The men stepped out of the trees like they owned the forest.

  Five of them. Big. Scarred. Their armor looked assembled from whatever they'd stripped off dead men: bronze plates next to iron, chainmail patched over leather, helmets swinging from belts like afterthoughts. None of it matched. None of it needed to.

  They weren't dressed for war. They dressed like war had already happened and they'd walked out the other side.

  The one in front was smiling.

  "Peter," he said. Pleasant as anything. "We've been looking for you."

  Theo stepped in front of Peter without thinking about it. His broken hand screamed at the movement, knuckles swollen and purple, fingers that barely bent anymore. He'd smashed it against a dungeon wall an hour ago and hadn't stopped moving since.

  But he didn't stop now.

  "Back away," he said.

  The bastards laughed. Not the mocking kind. Just easy, comfortable laughter, the way men laugh when they're not worried about the thing in front of them.

  One of them spat in the snow. The leader's eyes drifted to Theo. Unhurried and calm.

  "You're the half-blood who ran."

  "Oh. You were watching."

  "'Course we were." He shrugged. "When gods start fighting, smart men find a treeline."

  He looked back at Peter.

  "Who are you?" Peter asked.

  The man put a hand to his chest and gave a little bow. Mocking, but not performatively. Like he'd done it a thousand times and it had stopped meaning anything.

  "Sons of Ares." A beat. "The ones he never got around to claiming."

  The others smiled at that. Some private joke that had been told so many times it wasn't a joke anymore, just something they carried.

  Theo's gut tightened. Ares. Of course. Olympus had never been one thing. The gods bickered and schemed as much as any royal court, maybe more, because at least kings eventually died.

  "You've made quite a mess," the leader said to Peter. "Hermes ripping up a valley, an immortal tearing through his army, Zeus up in the clouds pretending none of it's his problem." He glanced toward the distant explosion. "Good chaos. Loud chaos."

  "What do you want?" Theo asked.

  "Same thing everyone wants right now."

  He looked at Peter.

  "The girl."

  Peter didn't flinch. He went still in a way that was worse than flinching—that flat, careful stillness of someone trying hard not to react and not quite managing it behind the eyes.

  The bastard saw it immediately.

  "That's all I needed," he said, almost gently.

  "You're mistaken," Peter said.

  "No." The man took a few unhurried steps forward. With utter calmness, not threatening, exactly. Just closing distance. He stopped just outside reach, far enough to be safe, close enough to make a point. "Ares knows what's happening. The whole mountain does, if you're paying attention."

  He held up a hand and started counting fingers.

  "Zeus wants her gone before anyone decides to use her against him. Hermes wants her as a vessel for divine power. Half the minor gods want to leash her and milk the lightning for whatever they can get." He paused. Looked at his hand. "And our father?"

  He spread his arms.

  "Wants war."

  Nobody said anything for a moment. The fire popped. In the valley, something exploded again, distant, muffled, the sound of two beings who didn't have the decency to die fighting each other to pieces.

  Theo kept his breathing even.

  "What does Ares want with her specifically?" he asked.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  The man looked at him the way you look at someone who's asked something obvious.

  "She's lightning. We're war." He let that sit for a second. "You figure it out."

  Theo figured it out. He wished he hadn't.

  "You're not taking her," Peter said.

  That got a real laugh out of them. Full, genuine, no performance in it at all.

  "Take her?" The leader shook his head. Still smiling when it faded. "Peter."

  A pause.

  "We already found her."

  The fire kept burning. The wind kept moving. Theo's brain kept working. But for a second everything felt very far away and very small.

  "What?"

  "Little town. Remote. Mortal territory, far from any divine sight line." He said it easily, like he was giving directions. "Nice hiding spot. Not nice enough though."

  Peter's face went white.

  "You're lying."

  "Maybe." The bastard leaned forward just slightly. "But you're not acting like a man who thinks I'm lying."

  Peter said something under his breath. Just barely. A name.

  "Anna."

  The bastard's smile spread.

  "See?"

  He straightened up. Around him, the other four shifted, weight adjusting, weapons coming off shoulders. Just ready to do what needed to be done.

  "But that's not all we want. We're here to collect you both. Father wants a conversation."

  He lifted his sword. Around him, the four others stepped forward—slow, steady, the advance of men who weren't rushing because they didn't have to.

  "So," he said. "You coming quietly, or do we do this the other way?"

  Theo looked at Peter.

  Peter looked back.

  "Can you fight?"

  "Does it matter?"

  Theo turned forward and folded his good hand into a fist. The broken one hung at his side, fingers half-curled and useless.

  Theo stepped forward.

  Snow crunched under his boot, too loud in the quiet. His good hand curled into a fist. The broken one dangled, swollen, purpled knuckles, useless. He didn't glance at it. No point.

  Five war bastards.

  One half-blood already bleeding.

  One herald running on fumes.

  The odds were shit and everyone knew it.

  Peter shifted beside him. Chains clinked at his wrists. Not a fighter's shift—just the small adjustment of someone bracing to take the next hit. Theo knew the motion. He'd done it himself.

  The leader lifted his sword, casual. "Other way it is."

  His men fanned out. With no rush at all. They didn't need to. Wounded things tire themselves out. Cold and fear do most of the work.

  Theo's jaw locked.

  Fine. Let it hurt.

  One bastard broke off, low stance, blade angled at Theo's bad side—

  Then the sky tore open.

  Not thunder. A ripping, screaming descent—white fire punching through clouds, comet tail of burning air, dropping so fast Theo's stomach lurched. Light hit like a blade: snow turned blue-white, faces turned pale masks.

  Every head snapped up.

  The leader's sword dipped. "What the—"

  BOOM!

  Snow blasted outward in a white ring. Air slammed Theo back two steps. Trees cracked. One snapped halfway, leaned drunkenly into the next. The fire snuffed instantly—embers, smoke, sharp smell of split rock.

  When the haze thinned, someone knelt in the crater.

  Tall. One knee down, fist buried in blackened earth. Steam curled off battered iron armor. Ground scorched in a perfect circle around him.

  He stood. Slow. Just the rise of something that never had to prove itself.

  Dark hair over his eyes. Armor plain, old, scarred deep—iron that had outlived better-looking gear.

  His gaze swept the clearing once. Theo. Peter. The bastards. Their blades.

  He exhaled, short. Like he'd already known what he'd find.

  "Still alive," Khorn said. "Peter…"

  Theo blinked.

  One bastard barked a laugh—real, appreciative. The leader rolled his shoulders, smile sharpening. "That was dramatic."

  His men drew steel.

  Khorn cracked his neck. Slow. Left, then right. Sound like green wood breaking.

  "Five?" he asked, flat.

  Theo started, "They're Ares'—"

  "I know. That bitch already told me everything."

  He reached back. A heavy war blade slid free—just scraping, like something old waking up.

  The leader's smile reached his eyes.

  "Perfect then, we get to fight a herald."

  He glanced at his men. "No offense, boys. This one's mine."

  They stopped. No argument. Just their complete respect.

  Khorn and the bastard faced each other across the smoking snow.

  "Name's Dargos," the bastard said. "You?"

  Khorn didn't answer.

  Dargos chuckled. "Haha… Alright."

  He vanished—not with divine blur, just brutally fast. Human fast earned the hard way.

  Steel flashed low, gutting arc.

  Khorn's blade rose. Met it.

  Impact cracked the air. Snow spun off branches. Dargos slid back two steps, boots plowing dirt. Grinned wider.

  "Oh, that's nice."

  He came again—three vicious cuts: neck, ribs, thigh—with the intention not just to kill, but to damage, to wound his prey.

  Khorn blocked the first. Turned the second. Ignored the third.

  Blade bit thigh. Wet chop as Dargos's eyes lit.

  Khorn stepped in anyway—took the cut for position—then drove his shoulder forward like a ram.

  CRACK.

  Dargos flew. Six feet horizontal. Slammed a tree trunk. Lower half splintered. He hit snow in a heap. Still for one second. Then his hands found ground.

  Theo stared. "…What the hell."

  Dargos pushed up slow. Touched blood at his mouth. Wiped it on his sleeve. Laughed—low, pleased, ruined.

  "Good," he rasped. Spat red. "Finally."

  He raised his sword.

  The other four watched, eyes bright, hungry—like this was the thing they'd waited their whole lives to see.

  Khorn walked forward.

  No rush. Just closing distance.

  Dargos charged.

  Steel screamed. Sparks snapped. Heavy blows met fast counters. Khorn crushed. Dargos bit and laughed—laughed like pain was the reward, like this was what he'd always wanted.

  Theo felt every shock through the frozen ground.

  Peter muttered beside him. "…That's the herald… Khorn?"

  Theo nodded, eyes locked on the fight.

  Another clash. Khorn twisted, caught Dargos's blade at the guard, locked it—then kicked ribs hard.

  BOOM.

  Dargos rolled across snow. Lay staring at broken sky through torn canopy. Chest heaved.

  Then he stood.

  Still smiling. Bloodied. Battered. Smiling like he'd finally gotten exactly what he came for.

  "Again…"

  ? PATREON COMING SOON ?