Ares stood at the top step of the Mars Arena and watched the sky-wielder train alone on the sand below. Aether moved through slow forms in a white bodysuit, gold gauntlets flexing at his wrists. Every few seconds a thread of lightning jumped between his palms and vanished. Ares had come here to challenge him. He had brought his spear and his falcon shield for it. He gripped both now and did not move. The god of war did not lose fights. He was the son of Zeus and Hera, made for the clash of armies, and lately every mortal war had bored him to sleep. Aether was the one name that still stirred him. A newcomer. A rival who had done nothing to him and somehow insulted him by existing. Ares wanted him in the sand. He wanted it settled in front of the whole pantheon. But he had never seen Aether fight. Not once. He watched the sky-wielder pivot and raise a hand, and a bolt struck the sand fifty feet away without warning. No wind-up. No shout. The sand fused to glass where it hit. Ares understood, plainly, that if he charged now he would be a smear on the arena floor before his blade cleared the shield. A rush of wings behind him. His vulture landed on the rail beside him, gold-tipped feathers folding sharp against her back, red eyes fixed on the figure below. Dia had followed him from the palace. She always did when he meant to kill something. "Watch him," Ares said. "Every hour. Where his feet go before the strike. What he does with his left hand. When he breathes." The vulture cocked her head. "I want him bled in this arena," Ares said. "I will not walk in blind." He made himself lower the spear. It felt wrong in his hand, unused, but he set the butt on the marble. Below, Aether finished the form and stood still. He looked up, straight at the arch where Ares was standing, as if he had known the whole time. "You planning to come down," Aether called, "or just stare?" Ares's grip tightened on the shield rim. Ichor pulsed at his temples. Every instinct told him to vault the rail. "Soon," he said. Aether smiled once, small, and walked off the sand without looking back. Ares stayed at the rail long after the arena emptied. He sent Dia into the rafters to circle and mark the exits. He counted the paces from column to column. He picked the spot where he would land the killing thrust, and the spot where he would not stand under any condition. For the first time in his life, the god of war was doing what he had always refused to do. He was studying. He would come back. He would know Aether's fight before Aether knew his name was next.