Third Person-
Kamaria walked back in silence, the warmth of the setting sun brushing her skin, but all she could feel was the echo of his gaze on her back.
She didn't dare look over her shoulder.
Her hands still trembled slightly. Not from fear, not exactly. But from the strange stillness in him. The way he'd watched her, not like a god towering above mortals—but like a man seeing something unfamiliar and unable to name it.
She hated how aware she had been of his nearness. How his skin had burned beneath her fingers. How his scent—cedarwood, smoke, and citrus—lingered in her lungs.
She tried to shake it off, but it clung.
Her father looked up when she returned. He didn't ask what happened. Just gave her a small nod and reached for her hand, squeezing it briefly.
Ogunyemi stirred slightly on the cart beside them, and she dropped to her knees to check him. He was still warm, but pale. She tucked a folded cloth under his head, her fingers brushing his brow gently.
"Soon," she whispered. "Soon we'll find a way."
But where would she even begin?
Olympus was no home of hers. These gods—they tore, they conquered, they bled and demanded more. And now they had chained her fate to theirs.
Her heart ached for her village, for the soft mornings and the sound of birds, for the familiar trees and her Amari's singing—now forever gone.
But she would endure.
Because her father still lived.
Because Ogunyemi still breathed.
And because somewhere deep inside her, a whisper had started to stir.
A whisper that sounded like Kamaria.
A name spoken by a god.
And no matter how she tried, she couldn't forget the way it had sounded on Ares' lips.
The procession moved under the velvet sweep of night, torches swaying as warriors flanked either side of the bound villagers and creaking carts. The stars above glittered cold and distant, indifferent to the quiet suffering below.
Ares rode at the front, Kamaria in front of him on the horse, her back straight despite the ache in her limbs. His presence behind her was a furnace—hot, steady, undeniable. She tried not to shrink into it. But sometimes, the sway of the horse would shift her too close, and her breath would catch when his chest brushed her shoulder or his arm grazed hers as he adjusted the reins.
She told herself it meant nothing. That he saw her as another tool, like his sword. But then he'd murmur something low to the horse or grunt at his warriors, and she'd feel his voice against her spine.
They didn't speak, but the silence between them was thick—tangled with tension neither of them named.
Once, when they paused to rest near a stream, Kamaria dismounted carefully and went to check on Ogunyemi. Her father was already with him, feeding him bits of soft fruit they'd been given. The boy stirred faintly, and relief flooded her chest.
Behind her, Ares leaned against a tree, arms crossed. He watched her, eyes gleaming gold in the low firelight. She could feel them before she turned—and when she finally did, their gazes caught.
He said nothing.
But he didn't look away.
Kamaria swallowed and looked down, adjusting the cloth around Ogunyemi's shoulders. Ares' gaze lingered a moment longer, then he turned and walked into the trees.
Later, while the others rested in tense clumps, Kamaria was summoned to tend to a warrior with a gash across his thigh. She worked quickly, silently, ignoring the way the others looked at her—some with reverence, some with resentment.
When she finished, she turned—and found Ares standing there again.
"You tend wounds like a goddess," he said, his voice low.
Kamaria bowed her head. "It's just skill. Not divinity."
He stared at her. "Maybe."
She looked up at him then, truly looked—and something flickered between them. Something unnamed. Something too quiet to voice.
The air seemed to hum with it.
He stepped closer.
"Get some rest," he muttered, almost grudgingly. "You'll need your strength in Olympus."
Then he was gone, lost among the shadows and torchlight.
Kamaria sat beside her father that night, eyes wide open beneath the stars. She could still feel the heat of Ares' voice.
And for the first time, she feared not just what Olympus would demand of her… but what it might awaken.