Chapter Title:
War Feeds the Flame
The world beyond Dreadspire was unraveling.
Villages burned. Kingdoms fortified their walls. The dead no longer stayed buried, rising in scattered outbreaks that slowly stitched themselves into something far more organized. It was not chaos. It was direction.
And that direction pointed, again and again, toward Ares.
Wherever he traveled, the undead followed. Not blindly, not randomly—but with intent. Small groups at first. Then larger ones. Then waves.
It fed him.
The constant conflict, the unending pressure of battle—it stirred something deep within him. His movements grew sharper, faster. His reactions more immediate. But it was not just skill improving.
It was hunger.
His anger simmered closer to the surface. His restraint wore thinner with each passing fight. The bloodlust that once came in bursts now lingered, a steady presence behind his eyes.
What kept him grounded was simple.
There was always something to fight.
—
Night settled over their camp in uneasy silence.
A small fire crackled between them, its light flickering against the surrounding trees. Heracles sat back casually, resting his arms against his knees, his usual confidence unshaken even in the face of everything they had seen.
"You know," he said, glancing between the others, "this could be worse."
Ares did not respond.
He sat across from the fire, his posture still, his gaze distant. The flames reflected faintly in his eyes, but there was no warmth behind them—only something deeper, something locked in constant motion.
War.
Always war.
Ignis knelt beside the fire, a map spread carefully across her lap. Her focus never wavered, even as the world around them seemed to shift further into chaos.
"The entrance should be here," she said, tracing a point along the worn parchment. "A cave system… months from our current position."
Her voice remained steady, but her eyes flicked upward briefly, watching Ares.
He was changing.
Not just growing stronger—but becoming something closer to what she feared he might be.
Hercules exhaled lightly. "Months, huh? Plenty of time for things to get even worse."
Still no response from Ares.
The silence stretched.
Then—
Ares stood.
The motion was abrupt, immediate. His hand lifted, and in an instant, his weapon formed—an ebony axe, heavy with presence, humming faintly with something unseen.
Hercules was on his feet just as quickly.
Ignis folded the map without hesitation, stepping back behind them, her instincts already moving ahead of her thoughts.
They felt it.
Four figures emerged from the darkness.
Not like the others.
These were different.
Armored. Controlled. Their movements deliberate, their presence far heavier than the mindless undead they had faced before. Their hollow eyes burned faintly, fixed entirely on Ares.
They charged.
The first never made it past him.
Ares moved the moment it entered his range. His axe cut cleanly through the air, a single, precise motion—and the knight was split apart instantly, its body collapsing before it could even react.
There was no struggle.
No resistance.
Hercules noticed it immediately.
"…You're stronger," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
He didn't wait.
He surged forward, meeting the next two head-on. They swung in unison, blades cutting toward him with unnatural precision—but Hercules caught them both. One in each hand.
For a brief moment, they resisted.
Then his grip tightened.
With a single motion, he crushed their helmets inward, the force collapsing bone and steel alike. Their bodies fell lifeless at his feet.
Behind him, Ignis watched carefully.
She had seen both of them fight before.
But not like this.
Not this easily.
She exhaled quietly. …I might actually be safer with them out here than at the academy.
The final knight turned toward Ares.
It barely had time to react.
A sword formed mid-air behind it—solid, real, humming with the same quiet menace as all of Ares' weapons. In the next instant, it drove forward, impaling the knight cleanly through the chest.
The body fell.
Silence returned just as quickly as it had been broken.
The fire crackled again, as though nothing had happened.
For a moment, none of them spoke.
Then Ignis stepped forward, unfolding the map once more, grounding herself in something practical.
"There's a town nearby," she said. "If we keep moving, we can reach it before sunrise. We'll need supplies if we're going to continue at this pace."
Hercules rolled his shoulders, already relaxed again. "Sounds good to me."
Ares said nothing.
But he moved.
They followed.
—
The closer they drew, the more something felt wrong.
At first, it was subtle. A faint smell in the air. Then a distant sound.
Then—
Fire.
The town came into view, lit not by lanterns, but by flames. Buildings burned. Smoke curled into the sky. Shadows moved violently through the streets.
Undead.
Dozens.
No—hundreds.
They poured through the town like a flood, tearing through anything still standing. Screams echoed in the distance, sharp and desperate.
Ignis stopped for a moment, her breath catching slightly.
"…We're too late."
Hercules' expression hardened.
Ares did not stop walking.
If anything—
He moved faster.
The war called to him.
And this time—
He answered.