Ares lounged back on the low couch, bringing the blade of the battle axe close enough that it almost grazed his nose. He studied the thin, curving line, searching for a single imperfection. Drawing his thumb down the edge, he jerked his hand back and slung the axe away. It sank into the opposite wall.



He sucked on his thumb, rolling his tongue over the smooth cut, nursing blood. Glaring at the axe, he rose from the couch and crossed the room to wrench it out of the white wall. Partially he’d asked Hephaestus to fashion it for him as a test, to see if the smith would try to curse him in some way. What he’d ended up with was another perfect weapon. With a long sigh, he stored the axe in the corner where stood a host of others, nearly identical, and all perfect.



The open window drew him and he leaned out, resting his forearms on the sill, staring at the winding, cloud covered paths of Mount Olympus. From here, he could see other temples, swathed in white puffs and illuminated by an ever present ethereal glow. Aphrodite’s temple was situated too far for him to be able to see her clearly if she was there, but he looked for her just the same.



When no movement at all came from that quarter, he pushed away from the window and walked out onto the portico, looking down through the clouds at the mortal realm far below. His upper lip curled back in disgust. From here he could see the green of Taengea, placid and peaceful. A wicked gleam crossed his eyes and he turned about on his heel, striding back into the room to grab his new battle axe.



“Peaceful, hmmm?” he said to himself, hefting the weapon up. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”



Keeping the weapon held aloft, he stared at it until it emitted a fiery glow, like an ember about to burst into flame. The shaft of the axe burned his palm but he didn’t let go until fury and indignation were as much a part of the weapon as the metal it was made of.



“There,” he smiled.



Striding back onto the portico, he stepped down until he came to his chariot, drawn by four impossibly large winged horses. Within moments he was airborne, flicking the reins and driving his team down to the mortal world. His aim was the palace of Vasiliadon and, more specifically, the second prince.



No mortal saw his chariot as it descended. Nor did they see him go into young Irakles’s room and switch out his favored battle axe with the one Hephaestus had crafted, that he himself had filled with all manner of ill will. The more Irakles wielded this weapon, the more like it he would become.



Satisfied with himself, he got back in his chariot, and directed the horses to Olympus. Once the hooves of his team touched ground, he leaped out and grinned to himself as he walked up the stairs. The room was as he’d left it and he resumed his place on the couch, still smiling to himself. This game with mortals was such fun.