Dawn crept over the ruins like a wounded animal trying to find warmth. Ash floated through the still air and caught in Ares's hair, turning each dark strand to silver. The forest smelled of pine sap, smoke, and iron—the perfume of victory.
He stood at the edge of the clearing where the Grounder scouts had died. Every motion was measured: the way he cleaned his blade, the slow exhale that calmed the tremor in his hands. Around him the camp stirred, soldiers moving in silent rhythm. They carried the dead, stacked weapons, repaired torn tents. No one shouted. Even the crackle of the fires sounded subdued, reverent, as if the flames themselves remembered the blood that had fed them.
Clarke approached across the cinders, the hem of her cloak brushing the scorched earth. The faint pulse of the Bond shimmered in her chest; she could feel his heartbeat under her own ribs, steady and sure.
"Your name has already spread," she said softly. "Runners from three camps brought word. They say the spirits walked with you last night."
"Spirits don't bleed," Ares answered.
"Then they saw something greater."
He didn't reply. The sun was climbing through a veil of smoke, and for a heartbeat he saw his reflection in her eyes—half man, half omen.
Raven's voice broke the silence. "Signal fires from the south. Two hundred, maybe more, heading this way."
Ares turned slightly, the light catching the curve of his sword. "Let them come. Fear works faster when it has a face."
Octavia smiled, sharp and eager. "So we wait?"
"We make ready," he said. "They'll be here by dusk."
He walked through the camp, every step slow and deliberate, every order quiet. Yet wherever his voice passed, spines straightened and trembling ceased. The air itself seemed to tighten around his words.
System notice: Dominion Field expanding. Current radius—1.8 kilometers. Morale saturation detected. Fear converting to reverence.
By midday, two scouts returned dragging prisoners: young Grounders, barely older than Octavia. They were trembling so hard their bonds rattled. When Ares looked at them, the smaller one froze, eyes wide.
"You lit the fires?" Ares asked.
The boy nodded. "We…we thought—"
"You thought right." Ares stepped close enough for the boy to see the faint shimmer beneath his skin. "Look."
He turned his palm upward. The mark of the Bond glowed faintly, gold through flesh. The Grounder's breath caught; he couldn't look away.
"Carry this sight to your commander," Ares said. "Tell him the fire no longer falls from the sky. It walks."
He cut their ropes with one quick stroke and turned away. No one moved to stop them. The boys fled into the trees.
Octavia watched them go. "Mercy again?"
"Fear dies too quickly," he said. "Faith lasts longer."
Afternoon light slanted through the pines. Ares moved among the soldiers, checking weapons, adjusting defenses. When he passed, whispers followed him—"Warden," "Sky King," "the Fire-Born." He pretended not to hear, though a corner of him recorded every murmur. Legends were tools, and tools served the mission.
By the time the shadows lengthened, he felt it: a tremor in the ground, the dull rhythm of boots moving through forest soil. The Trikru vanguard.
He raised his hand. "Positions."
No panic. No shouting. His troops moved as one organism, Bound and unbound alike, each heartbeat tuned to his.
The first arrow hissed through the branches. He tilted his head; the shaft grazed his cheek, a bead of blood drawing a line of crimson down his jaw. The scent of it filled the air, sharp and electric.
Then he moved.
Grace, not speed. Every step economical, every strike a line drawn through air. The sword flashed once, twice—bodies fell soundlessly. The System whispered somewhere in the back of his skull, but he barely heard it.
System update: Combat efficiency—112%. Neural load—elevated.
He pivoted, caught a spear with his left hand, twisted it free, and drove its haft into another attacker's throat. His movements were fluid, almost tender, like a dancer tracing steps he'd practiced for centuries. Around him, the Bound moved in perfect rhythm—Clarke reloading calmly, Octavia intercepting flankers with surgical precision, Raven directing archers with a voice that carried like wind through glass.
When the last Grounder turned to flee, Ares let him go. One survivor to bear witness.
Silence followed, heavy and absolute. Smoke drifted through shafts of dying sunlight. He could feel the pulse of his Dominion Field expanding, rippling outward like breath across still water.
System notice: Enemy morale collapsed. Field influence extended—2.3 kilometers.
He exhaled. The tremor in his hands returned.
Clarke appeared beside him, eyes bright with devotion. She reached up and wiped the blood from his jaw with her thumb, her touch light but certain. "You bleed light now," she whispered.
He caught her wrist gently, the warmth of her skin grounding him. "And what do you see?"
"Not a man," she said. "The reason men kneel."
For a moment they stood that way—close, motionless, the faint hum of the Bond thrumming between them. Then Octavia's voice carried from below. "Camp secure. No survivors."
Ares released Clarke's hand and looked toward the trees. The horizon was red again, but it wasn't fire this time; it was sunset painting the world in blood and gold.
"Signal the others," he said. "We move at dawn."
Night settled slowly. The fires in camp burned low, hundreds of small embers mirroring the stars above. The soldiers sang—first softly, then with growing strength—a song half Ark lullaby, half Grounder hymn. The melody wound through the valley like prayer.
Ares stood at the edge of the hill. Clarke joined him, quiet as a shadow, and placed her hand on his shoulder. The gesture was simple, familiar, but the current it carried made his pulse steady again.
"You don't have to stand watch alone," she murmured.
"I'm not alone," he said.
Her fingers lingered a heartbeat longer than duty required before falling away. The bond glowed faintly between them, unseen by all but the Bound.
System update: Public faith threshold reached. Trait unlocked—Aura of Devotion. Followers maintain morale in absence of direct command.
He listened to the wind as it shifted across the valley. It carried something new—not fear, not rumor.
Belief.
Far beyond the treeline, in a high-forest outpost, a rider collapsed before Indra's fire. "He walks through flame," the scout gasped. "The sky-born's blade burns, and our dead whisper his name."
Indra stared into the embers, the reflection of the flames flickering in her eyes. "Then tell the Commander," she said quietly. "Tell Lexa that the fire has learned to fight."