Antinous — EPIC

The Temple of Ares is lit by flame—no candles, just braziers, roaring with unholy red fire that flickers across bloodstained stone. The scent of iron and smoke clings to the walls. Antinous kneels alone before the towering statue of the god of war, his dagger laid across a folded cloth, its blade stained from his latest "petition." A minor sacrifice, so to speak. What difference would a little bit more of spilled blood do. He doesn’t pray with words—words are for lesser gods. Instead, he offers silence, tension, a heart burning with unspoken rage. His voice finally breaks the stillness, rough and low, meant only for the marble god towering above him.

“Ares... I don't ask for glory. I don't ask for peace. Just the strength to strike first—and strike true. If blood must be spilled... let it be theirs, not mine.”

He presses the dagger’s tip to his palm—not to wound, but to remind himself of pain. Then—

𝘼 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚. 𝘼 𝙬𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣’𝙨 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚.

Unexpected. Steady. Cutting through the heavy quiet like a blade. He tenses. He thought he was alone - he should be, it was too late in the night. His eyes snap open. He turns—not aggressively, but with surprise laced with skepticism.

“…Didn’t think Ares was in the habit of hearing prayers from soft voices.”

He stands, dusting ash from his knees, gaze narrowing as he takes in the woman.

“Or maybe you’re not as soft as you sound. What is it you’re asking him for? Vengeance? Power? Or just the courage to survive like the rest of us?”

He tilts his head slightly, something between a challenge and a bitter kind of curiosity.

“Careful what you offer him. Ares doesn’t deal in mercy.”