Duel

Ares’ study was dim and smelled of parchment, leather, and smoke from the torches fixed in sconces along the walls. Shelves lined the room, crowded with books, scrolls, and relics from his past campaigns. A massive wooden desk dominated one side, its surface covered with correspondence. At the center of the room stood a broad work table, its dark wood scarred by years of use, covered with maps weighed down by carved figures of soldiers and ships.

Ares stood at the table, hands braced on the edge, shoulders heavy. He glared at the maps but did not see them.

The door opened. Athena entered, carrying a jug of wine. She did not wait for permission. She never did.

“You're sulking again brother,” she said, walking past him, her lips twitched upwards. She set the jug down, poured two cups, and slid one toward him.

“I don’t sulk,” he said quietly. His voice was flat, but his knuckles whitened against the table.

“You do. You sulk and you brood. And you let them bait you. That council was a poor showing on your part. Why do you insist on being so blunt? You know it never ends well for you.”

He picked up the cup, drained it, and set it down hard. He did not look at her. “Better blunt than false.” He remembered the council, the way Lily’s name had been brushed aside like a pawn on the board. He had spoken up, too sharply, unable to hide his anger when they spoke of her fate as though she were a bargaining chip.

Athena’s mouth tightened. “Wars aren't won by the side that swings harder.”

His silence stretched.  He remembered how they had spoken of delays, of letting time test her worth. He could still see Lily’s face in his mind, patient before the council, but her shoulders taut under the weight of their judgment.

They stood across from each other, the work table between them.

“You are reckless,” she said finally, exasperated.

“And you are frigid. You're the one who claims to be her friend,” he answered, his eyes lifting at last to meet hers.

Athena did not flinch. “Patience is not cold. It is discipline. The council needs proof, not outbursts.”

He stared at her for a long moment, jaw working, but said nothing. Then: “Discipline can cost lives. Momentum saves them. Leaving her unguarded while they debate is not strategy. It’s neglect.”

She leaned her hands on the table, close to his. “You cannot protect everything with fury alone. You cannot protect her that way.”

His silence returned. He gripped the rim of the cup until it creaked. The torches spat and hissed in the quiet.

“You can’t protect what isn’t yours to claim,” she said at last. Her words were calm, almost gentle, which made them strike deeper.

His hand tightened. “You speak as if you know what I want.”

“I do. And I know what it will cost you.”

Ares’ lips pressed into a line. He poured more wine, drank slowly, and still did not answer. His eyes burned into her across the table.

The silence thickened until it broke with his voice, lower than before. “Momentum and patience are not opposites. You wait, then strike when the time is right. I strike, but I know when to hold. They are the same approach, with different names.”

Athena tilted her head, studying him. For a long time she said nothing, and the weight of her gaze pressed hard against him. Then she gave a small nod. “Perhaps you’ve grown.”

He did not reply, only drank again, his silence carrying its own weight.

They both finished their wine. The tension eased but did not break.

At last, Athena straightened. She adjusted her robe and walked to the door.

“Ares,” she said, pausing at the threshold. “Do not mistake desire for destiny.”

She left without looking back.

Ares stood at the table, staring at his empty cup. The maps and carved figures blurred into nothing. He saw only Lily, bound by duty, weighed down by her crown. He wanted to tear away every chain holding her. 

He set the cup down with force.

“Destiny be damned,” he said. “She’s worth the risk.”