Kamaria-
A loud knock splintered the silence.
Before I could rise, the door creaked open, and a warrior stepped in, helmet tucked under one arm. His gaze didn't linger on anyone else—just me.
"Lord Ares has called for you," he said, voice sharp, rehearsed. "You are to come. Now."
My stomach twisted.
I stood slowly, brushing my palms down the sides of my sheer blue dress. My father moved to rise, but I stopped him with a glance.
"I'll be fine," I said, though my voice didn't sound like mine.
The corridor outside was quiet. My bare feet made no sound on the cold marble floors, but the warriors' heavy boots echoed through the vastness. He didn't speak as we walked. I didn't ask where we were going. I already knew.
When we reached the tall black doors marked with red and gold war crests, he knocked once, then turned and walked away.
Leaving me.
Alone.
The door opened with a low groan and shut behind me with a heavy, final thud. Warmth swept over me almost instantly—thick and heady, like cedarwood, smoke, and citrus. The air clung to my skin, rich and intoxicating. It smelled like him. The God of War. And yet… this place was a contradiction—soft, warm where he was sharp, quiet where he was chaos. A strange kind of sanctuary for someone who only knew violence and victory.
Ares stood near the hearth, his back to me, armor loosened and dark leather hanging from one shoulder. His tunic was stained slightly where his bandage pressed against his ribs.
I stayed at the threshold, unsure if I was meant to move closer.
"I thought you'd come faster," he said, voice deep but calm.
"I came as soon as I was called," I answered softly.
He turned toward me then, gaze sharp and unreadable. His face still bore the faint cuts of battle, and his jaw was set like stone. But his eyes…
His eyes softened—barely.
"Come here, Maria."
I paused.
"Maria."
Not my name. Not really.
Just a piece of it—softened.
Stolen.
Made his.
Something small stirred in me at the sound of it—an awareness, a flutter—but I didn't show it. I simply lowered my head and stepped forward.
He watched me closely as I approached, eyes following every movement. I could feel their weight like a warm palm against my skin.
"I remember your touch," he said quietly, like it was a confession. "On the horse… your hands didn't shake."
"No," I whispered. "They didn't."
I knelt beside him, pulling the balm and cloth from the small pouch they'd let me keep. The scent of crushed herbs mingled with the raw heat rolling off his skin—warm, elemental, dangerous.
He didn't flinch.
I focused on my task, keeping my touch light, respectful. But his voice came again—lower this time.
"I've had hundreds of wounds," he said. "None of them ever felt like this."
I didn't know what to say to that. So I didn't say anything.
Just kept my hands steady. Just kept my heart quiet.
But I heard it again.
Maria.
And though I said nothing aloud, I tucked the sound away deep inside me—like something stolen. Something fragile.
Something that, for reasons I couldn't yet name, I didn't want to give back.