That doesn’t make it right."

"No," she said, "but it’s the truth."

She circled him gently, voice softer now, slower.

"You saw how he looked at me today. Like I was just another problem to solve. Another threat to silence. That’s not how you look at someone you love. That’s how you look at a weapon."

Ares tensed. "He doesn’t see you like that."

"No?" she asked. "Then why warn me? Why threaten me? Because he still loves me? Or because he fears I might still be dangerous?"

Silence again.

Ares couldn’t answer.

Hera touched his arm.

"I’m not asking you to pick sides," she said gently. "Not yet."

He turned to her, confused. "What does that mean?"

"It means... one day, you might have to."

She sat again, resting her hand on the armrest, eyes on the floor.

"I’ve watched your father build Olympus on charm and fire. I’ve watched him charm gods, mortals, even enemies. But one day, Ares... one day his fire will burn too hot."

She looked up.

"And who do you think he’ll put out first?"

Ares clenched his fists.

She stood once more, walking back to him.

"You are his son," she said, resting a hand on his shoulder. "But you are mine too. And unlike him... I don’t forget who stands beside me."

Ares looked at her hand, then back at her.

His voice was low. "What are you planning?"

Hera smiled again—soft, motherly.

"I’m just watching. Listening. Waiting."

Ares didn’t believe her. Not completely. But he didn’t argue either.

Because deep down, something in him understood her. That same fire in his chest... maybe it came from her.

Maybe it had always been there.

She walked back toward her seat, leaving him standing in the middle of the room.

And just before he left, she said—

"Ares."

He turned.

"If you ever feel like you don’t belong to anyone, remember this..."

Her eyes met his.

"You belong to me."

He didn’t answer.

He just stood there.

Then he walked out slowly, leaving the warm glow of the room behind.

The corridor outside felt colder than before. The shadows longer.

And Ares didn’t know if it was his mother’s words or something else...

But something had shifted.

And he couldn’t shake it.

Elsewhere.

Ares sat alone at the edge of the cliffs behind Olympus, where the clouds broke apart just enough to show the mortal world below—dim lights flickering like tiny fires in a world too far away to matter.

He didn’t usually come here. It wasn’t a place for war gods. Too quiet. Too open. But tonight, his chest was tight, his thoughts loud.

The wind was sharp. He let it hit him.

He didn’t wear his armor now. Just a dark tunic. His spear rested beside him, leaned against the rock, forgotten.

His mind kept circling.

What Hera said.

What Athena said.

What Zeus didn’t say.

His fingers dug into the stone beneath him.

You belong to me.

The words echoed louder than they should’ve.

He hated that. Hated how it stuck. Not because he didn’t want to belong to her—but because it made everything else harder. Because he did love her. And he hated Zeus for making her feel like that. Like some forgotten promise left in a dusty corner of the throne room.

But at the same time...

He’d seen how his father fought. He’d watched Zeus end Typhon with nothing but will and thunder. The way even the Titans had to bow when Zeus roared.

Ares wasn’t stupid. He knew power. And Zeus had it.

So what did that make Hera?

Ares rubbed his face with both hands, groaning.

He wasn’t built for this kind of thinking. All this second-guessing, doubting, plotting. That was Athena’s thing. Or Hera’s.

He was built for battle. For straight lines. You hit or you get hit. You win or you lose.

But this?

This was war with no swords.

This was poison.

And yet, here he was. Caught right in the middle.

"I just wanted to be strong..." he muttered under his breath, head tilted toward the stars. "Not... this."

He remembered the way Athena looked at him. Calm. Almost sad.

Don’t waste it chasing shadows.

But what if the shadows had names? What if they had crowns?

What if one day, he had to choose?

He looked down at his own hands.

Calloused. Bruised. Scarred.

Fingers meant to hold weapons, not carry the weight of Olympus.

"I’m not ready for this," he whispered.

A long silence answered him.

Then, almost without meaning to, he reached for his spear. The moment his fingers touched it, something clicked back into place. His mind steadied.

He didn’t have the answers.

But maybe he didn’t need them yet.

Maybe all he needed... was time.

Time to grow. Time to watch. Time to understand what made his father untouchable.

Because one day—maybe not tomorrow, maybe not for a century—but one day...

He might stand at the center of Olympus himself.

And when that day came, he didn’t want to be anyone’s pawn.

Not Hera’s.

Not Zeus’s.

Just Ares.

And gods help whoever tried to stand in his way.