Ares drove his bloodstained spear into the sand of the golden arena, breath ragged, knuckles white. He had built this place for one reason: to burn the fury out of himself before it could burn anything else. If he could master it, even for a day, Olympus might name him its protector. He drilled until his arms shook, hurling the bronze tip through stone pillars he raised and shattered, again and again. The vulture watched from a high arch, gold wings folded, red eyes patient. It only stirred when his rage stirred. Today it had not moved once. Ares took that as a good sign. He was wrong. A shadow crossed the sand. His mother stepped through the gate, gown trailing, lotus staff in hand. "Your father took another last night," Hera said. "A mortal girl. He did not even hide it." The coal in his chest split open before he heard himself roar. The spear was already moving. It tore through three pillars and buried itself in the far wall before he knew his arm had thrown it. The vulture shrieked and launched into the air. Ares stared at his empty hand, shaking. He had not felt it rise. He never did. Hera did not flinch. She looked at the ruined wall, then at her son. "You cannot guard Olympus," she said, "if you cannot guard yourself." She turned and left him in the wreckage. Ares sank to his knees in the sand. The coal was still hot. He still could not put it down.

Ares stayed on his knees in the wreckage long after his mother was gone. The shattered pillars leaned around him like broken teeth. The far wall wore a deep crack where the spear had struck. He pulled the weapon free and sat with it across his lap. The vulture drifted down from the arch and landed beside him. Its red eyes did not blink. It only came close when the rage went quiet, and the quiet was the worst part. He carried the spear to the golden case at the edge of the arena. Inside stood the armor of a mortal who had once mastered his own fury long enough to matter. Ares pressed his hand to the glass. The gold light spilled over his knuckles. He had stared at this armor a thousand times. He had never asked himself the real question. What was burning him? Not the affairs. Not the names. Something under those. He sat down in the center of the sand. The vulture hopped closer. He closed his eyes and reached for her, the way he always did when the coal would not cool. Aphrodite came to him the way she came to everyone — without apology. Her voice arrived before her shape did. "You are looking in the fire," she said. "The answer is under it." She knelt in the sand across from him. Her flower crown caught the late sun. "You think it is hate. It is not. You love her. You could not save her. That is the wound. Rage is only the bandage." Ares opened his mouth and closed it. The coal in his chest did not vanish. But for the first time, he could see its shape. Not fury at his father. Grief for his mother. Helpless love wearing armor. He spoke it aloud, slow and rough. "I am angry because I could not protect her." The vulture lifted its wings once and settled. The spear, across his knees, felt lighter than it had in years. He stood. He set the bloodstained spear against the case beneath the mortal's gold armor. He did not destroy another pillar. He named the thing, and the naming did not free him — but it gave him a handle. Tomorrow the council would meet again. Tomorrow his mother would need a son who knew his own wound. Ares walked out of the arena steadier than he came in, the vulture watching from the arch, the coal still warm in his chest, but no longer faceless.