In Too Deep

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a hazy orange glow over the Athenian coast. Once a picturesque town bustling with life, it now stood eerily still. The sand, usually a pristine golden hue, was marred with splotches of crimson, a testament to the devastation that had occurred. Broken homes and overturned market stalls painted a bleak picture of the calamity that had befallen the town. The once-gentle waves were now returning bodies to the shore, the innocent victims of the unfathomable massacre.

Athena, the goddess of wisdom and war, looked out of place amidst the chaos. Dressed more like a librarian than a deity, she wore a neat blouse and a pencil skirt paired with sensible shoes ideal for the sands of the beach. Her hair was pulled back into a tidy bun, and a pair of glasses rested delicately on her nose. The coastal cold had prompted her to don a long overcoat, which billowed slightly as the chilly wind tugged at it.

Standing beside her was the Athenian minister, looking every bit the statesman, though clearly disheveled by the crisis before them. He wore a sharp suit, its fabric rippling in the calm wind, evidence of the coat he had selflessly given to the goddess. The lack of his coat exposed him to the chilly breeze, but he showed no discomfort, more preoccupied with the scene of destruction before him. His face was set in grim lines, eyes deep and contemplative, reflecting the weight of leadership in the face of such tragedy.

"This..." Athena began, her voice choked with emotion, "Who could commit such an atrocity?"

The minister sighed, rubbing his temples, the weight of the situation evident in his weary eyes. "A heretical sect is boasting of this, seeking to raise their profile. But," he shook his head, "I've never known them to possess the capability for such a vast slaughter. This is too... organized, too brutal. I would bet my last drachma it's Sparta."

The name "Sparta" echoed in Athena's mind, resounding like a hammer on an anvil. The Triumvirate of Elders may officially lead the Spartan Empire, but to her, the word conjured a singular figure: Ares.

Lost in thought, a coolness suddenly enveloped Athena's foot. The tide had risen, and as it ebbed, it brought with it the body of a young girl. The lifeless form bumped against Athena's ankle, her pale elbow resting against the goddess's shin. Athena's eyes met the vacant gaze of the child, and for a chilling moment, she saw a familiar, though forgotten, face staring back.

Horrified, she gasped, stumbling backward. Sensing the gravity of her reaction, the minister immediately shouted for his men to tend to the girl's body. But as he turned back to address Athena, he found her already retreating.

"Where are you going?" he asked, but she was already moving away.

"I need to speak with my brother," Athena replied, her voice laced with urgency and determination. The intensity in her eyes made it clear that this confrontation was inevitable.

Tradition married innovation amid the mechanical heart of the Grand Temple of Sparta. Bronze pipes steamed, creating a warm, ethereal ambiance. Marble pillars stood steadfast against time, accompanied by the rhythmic ticking of machinery, all under the watchful gaze of a gleaming domed ceiling.

Within this union of old and new, Ares, the formidable God of War, lounged. The carved onyx bath cradled him, waters infused with olives and amber. His body, a canvas of battles long past, bore deep scars—painful reminders of his defense of Hera against Kronos's wrath. Short brown hair, interrupted by streaks of defiant blonde highlights, framed his face. But it was his eyes, blood-red and intense, that drew the most attention. They were windows to a volatile soul, ever-shifting between calm and tempest due to the traumas inflicted upon him by Kronos.

As he rested, the deliberate footfalls of someone not easily swayed by the temple's grandeur approached. Temple Guards, outfitted in exquisite leather breastplates with brass piping and swathed in crimson robes, readied their spears.

Athena made her entrance, every inch the embodiment of wisdom. She was dressed not as a warrior, but rather in attire reminiscent of a librarian—a dignified skirt, a crisp blouse, and a tailored jacket. Her short brown hair had gentle curls, framing a face accentuated by minimalist makeup. Glasses perched on her nose, giving her an air of quiet authority.

"Templars, stand aside. I mean to have words with my dear brother," she stated, voice firm with an unknown undertone.

One of the guards, a statuesque woman with an air of authority, stepped forward. "The God of War bathes and shall not be disturbed," she declared with unwavering confidence.

Athena's eyes flashed with anger. "You dare bar a goddess from entering? Do you forget your place?"

The guard met Athena's gaze unflinchingly. "I serve by the decree of a superior god and follow his mandates."

Athena's rage intensified at the insinuation. "Superior god?! I am one of the Twelve!"

The guard nodded. "Yes, you are, yet Ares is the Heir of Olympus-"

Athena seethed. That was her title and not for Ares to claim. Just as she was about to voice her indignation further, Ares's voice cut through the tension, "Let my half-sister approach."

Athena's glare bore into the guard, promising retribution, as she passed. Yet, that fierce demeanor melted into discomfort when she beheld Ares's relaxed state and bare-laid body. Ares caught her slight reaction, and a sly smile played on his scarred lips, clearly relishing the momentary upper hand.

Regaining her composure, Athena began, "Ares, a coastal village in the Republic of Athens has been laid to waste. Do you, or does Sparta, have knowledge of this tragedy?"

Ares's features tightened, the memories of past pains making him quick to challenge. "Take care, my sister. Throwing veiled accusations, especially towards Sparta, is playing with fire."

"Can you truly blame me, dear brother?" Athena countered, her voice sharp as she gestured toward the temple's grandeur. "Given your behaviors and the unchecked dominion of the Spartan Empire?"

Ares's face contorted in anger. "If you come only to belittle and accuse, then you are welcome to take your leave."

She squared her shoulders, defiant. "I shall not depart without the answers I seek."

In a swift move, Ares rose from his bath, water cascading from his scarred form. "Shall we see about that?" he asked, raising his scarred eyebrow.

Athena did not enjoy the sight of her brother's naked form. It repulsed her, but she had seen many horrors in her life, and she kept her feet planted and her glare locked in.

When Athena held her ground, Ares bellowed, "Guards! Escort the goddess from these chambers!"

The guards swiftly moved in, intent on executing Ares's command. Athena's voice, edged with a dangerous calm, resonated, "Call them off, Ares."

His response was a cold, resolute, "I will not," he said, a hint of a smirk on the corner of his lips.

Athena sighed heavily. Turning to the guards, she warned, "Step back, or you will regret the consequences."

Unfazed, the female guard from before drew an adamant blade, its shimmering surface reflecting her determination. "I'll spill divine blood if I must," she warned.

But Athena was quicker. In a flash, Athena seized the guard's wrist, preventing the blade from nearing her. With a twist, she disarmed the guard. Following that with a fluid motion, she sent one guard flying with a powerful kick, then seized the other, using the guard's momentum to crash them into their comrade. She then repositioned the snatched blade in her hand and lunged toward Ares with steely resolve in her eyes.

With the blade held defiantly in Athena's grip, Ares lunged forward to meet her, capturing the sharp edge between his palms, the intensity in his blood-red eyes growing.

Athena, always quick to adapt, saw a temporary vulnerability and swiftly delivered a kick between his legs, aiming to retrieve her blade. She felt her brother's manhood smash against her shin as she delivered the severe blow.

Caught off-guard and eyes bulging, Ares responded with a furious backhanded strike, landing a powerful blow across Athena's face, sending her stumbling back into the onyx bath, water splashing everywhere. He wrested control of the blade and advanced, menacingly towering over the goddess.

As he swung the blade downward in a powerful arc, Athena, leveraging her position in the water, lashed out with her foot, connecting with Ares' wrist. The blade sailed through the air, its gleaming edge catching the temple's ambient light before crashing to the floor with a clang.

But Ares wasn't done. In a display of raw anger, he reached for Athena, gripping her tightly. He pushed her deeper into the bath, water closing over her head as he tried to submerge her completely, attempting to drown the goddess in her moment of vulnerability.

Athena's fingers scraped desperately at Ares' arms, her nails digging into the scars and old wounds, seeking any purchase to free herself from his murderous grip. But as her lungs began to burn and her vision dimmed, something stirred deep within her. A long-forgotten lineage, a whisper of an ancient bond with the very essence of the environment.

Her mother, the nymph Metis, had passed to her more than wisdom. As Athena closed her eyes, she called upon that maternal bond, beckoning the very magic of the water to weave its essence into her. The water around her shimmered and reacted, recognizing the daughter of its kindred.

To Ares, Athena's thrashing ceased, and her lips turned blue, and he immediately mistook her newfound tranquility and shift in appearance as a sign of her defeat. Panic began to grip him as the weight of his actions set in. Did he just drown his own sister? Not again, he told himself, shaking his head. Not again! In a surge of remorse and fear, he let go, staggering back, his breathing ragged, eyes wide with the terrifying possibility of fratricide.

The chamber in the Grand Temple of Sparta seemed to dissolve around Athena, replaced by the luminescent glow of a past memory.

Golden sands stretched endlessly, glistening beneath the benevolent gaze of the radiant sun. Crowned with frothy white tips, waves reached out to kiss the shore, each retreat leaving traces of affection on the warm sands. The atmosphere was thick with mirth as the joyous laughter of Triton intertwined with the pure, delighted giggles of a young Kalliste. Their merriment echoed, creating a symphony of happiness.

Athena knelt by the water's edge, dressed in a simple white chiton that billowed in the soft breeze. Her fingers traced patterns on Kalliste's back, who sat between her legs, eagerly awaiting their next adventure.

"Ready, my little starfish?" Athena whispered, her lips brushing against Kalliste's ear.

Kalliste nodded vigorously, her wide-eyed anticipation evident. "With you, Mama, always."

Together, they ventured deeper into the water, hand in hand, moving closer to where Triton waited for them, treading water. Once the water was waist-deep for Athena and lapping at Kalliste's neck, Athena softly instructed, "Close your eyes and open your soul to the magic, my love. Let the water embrace you."

The sea around them shimmered, and the essence of the ocean seemed to recognize its own. Athena and Kalliste's descent was gentle, their forms surrounded by a soft blue aura. The mundane act of breathing was transformed into an enchantment; instead of air, they drew the very essence of the sea into their lungs.

Their eyes met, twin pools of wonder and joy reflecting back at one another. There, beneath the waves of Arcadia, mother and daughter became one with the ocean, their souls dancing with the rhythm of the tide.

The memory shifted, and young Kalliste began to evolve. The innocent features, once rounded by the naiveté of childhood, matured into a young woman's sharp and refined countenance. Kalliste's once cherubic face gave way to high cheekbones and determined eyes that sparkled with both mischief and purpose. The energy around her was different: a radiant aura of a young adult in her prime, resolute and stunning in her beauty.

Yet, the idyllic waters that surrounded them began to betray Athena's memory. The gentle lapping waves turned treacherous, the temperature plunging, as the serene blues deepened into a chilling abyss. The worst was yet to come, for the once clear waters were tainted, turning a foreboding shade of crimson, a stark contrast against the pale beauty of Kalliste's skin. Athena's heart raced, the painful recognition sinking in; it was blood. Kalliste, her vibrant daughter, now lay lifeless, her form cruelly stilled by the malicious act of the Titan Pallas.

The horror of the memory, the sharpness of loss, sucked Athena back from the past's embrace. The temple's ambiance once again surrounded her, the realness of it striking her senses. A torrent of sensations flooded her — the rush of air, the sensation of water in her lungs, and the unmistakable thrum of her heart beating a frenetic rhythm.

The ancient magic of her lineage had woven its protection around her, allowing the goddess to transcend a mortal's limitations. The realization brought a fleeting moment of gratitude and relief, but it was quickly overshadowed by a searing anger. The wounds of her past, the betrayal of Pallas, and the heart-wrenching loss of her daughter welled up inside her like a tempest.

Turning her gaze upon Ares, she no longer saw just her sibling but the embodiment of every deceit, every heartbreak she had ever endured. The culmination of her sorrow and anger, once dormant, was now ignited by the God of War's earlier transgression. And within Athena, a storm was building, threatening to unleash its fury.

Each strike Athena delivered upon Ares wasn't merely an act of physical aggression; it was an outpouring of years of suppressed anguish and ire. With every impact, her vision blurred momentarily, replaced by the monstrous image of Pallas. His visage morphed grotesquely with each memory — a testament to the punishment she had meted out on him for his unforgivable treachery.

It wasn't just Pallas' face she saw but the very essence of all the pain she had endured. It was the loss of a daughter too young, the ruin of a once-loving marriage, the long nights lamenting what had been unjustly stolen from her. Each punch carried the weight of these traumas, channeled into physical force.

A particularly fierce right hook sent Ares' head crashing onto the tiled floor of the bath. The once pristine and artfully crafted tiles fractured instantly, spiderweb cracks radiating outward from the point of impact. As his head met the floor, a vibrant red-orange ichor — the divine lifeblood of gods — erupted from the wound, spattering and staining the surrounding tiles.

The ichor's ethereal heat met the cool bath water, producing an immediate reaction. Steam began to rise in swirling tendrils where the ichor met the wet floor. Each droplet of water that came into contact with the blazing lifeblood hissed and evaporated, filling the chamber with a dense fog of steam, both masking and magnifying the intensity of the clash between two of Olympus' mightiest.

Ares, the very embodiment of conflict, was no stranger to pain. Yet, every assault, every blow that Athena inflicted, seemed to rip apart not just his physical being but also his psyche. Each injury amplified his rage, with anger rapidly mutating into uncontrollable madness. Tainted by the blows and the emotional turmoil, Ares's vision began playing tricks on him.
In his daze, the sight of Athena's fists connecting with his face was distorted. The blue hue of her skin, a side-effect of her watery rejuvenation, appeared ghostly to him. It was as if he was being thrashed by the vengeful apparition of Athena herself, risen from the watery depths to exact her retribution.

But as the onslaught continued, the vision morphed further. Gone was the drowned specter of Ares' sister. Instead, a far more terrifying figure emerged from the fog of his disoriented mind. Another ghostly figure of Ares' past... The towering, skeletal frame of Kronos loomed over him. This Titan, a symbol of Ares's most harrowing memories, was draped in an aura of darkness and decay. His once mighty form was now a grotesque caricature: a hulking corpse, skin a ghastly blue, muscles taut and prominent, veins were fiery and glowing, snaking across the Titan's form like molten lava channels on a volcanic surface. But most horrifying was the skull-like face.

Each successive punch from Athena seemed to amplify the hallucination, immersing Ares further into the nightmare. With every strike, Kronos appeared to grow more tangible, his malevolent grin widening, eyes burning with an unholy fire. Ares was trapped in a dual reality — simultaneously facing his sister's wrath and the haunting specter of his past tormentor. The lines between reality and hallucination began to blur, each blow sending him further into his madness and memories, reminding Ares of the only time he felt weak.

The blows continued, unrelenting. Athena could not stop herself. Each strike was fueled by the haunting image of Pallas, the embodiment of betrayal and the catalyst of Athena's profound pain. The face of Ares, her very own kin, was obscured in her eyes, replaced entirely by the malicious smirk of the Titan who had brought immeasurable grief into her life.

Muscles tense and heart raging, Athena, in a sudden surge of strength, grabbed Ares by the collar and threw him into the bath with a swift, forceful motion. The splash was colossal, rivaled only by the immense plume of steam that erupted when the godly ichor mingled with the bathwater. This mix of divine lifeblood and water transformed the room into a seething cauldron, with vapor billowing in thick, undulating waves, reducing visibility to almost nothing.

Lost in her wrathful trance, Athena's memories consumed her. She envisioned the act of subduing Pallas, plunging him into the dark, treacherous waters of the River Styx in the depths of the Underworld. There, the treacherous Titan had met his doom, succumbing to the overwhelming power of the ancient river. As she stood, watching the thrashing silhouette in the water, she was oblivious to the truth: It was not Pallas being drowned, but Ares, her own flesh and blood.

Unaware, she believed herself to be exacting revenge on a long-gone enemy, when, in fact, she was on the precipice of committing an act against her own family. The tragedy of their shared history and misunderstandings was about to climax in a moment of profound consequence.

In a fit of raw emotion, Ares regained his balance, breaking away from Athena's onslaught. With swiftness driven by fury, he reached out, his fingers encircling her slender neck, pressing her hard against the marble edge of the bath. His face contorted in a snarl, seeing not Athena but the silhouette of Kronos.

"You dare threaten Mother?" Ares' voice was thick with rage. "I will let no harm befall Hera under my watch!"

Desperation glinted in Athena's eyes, not only from the pressure against her throat but from the haunting presence of Pallas in her mind. She strained against Ares' iron grip, the misty steam offering no respite to her deprived lungs. Mustering her strength, she managed to voice her torment, "You took her from me, Pallas! For Kalliste, I'll see you pay!" In a swift motion, she thrust her hand up, pushing hard against Ares' nose.

Caught off guard, Ares momentarily faltered, taking a step back. But his anger was undiminished, perhaps even more inflamed. Without hesitation, he surged forward again, grabbing Athena and driving her down. The force of the impact shattered the elegant floor tiles beneath them.

The ensuing silence was broken by a commanding voice, ringing with authority yet laced with anxiety. "Gods of Olympus, halt this insanity at once!" A temple guard stepped forward, her spear poised, her face reflecting the gravity of the situation.

The aftermath was as tense as the storm that had raged moments before. A suffocating weight hung in the air, the palpable realization of how close they had come to something irrevocable.

Ares cleared his throat, his intent to form words apparent. However, silence still prevailed. Perhaps it was guilt, regret, or a mixture of both. He just couldn't find the right words.

Meanwhile, Athena tried her best to regain some semblance of her dignity. As she emerged from the tainted waters of the bath, she avoided her brother's gaze. Her hands deftly wiped the divine ichor from her face.

Seeing his sister in this state, Ares, the fearsome God of War, looked defeated. "Fetch Asclepius," he rasped, addressing the remaining temple guard. The guard nodded with swift understanding and hurried off.

"I'm alright," Athena whispered, clutching her bent glasses and casting them aside like the trash they now were.

But Ares persisted, his voice filled with a rare tenderness, "Athena—"

She cut him off with a simple gesture, hoisting herself to her feet with a grace that belied her injuries, and made her way out of the room, leaving wet footprints as the only evidence of her presence.

As she walked, the soft murmur of Ares reached her, "I'm sorry."

The hallway seemed longer, its echo magnifying the import of his words. Athena's heart ached. But deep-rooted pain and anger clouded her judgment. To her, his apology was another deceit, another manipulation.

"He doesn't mean it," she whispered, her voice laced with bitterness, "He's never meant anything... He's never meant anything to me."

The opulence of the temple's luxury apartment was often a sight to behold, but for Athena at that moment, it was merely a background to her brooding thoughts. The intricate golden motifs and lush fabrics meant little when compared to the internal storm raging within her.

She leaned over an ornate washbasin, its rim adorned with gem-encrusted depictions of ancient myths. The water within hissed and steamed as ichor dripped from the bruised and cut face of the goddess, but Athena gave that no focus. Instead, she looked forward to the mirrored reflection over the washbasin. It was strange seeing herself this way; the blue-tinged lips, her skin paler than the finest alabaster, eyes that held depths akin to the vast oceans - all a reminder of her recent attunement to water.

She inhaled deeply, attempting to release the overwhelming memories and the essence attached to them. As she exhaled, her mastery over the ambient essence became evident. The blue hue receded, replaced with the warm, olive undertone she was accustomed to. Her eyes lost their sunken appearance, returning the vibrant spark of wisdom they always held.

But the transformation wasn't entirely comforting. The face that stared back at her in the reflection was one filled with pain, regret, and a raging fire. Her stern gaze locked with her reflection, searching for answers in those familiar yet foreign depths.

She reached for the ornate goblet resting beside the washbasin, its curves filled with the tantalizing Nektared wine. As the ruby liquid met her lips, she drank deeply, each gulp a desperate attempt to drown the pain and anger of the evening. The taste was bittersweet, but its familiar warmth was a comfort. Still, her eyes, filled with a mixture of anger, sadness, and determination, never left the mirror. Each sip became a silent vow, a promise to herself.

The apartment took on a solemn ambiance in the room's dim light, punctuated only by the occasional flicker of its oil lamps. Athena was used to battle injuries, but these were different. Inflicted not by enemies in a great war but by her kin.

The Nektar worked its magic from within, each drop fueling her, replenishing what had been taken. The familiar sensation was akin to a golden balm soothing over raw wounds. The pain dulled with every sip, replaced by the sweet intoxication of the drink. Athena cherished the relief, even if temporary.

She thought of the Ambrosia – food of the gods. It was the perfect complement to Nektar, providing restoration and rejuvenation. Her keen ears listened for the priest's footsteps, a hint that her request for Ambrosia to be brought to her was being seen to. But for now, silence prevailed.

Drawing closer to the mirror, Athena examined the blue-black marks marring her usually flawless skin. They were unsightly, a testament to the violence of their altercation. The cuts, though shallow, shone bright against her pale complexion. If she had been mortal, you would consider her a corpse, but these were minor cosmetic setbacks to a goddess. At least, that's what she told herself as she parted her lips. "A god's wounds," she mused, "How deceiving they can be."

She took another sip of the Nektar, cherishing its rich flavor and the warmth that spread from her throat to the pit of her stomach. Setting down her drink, she grabbed the washcloth that hung over the washbasin's rim. The burnt rag felt coarse against her skin, but she persisted, watching as the steam hissed each time the fabric met her ichor-laden wounds. The scent of burning mixed with the floral aroma of the room, creating an almost heady mix.

Tossing the now-charred rag into the basin, she gingerly cradled her goblet, its weight comforting in her hand. Limping, she made her way to the plush couch, the soft cushions beckoning. As she settled in, she hoped the room's quiet and Nektar's embrace would grant her a brief respite from the night's turmoil.

The knock was an unwelcome intrusion, breaking the cocoon of peace Athena was trying to wrap herself in. Hearing the door creak open, she barely glanced back, already envisioning the golden platter laden with Ambrosia. But the soft rustle of a blade's sheath against a hip and the faint scent of the Olympian throne room's unique incense blend reached her senses instead. Recognizing the presence, Athena's posture stiffened, her face betraying a hint of annoyance.

"What are you doing here?" Athena began, her voice dripping with icy decorum.

The figure hesitated at the doorway for a brief moment, taking in Athena's condition. Feminine, with brown eyes and brown hair to match - braided to one side, the goddess Nike entered. She was dressed in the uniform of the Olympian Throne Guard, a royal purple long coat with gold trimming, off-white gloves and boots, gray loose-fitting pants, and a white tunic with black and gold details at the hem.

"Well?" asked Athena as her father's guardian stood over her, looking down at the battered goddess.

Nike's heart ached at the sight; the usually indomitable Athena looked vulnerable. "Zeus has summoned you," she began, her voice as soft as she could make it, given the circumstances.

Athena scoffed, her fingers wrapping tighter around the goblet's stem. "Of course he has," she retorted, taking a deep sip. "Always at the most inopportune moments."

Nike's lips curved into a gentle smile, "Take your time," she murmured, moving closer. "We're not in a hurry."

Athena arched an eyebrow, "Not in a hurry to answer Zeus? That's a first."

Nike shrugged, her sheathed sword whispering against her trousers with the motion. "Sometimes, even the King of the Gods can wait. Especially when his daughter needs a moment..." she paused and made an uncertain expression. "Or a day."

Athena smirked at that, attempting to push herself upright. "I am quite fine, Nike. No need for exaggeration and overt concern for me."

But as Athena tried to rise, Nike swiftly moved to her side, her hand gentle but firm on Athena's shoulder, urging her to stay seated. "Thena?"

"What?"

"Stay," she whispered.

Athena sighed, a half-smile gracing her lips. "There's no winning against the Goddess of Victory, is there?"

Nike chuckled, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "You know better than to try."

Athena emptied her goblet with a final swig, the liquid warmth seeping into her bones. Nike took it as she set it down, her fingers brushing Athena's briefly. "Shall I fetch you more?" she offered, her voice kind.

Athena merely nodded, appreciating the quiet gesture of support. These small acts of kindness made all the difference in moments of such turmoil.

The apartment, reserved for gods, reflected an opulence only divine tastes could appreciate. Walls of polished marble, veined with threads of gold, reflected the muted light from braziers filled with scented oils. The ceiling was an intricate fresco depicting constellations and scenes from divine mythos. On one side, the abduction of Persephone was painted in soft hues, while on the opposite, the birth of Athena from Zeus's head was depicted in vibrant colors. Neither scene was precisely historical, but the scriptures liked to weave tales that lent themselves to such artistic merit.

The furniture was grandiose; chaises and chairs of dark mahogany studded with precious stones and cushions of the finest silk adorned them. Tapestries of celestial battles hung alongside ornate mirrors framed in gold, and a collection of collected leatherbound scriptures sat on a table by the window.

Even the air held a hint of luxury, heavy with the scent of ambrosia and incense from the vents. In the corner of the apartment, a small bubbling fountain played a soft melody, its waters shimmering with every color imaginable. Close by stood a statue of a naked rendering of Nike herself, wings unfurled, frozen in the act of crowning a victor.

The clink of glass and the muted sounds of pouring liquid were audible from the kitchen area. "So," Nike called out, her voice teasing, "Who threw the first punch?"

Athena's sigh echoed softly in the palatial room. "I think I did. Though truthfully, it's all a blur now."

A soft chuckle came from the kitchen before Nike emerged, holding two goblets, the liquid inside them glowing softly. "Tell me, does Ares look as terrible as you do?" she teased as she approached Athena.

Athena smirked. "Worse, though most of the reason for that wasn't my doing."

Nike snorted, amused. "Trust you to find humor even now." Handing a goblet to Athena, Nike settled beside her. The two goddesses tilted their goblets to their lips simultaneously, their eyes meeting over the rim in a shared moment of understanding. The weight of the world seemed a little lighter for them in that brief moment of solidarity.

Athena's deep sip from her goblet allowed the heady sensation of Nektared wine to wash over her, a tingling warmth that started at her lips and cascaded down her spine. Traditionally, she refrained from indulging too heavily in the intoxicating blend, usually choosing watered-down Nektar or Nektared mead when she wanted something sweeter. But, the simple truth was nothing ever took the sting of pain from divine flesh like Nektared wine.

Still, there was another time for Athena to indulge in Nektared wine. After a victory on the battlefield, there was nothing better than celebrating with Nike by her side. It had been their tradition for as long as Athena could recall, and the two goddesses had a long past together. It was customary for them to share a glass of Nektared wine in Athena's war camp tent. Rarely had they enjoyed such a drink together in such lavish surroundings, at least without the company of other gods.

The Nektar left a soft shimmer on Nike's lips, a glow that beckoned Athena. Giving in to the effects of the Nektar, Athena leaned in, capturing Nike's lips with her own, tasting the sweet remnants of their shared drink. Nike, in her ever-poised manner, allowed the affection, reciprocating the warmth and pressing closer. Their goblets were forgotten, placed on the ornate table in the middle of the room, as their intensity deepened.

Athena's advance, drawing Nike down onto the plush couch, was an unspoken promise of the coming moments. The world outside faded, their surroundings inconsequential compared to the electric charge between them.

Nike let a giggle escape her lips. "How many drinks of Nektared wine have you had?" she thought to ask.

"Does it matter?" asked Athena, before plunging her lips to Nike's neck.

Nike squirmed, both allowing the attention and resisting enough to gently keep Athena from going further. "I just wish to know which Athena I am dealing with..."

Athena blinked. What a strange thing to say, she thought for a quiet moment before a sudden, insistent knock at the door broke the spell they were weaving around themselves. With a mutual sigh of frustration, Athena pulled back, her cheeks flushed. Nike adjusted herself on the couch, attempting to regain some semblance of composure before their unknown guest entered.

"Come in," Athena replied, her voice revealing a touch of irritation.

The door swung open to reveal a priest, his arms cradling a platter. Atop the plate was a creamy, lustrous substance that one might mistake for a cheese of the finest quality, but the goddesses could smell its true nature before they noticed the subtle glow that gave away its divine origin: it was Ambrosiac cheese.

The man's voice, thick with apprehension, trembled as he spoke. "Is there anything else you require, my goddess?" The members of the Spartan temple were accustomed to interactions with deities like Ares, Hephaestus, or Aphrodite, but not the likes of Athena. Her rare presence was enough to unnerve him. His voice faltered further when his gaze landed on the goddess's bruised face and then looked her over further. Swiftly, he averted his eyes.

"What troubles you, priest?" Athena probed, her tone a mix of curiosity and concern.

Nike interjected with understanding, "He's not familiar with your presence, Athena. It must be overwhelming."

The priest nodded slowly, avoiding direct eye contact. "Indeed, my goddess, but..." he hesitated, "you appear... immodest."

Athena's eyes darted to her blouse, realizing the extent of her exposure due to her earlier closeness with Nike, having pressed the fabric of her blouse against some not quite dried ichor. A soft chuckle escaped her lips as she stood, gracefully shedding the tarnished clothing. With a swift motion of the same blouse, she wiped away the residual ichor, discarding the sizzling garment without a second thought.

Without missing a beat, Nike instructed, "Bring her a fresh robe."

Blushing furiously, the priest retreated hastily, but Nike's voice called him back. "And close the door!"

He rushed back, muttering a quick apology before ensuring their privacy once more.

With a deep exhale, Athena met Nike's gaze, but Nike's attention was clearly drawn to the fresh marks marring Athena's divine form. "What?" asked Athena, noticing the other goddess' gaze lingering.

As Nike stood, she deftly removed her glove and placed a gentle hand over a cut gracing Athena's chest, carefully wiping away the ichor with her thumb. The fluid seemed to fascinate her as she studied its consistency, her fingers working the celestial substance until it vanished into her own skin.

"What are you doing?" Athena questioned, her gaze fixed on Nike's hand as it pulled back her uniform jacket.

"It's for you," Nike replied. "Wear my jacket until the priest returns with your clothes."

Athena tilted her head. "I'm not bothered. Modesty is more of a concern for mortals, don't you think?"

Nike shot her a look, trying to suppress a smirk. "Just... try not to argue for once. Listen to me."

But as Nike tried to remove the jacket, she awkwardly tangled her arms in the sleeves. Athena chuckled, stepping forward to assist. "Here, let me." With deft hands, she slipped the jacket from Nike, guiding her arms free. It was then that Athena realized her breasts were pressing against Nike's, causing Nike's own blouse to sizzle and smoke. "Sorry," said Athena.

Nike shook her head. She wiped the excess ichor off her blouse with a swift motion of her hand, leaving no burnt fabric - a testament to the divine fabric of the Throne Guard's uniforms, weaved by the Divine Tailor, Rhapso, herself. "No worries..."

As Athena donned the jacket, afforded the same protection as Nike's blouse, Nike continued to make herself more comfortable, shedding her sword belt and kicking off her boots.

"What are you doing?" asked Athena.

"I'll be waiting with you, I think... I may as well get cozy. Ambrosia alone won't heal those injuries," said Nike, with a wisdom of her own. "You'll need at least a night's rest, I should think."

Athena nodded and sighed. She had a point. Soon after, the two goddesses settled back onto the couch, a moment of levity embracing the pair. Without missing a beat, Nike reached for a piece of the Ambrosiac cheese and handed it to Athena, who accepted it with a grateful nod. The first bite sent a delightful burst of flavor into her mouth, and as she chewed, she could swear she felt a faint soothing sensation where her skin had been torn.

Nike leaned in, her gaze sharp. "So, what set it off this time?"

Athena chewed thoughtfully for a moment before responding, the taste of the cheese lingering. "Ares was being his usual pigheaded self."

Nike raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips. "That's hardly news. What did he do now?"

Taking a deep breath, Athena replied, "There was a village on the Athenian coast. Innocents were slaughtered, and I have reason to believe it was the work of the Spartan military."

Nike looked taken aback. "That's a bold move, even for the Spartans."

"Who else would do it?" asked Athena, still chewing.

Nike sighed, "It's easy to generalize and cling to old prejudices, Athena. However, the Spartan people have changed over the years."

Athena, still defiant, raised an eyebrow, "Oh, have they? You saying they aren't still thirsty for war and blood."

"There's more to Sparta than its soldiers, Athena," Nike retorted. "The entire city, its culture, the way of life - they've all evolved. The Spartan Empire of today is not the same as the one from a century ago."

"They still worship Ares, don't they?"

"They do," Nike admitted, "But so does the rest of Elysium. Worshiping a god of war does not mean they act on every violent impulse."

Athena seemed deep in thought, mulling over Nike's words. After a pause, she said, "Maybe... but I still don't trust them. Not fully."

Nike nodded, understanding Athena's reservations, "All I ask is that you don't judge an entire people by the actions of a few or their past. Give them a chance to show who they are now."

The room grew silent momentarily, with only Athena's contemplative chewing breaking the stillness. The golden light of the apartment gave everything a surreal glow, making the two goddesses appear like intricate statues frozen in a tableau of tension and familiarity.

Athena looked down at the Ambrosiac cheese in her hand, its smooth texture and glow a stark contrast to the memories of bloody battles and bitter words exchanged between her and Ares. The taste, divine and sweet, was a fleeting respite from the burden of centuries of conflict.

She finally spoke, her voice softer, "It's hard, Nike. Every time I see him, every time we cross paths, I remember the pain, the humiliation, and the sheer rage of our countless clashes. How does one forget... or forgive?"

Nike sighed, her eyes filled with understanding and a hint of sadness. "Forgiveness isn't about forgetting, Athena. It's about choosing to move past the hurt and finding a way to coexist. Ares is as much a victim of the past as you are. The two of you are bound by a cycle of revenge that neither seems willing to break."

Athena frowned, processing Nike's words. "But why should I be the one to extend an olive branch? After all he's done?"

"Because," Nike said gently, "you are wise, Athena. Wise enough to understand that holding onto this grudge is only causing more harm to both of you... and besides, aren't olive branches sort of your symbol?"

Athena rolled her eyes and shoved more glowing cheese into her mouth, pouting as she chewed.

Nike scoffed. "I'm asking you just give it a try..." she said.

Athena opened her mouth to speak, but Nike shook her head and held up a hand to pause her. "Another try," she amended her statement with a smile. "It's not that much to ask, is it?"

Athena looked at the floor, her thoughts a whirlwind of emotions. Her eyes darkened with a mix of anger and disdain. With a gesture of impatience, she reached for another piece of the Ambrosiac cheese, its divine aroma filling the air around them. As she held the morsel between her fingers, the milky texture glistening in the dim room's light, she said, "Ares has shown he won't give peace a chance," her voice dripping with venom. As if to illustrate her point, she pointed to the fresh bruise on her cheekbone, a stark reminder of their recent confrontation.

Nike, ever the diplomat, let out an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes. "He might be volatile, Athena, but at least he restrained himself this time," she retorted with a pointed emphasis. "That must mean something. Surely, you see that as a sign of progress?"

Athena's lip curled in a scoff as she took a bite from the cheese, savoring the flavor for a moment before it became overshadowed by a surge of memories. Images from centuries ago flooded her mind. She remembered the chilling sensation of cold steel piercing her chest, Ares' enraged face as he thrust his sword deep into her, nailing her to her regal throne atop Mount Olympus. It was a moment of sheer agony, an eternally long moment where life and death danced perilously close. The reason? A careless word, a passing remark she'd made, though the exact phrasing had faded with time. But the sharp sting of betrayal, the chilling feeling of the blade as it entered her heart, remained as fresh as the day it occurred.

Nike's gaze intensified, an earnest plea evident in her eyes. "This vendetta between you and Ares must come to an end," she implored, her voice firm yet filled with concern. "The gods are not blessed with an everlasting cache of phoenix ash." She paused, letting the weight of her words settle in the room. "There are still gods and godlings alike, young and innocent, who perished during the Incursion. They've been waiting for their moment of rebirth for centuries now."

She took a deep breath, her tone turning a shade more desperate. "Every time you and Ares clash, that precious resource is squandered. Both Zeus and Hera refuse to let either of you remain in the clutches of death. But what of the others? What of those who've been waiting in the abyss for their turn?"

Athena slowly finished her piece of Ambrosiac cheese, letting its rich taste linger on her tongue. She swallowed, the gravity of Nike's revelation pressing heavily on her shoulders. For a moment, she was lost in contemplation, realizing that their personal vendetta was costing more than just their pride—it was a burden upon the entire pantheon.

It was not a new revelation, just one she chose to dwell on often. Things concerning Ares had a way of getting under her skin.

With a brisk efficiency, the priest reappeared, carrying a fresh ensemble for Athena. No sooner had he placed it on the nearby table than Athena surged to her feet. Impulsively, she began shedding the soiled and borrowed garments, eager to change into something clean. The priest's eyes widened in shock, and with a clumsy backward step, he retreated hastily, nearly tripping over his own robes in his haste to escape the room.

Nike couldn't help but release a peal of laughter as the priest's hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor. Her mirth faded quickly, however, replaced by a puzzled expression as she regarded Athena. "What in the name of the gods are you doing?"

"I need to speak to Father," Athena asserted determinedly, her focus on the new attire.

Nike stepped forward, placing herself between Athena and her destination. "I meant what I said earlier," she insisted. "You need to rest, to heal. Marching into the throne room in your current state may make a point about Ares' violent wrath, but think of the mortals in the temple. They should never see a god, especially not one of the Twelve, looking so... vulnerable. It erodes their faith, makes us all seem less formidable. We've already seen the rise of heretical movements; this would only stoke the flames."

Athena's response was to simply continue dressing, her movements swift and purposeful. The fresh attire was some ceremonial clerical robes, resembling Grecian robes of the old world, consisting of a flowing white chiton adorned with silver embroidery. A deep blue himation draped over one shoulder, its hem kissed the floor, and a silver belt cinched it at her waist. However, the splendor of the attire did little to mask the visible signs of her recent battle.

"Then clear the temple," Athena shot back, her voice firm. "Allow only the clergy to remain, just until I can reach the Ascension Anchor."

Nike's resolve hardened. She swiftly grasped Athena's wrists, halting her mid-button. "Athena," she pleaded, her voice soft yet commanding, "calm yourself. Your well-being should be your first priority right now."

In the dim light of the Grand Temple, Athena's gaze locked with Nike's, creating an intimate sphere around them. Their shared history, full of battles and camaraderie, seemed to resonate in the air.

With a voice softer than the rustle of leaves, Nike whispered, "Your well-being is my first priority."

Moved by the raw sincerity in Nike's voice, Athena's eyes softened, nodding in silent acknowledgment. She then bridged the distance between them with a gentle, lingering kiss.

Feeling the depth of Athena's emotions, Nike responded, her own feelings flowing through the tender press of their lips. When they finally parted, the concern evident in Nike's eyes, she inquired, "What's really troubling you, Athena?"

Athena retreated slightly, moving back to the plush couch. Picking up her goblet, she took a sip of the Nektared wine, its divine essence soothing her momentarily. The weight of her thoughts was evident in her silence. After a pregnant pause, she cleared her throat, preparing to share the tumult within her heart.

Athena's gaze drifted off, settling on some distant point only she could see. Her fingers absently swirled the contents of her goblet. "I confronted him in the bath," she began, her voice carrying the weight of the memory.

Nike's eyes widened slightly. "The bath?"

Athena nodded, the corners of her mouth pressing into a thin line. "Ares was... bathing when I confronted him."

Nike held up a hand, her expression a mix of concern and trepidation. "I don't need all the details, Athena."

A small, pained smile tugged at Athena's lips. "I'll spare you the grisly recount of my brother's scarred, chiseled body, and the girth of his right-sloping prick then."

A rush of feigned relief washed over Nike, and she let out a half-laugh, half-groan. "Thank you," she said before scoffing and shaking her head.

"But," Athena continued, her voice somber, "there was this moment... Ares held me under the water, and I was drowning. My only thought, my only instinct, was to draw on my nymph heritage and adapt to the water."

Nike nodded slowly, her gaze fixed on Athena's face, full of understanding and awareness of Athena's dual lineage.

"Strangely," Athena went on, her voice barely above a whisper, "I realized I hadn't truly embraced the water essence in so long. At that moment, it was pure survival instinct, but afterward, when I came to my senses, I realized I'd been avoiding water for a reason." She paused, taking a deep breath. "The Athenian Republic's strong support for the ongoing focus on airships, advocating for their advent and then helping to build a network that spans the globe, it was partly just so I could avoid sea travel."

Nike's brow furrowed in confusion. "Why? What's so painful about the water for you?"

A heavy silence hung in the air for a moment, filled with unsaid words and unshed tears. Athena's gaze dropped, her fingers clutching the goblet a bit tighter. "The water," she began, her voice cracking, "it reminds me of Kalliste."

Understanding dawned on Nike's face, and her heart ached for her dear friend.

Athena's gaze seemed distant, lost in the tumultuous tides of the past. "While Ares had me trapped, the water rushing into my lungs, a memory surfaced, one I'd tried to push away for so long," she whispered, her voice hoarse from emotion. "Kalliste and I... we shared a moment, right there in the depths of the sea. I taught her to connect with the water, to let it embrace her and draw breath from it. It was beautiful, a moment of pure connection and understanding."

Nike leaned forward, her eyes searching Athena's for understanding. "Then why...?"

Athena's eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "Every time I remember that moment, it's immediately followed by another, more haunting memory. The water around us turns to blood, and Kalliste... she's no longer the vibrant, living being I once knew. She's dead, her eye brutally torn away, her arm missing, her body decaying under the weight of the waves."

The weight of Athena's words hung heavily in the room. Nike's heart ached, both for her friend's loss and the pain of her own memories. For several moments, the room was enveloped in a suffocating silence, neither goddess knowing what to say next.

Athena's words were heavy, filled with a grief that seemed to have no bottom. "It's a torment, Nike," she whispered. "On one side, I have the guilt of pretending Kalliste never existed, and on the other, the unbearable weight of allowing my own daughter to meet such a fate."

Nike's gaze bore into Athena's, a depth of understanding and sympathy in her eyes. She hesitated, searching for the right words. "You did what you thought was best," she began, choosing her words carefully. "You avenged her. You ended Pallas."

Athena's eyes shimmered with an unresolved pain. "But did it truly change anything? Did it bring any solace? Was there any good that came from it? Did Kalliste's sacrifice mean anything?"

Nike's heart constricted at Athena's anguish. Taking a deep breath, she ventured, "In a way, Athena, you created something new out of that act of vengeance. My siblings and I, we were born from the remnants of Pallas. You gave us purpose, you showed us a path different from the potential darkness we might have succumbed to."

Athena's gaze lingered on Nike, absorbing her words, the weight of so many burdens momentarily alleviated by the thought. Still, a shadow remained. "I understand that, and I'm grateful for the good that came out of it. But Nike," her voice broke, "I'd give anything, just to see Kalliste's face one more time. To hold her again."

The room was thick with emotion, the bond between the two goddesses palpable. Athena's grief was a force in itself, and Nike, despite her efforts to comfort, knew that some wounds never truly healed. Athena stared deep into Nike's eyes, the weight of memories and unspoken truths heavy between them. The gentle glow of the candles around them cast flickering shadows, making the moment seem even more intimate and intense.

Nike's sigh was long and heavy, her breath brushing the soft tendrils of Athena's hair as she placed a comforting hand on the goddess's shoulder. "Alas," Nike whispered, her voice a gentle lament, "Kalliste is gone. She's beyond our reach now. We can do nothing but honor her memory now."

Athena's eyes, clouded with grief and hope, met Nike's. "Say that again," she implored.

Confusion flickered in Nike's gaze. "What do you mean?" she asked, uncertainty weaving its way through her tone.

"Why can't we bring Kalliste back?" Athena's voice was barely more than a whisper, but the intensity behind her words was palpable.

Nike blinked, taken aback. Her head shook almost involuntarily. "Kalliste has been resting for millennia," she responded. "The passage of time..."

"Phoenix ash," Athena interjected, her voice laced with desperation. "We could use phoenix ash."

Nike's eyes widened with disbelief. "Athena, even if that were possible, you'd have to find Kalliste's soul in the Underworld."

"That's not a hurdle," Athena quickly countered, her voice taking on an edge of determination. "Hermes once mentioned seeing her... or at least he thought he did. Maybe he remembers where that was."

Nike frowned, trying to process the revelation. "I doubt that, but even so," she hesitated, her voice heavy with doubt, "you'd need her remains. I may have come into existence after her passing, but I recall you talking about her final resting place with Triton. On a hillside on Earth, overlooking a beach, the very place where you both shared your love and conceived her."

For a moment, all Athena did was blink, her gaze locked with Nike's. There was a silent understanding between the two goddesses. Athena's silence was not a confirmation, but rather a realization of the depth of the secrets she still held. "You're... You're right," Athena lied. "Forget it," she said as she rose from the couch, her robes swirling around her with an elegance that only a goddess could possess, graceful and purposeful.

As she strode towards the door, Nike, sensing the urgency in Athena's demeanor, called out to her, "Where are you going?"

Athena didn't break her stride but responded without looking back, "Don't worry. I'll be back."

Nike's brows furrowed with concern, and she moved swiftly to intercept Athena, placing herself between the door and the resolute goddess. "You can't see your father like this," she urged, her voice laced with worry.

For a moment, the room was thick with tension, until Athena bridged the gap between them. Cupping Nike's face, she leaned in and sealed her intentions with a lingering kiss. Pulling back, Athena gently brushed a stray strand of hair from Nike's forehead. "I'm not going to see father."

"Then where-?"

"Wait for me in the bedroom," Athena whispered, her voice filled with a promise.

With a deep breath, Nike gave a nod, trust evident in her gaze. "Promise you'll return?"

Athena's eyes held a fierce determination. "I won't be long."

With that, Athena turned the handle and stepped out of the room, the door clicking softly behind her, leaving Nike in a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.

Athena's strides echoed across the vast mezzanine, each step filled with a sense of purpose. The elegant archways, adorned with ornate carvings and intricate details, stood in stark contrast to the militaristic statues of the Olympians positioned along the temple floor beneath. These statues overlooked the faithful, a silent watch over the many worshippers who murmured prayers at the altars.

As Athena's thoughts raced, she found herself drawing closer to a particular conclusion. Ares was in Sparta, and where Ares went, Aphrodite usually lingered around. And if Aphrodite was present, then perhaps *he* was as well. The mere thought of *him* quickened her pace. She yearned for *him* to be in Sparta; she needed the comfort and understanding only *he* could provide.

She halted before the familiar apartment, her hand raising to knock heavily against the ornate wood. Silence greeted her; no stir of movement, no hint of a presence inside. She was about to knock again when a soft voice interrupted her.

"My lady Athena, may I be of assistance?" a priestess inquired, having approached the goddess unnoticed. The young woman's eyes went from the door to Athena's face, and her eyes widened in alarm. The marks of the earlier confrontation were evident: the bruises, the cuts that were healing but still visible.

Gathering herself, Athena's voice held a note of impatience, "Where is he?"

The priestess hesitated, her eyes darting from the apartment door back to Athena. "He's... He's in the basement workshop, my lady."

Without waiting for further clarification, Athena commanded, "Show me."

Hephaestus, the master craftsman among the gods, was lost in the rhythm of his work, engrossed in the fusion of art and engineering. He hammered, shaped, and adjusted with precision, the rich glow of molten metals reflecting in his fiery orange eyes. While the basement workshop in Sparta was a far cry from the grandeur of his Celestial Forge, it did little to hinder his immense creativity as this was a far more intimate space where he could tinker away from the prying eyes of Olympus.

His brown hair was swept back from his face. Beads of perspiration gathered on his forehead, only to be wiped away by a muscular, sinewy arm. The ambiance was filled with the rhythmic clanking of metal, the hiss of steam, and the warm orange glow from his furnace. His right leg, encased in a masterfully crafted clockwork brace, bore testament to his past trials and his unparalleled ingenuity.

His fingers, stained with soot and grease, delicately adjusted a minute gear in the device he was perfecting. Just as he was about to make the final tweak, a subtle shift in the room's atmosphere alerted him. The ambient noises dimmed as his attention was diverted to the workshop's entrance.

Leaning against the doorway, silhouetted by the dim light of the hallway, stood Athena. Her usually radiant form seemed subdued, her posture revealing a rare vulnerability. Their gazes locked for a moment that seemed to stretch out into an eternity, a myriad of unsaid words and emotions swirling between them.

Hephaestus was the first to break the silence. Setting aside his tools, he rose from his bench, his voice warm and concerned. "Thenie? What brings you here?"

Before she could answer, Hephaestus' fiery eyes narrowed as they fixated on the deep-hued bruises marring Athena's usually immaculate skin. There was an unspoken understanding between them, an understanding that was born out of a shared history and mutual respect. The forge god's chest tightened in anger, and he gripped the edge of his workbench, the muscles in his forearms tensing.

"Did Ares do this?" he demanded, his voice carrying a deep undertone of suppressed fury. The workshop, usually buzzing with the noise of machinery and creativity, was now dense with tension.

Athena walked further into the dimly lit room, her eyes never leaving Hephaestus'. The flickering flames from the forge cast dynamic shadows, which seemed to dance with every step she took. "Don't," she murmured, her voice almost a whisper. "It's not what you think."

Hephaestus' voice rumbled like distant thunder as he growled, "Just say the word, Athena. I'll rectify this. I'll remind him of his place."

The goddess shook her head gently, her expression resolute. "I appreciate the sentiment, Heph, but believe me, I didn't leave without ensuring he'd remember our encounter." A shadow of a smirk played on her lips, hinting at a certain satisfaction. But it faded as quickly as it came.

Hephaestus sighed heavily, realizing that confronting his volatile brother might not be the best solution. His sharp eyes softened slightly as he looked at Athena. "Did you start it?" he inquired, not accusingly but with genuine curiosity.

She inhaled deeply, the weight of her recent encounters bearing down on her. "That's not why I'm here," she began, her voice shaky yet determined. "It's not the physical wounds I seek to heal today, but the ones that run much deeper."

Ever the attentive listener, Hephaestus tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What are you referring to?"

She hesitated for a heartbeat, searching for the right words. Their shared past, the complexities of their relationship, and deep-seated understanding of each other were all laid bare in that moment. Athena sought more than just physical healing; she sought closure, redemption, and perhaps a chance at retribution.

After her meeting with Hephaestus, Athena made her way back to her apartment. The evening called for solace, and she sought it in the comforting embrace of wine and Nektar. The soothing liquid burned its way down her throat, chasing away the lingering thoughts of her altercation with Ares. The apprehension of spending a night in Sparta also ebbed away, replaced by drowsiness. What little energy she had left was sapped by Nike and Athena's drunken love-making. As sleep finally claimed Athena, she felt the warmth of Nike nestled close.

Morning came with its own set of challenges. Athena stood beside Ares, presenting themselves before Zeus and Hera's regal presence. The King and Queen of the gods, seated upon their grand thrones, looked down upon the two with a mix of disappointment and regality. Words of reprimand were thrown, and Athena bore them with grace. She even found it in her to apologize to Ares, swallowing her pride for the sake of peace.

Athena pretended she didn't see Nike smiling in the corner of the grand room.

However, when Zeus demanded Ares to reciprocate, Athena's joy faltered. She took little solace in his apology as she felt his words were hollow and meaningless. Still, she complied and accepted her half-brother's apology, if only at her father's behest.

After the audience, Athena slipped away from Nike and quickly moved through the intricate corridors of the Haven. The mechanical designs, relics of a time when Gaia and Ouranos laid their touch upon the world, hummed and clicked around her. This magnificent structure was now the bastion of the gods, a trophy they had taken from the Titans long ago. As Athena walked, she was surrounded by the bustling of servant godlings, playful nymphs, and the occasional satyr going about whatever business they had to do in the Haven of the Gods. But none of that mattered to Athena as her own destination was clear: Hephaestus' forge. Ensuring she remained unnoticed, she discreetly entered the room, leaving the noise of the hallways behind her.

The air in the Celestial Forge seemed to thicken as Athena stepped further in. Hephaestus, always astute, caught her intent gaze and asked, "How did it go?"

She barely acknowledged the question with a wave of her hand, more focused on the task at hand. "Did you manage to get it?"

The god of the forge limped his way to a corner shelf, brushing aside various intricate artifacts. The small chest he revealed was a work of art in itself, forged with clockwork precision and made of a crudely rendered form of adamant. The container was fairly unimpressive compared to the other wonders one could find in Hephaestus' forge. He carefully opened it, revealing the mesmerizing glow of phoenix ashes. They shimmered with a ruby hue, alive with energy and potential.

Hephaestus, while always up for bending a rule or two, did so with caution. "Hestia won't be pleased when she finds these missing. Athena, are you certain about this?"

Without missing a beat, Athena nodded, her eyes never leaving the entrancing glow. "I've never been more certain of anything."

As Hephaestus continued to eye her with a mix of concern and understanding, Athena shifted her attention to a peculiar fixture on the wall. Deep drawers were built into the room's wall, each labeled meticulously. Her fingers ghosted over one particular label, tracing the word etched onto its surface, making the god of craftsmanship tense.

Looking over her shoulder, Athena's gaze found Hephaestus. It was intense, focused, and unyielding. There was a raw determination in her eyes. "You must hide the phoenix ash," she implored. "Hestia cannot discover it. I will bear the full responsibility and the consequences if we're found out. But we can't risk the ashes being confiscated."

Hephaestus, having known Athena for his whole life, could sense the gravity of her intent. He grunted in assent, moving the chest skillfully behind a clutter of masterfully crafted instruments. "It'll be safe here. Even I sometimes forget what's behind this mess," he reassured her. However, a shadow of doubt crossed his face as he added, "But the ashes alone won't suffice."

She quirked an eyebrow in mild surprise, but then her memory served her the needed information. "Asclepius," she whispered, more to herself than to Hephaestus. "The tincture he makes with the ashes. It's crucial for the restoration of the body. It makes the vessel ready for the spirit's return."

"And speaking of spirits," Hephaestus began, giving her a pointed look, "we'll need hers."

Athena's face turned contemplative. Retrieving a spirit from the Underworld wasn't a straightforward task, even for a deity. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her posture, her conviction unwavering. "It may be a long journey, filled with challenges," she admitted, "but I'm prepared to undertake whatever is necessary... For her."

## Characters

### Gods

* Athena
* Ares
* Nike
* Hephaestus
* Kalliste (Memory)

### Mortals

* Athenian minister
* Templars