Gts
# The Crimson Spire: Where Warlords Rest and Goddesses Serve
## Chapter 1: The Last Battle
The skies of Khalzara wept blood.
Not metaphorically—actual crimson droplets fell from the fractured heavens as divine essence leaked from the wounds of fallen gods. The battlefield stretched across what had once been the verdant plains of the Ashmir Cradle, now reduced to a scarred wasteland of broken weapons, shattered armor, and crystallized divine remains.
In the center of this apocalyptic tableau stood Ares Magnus, the Last Blade Sovereign.
His obsidian broadsword—Godfall—dripped with ichor that sizzled as it hit the ground. His midnight-black hair whipped in the arcane winds that always followed deicide, and his mismatched eyes—one amber, one silver—surveyed the carnage with the detached calculation of a man who had seen too much death to be moved by its spectacle.
The final rebel god, Thoraxus the Many-Handed, lay broken at his feet. Once worshipped across three realms as the Patron of Righteous Warfare, the deity now resembled little more than a shattered statue leaking golden light from a thousand fractures.
"Is this... justice... to you?" Thoraxus rasped, divine blood bubbling between cracked lips.
Ares regarded him impassively. "Justice is a luxury for those who can enforce it," he replied, his voice deep and even. "You called me tyrant when I opposed your pantheon. What does that make you, who demanded worship and obedience for millennia?"
The dying god attempted to laugh, producing only a wet gurgle. "We... maintained... order."
"You maintained dominance," Ares corrected. "There's a difference."
With methodical precision, he raised Godfall for the final strike. The blade hummed with anticipation, having tasted the essence of countless deities during Ares' thirty-year campaign against divine tyranny.
"The age of gods ruling mortals ends today," Ares declared, not with passionate fervor but with the simple finality of a man stating an irrefutable fact.
Thoraxus's many eyes widened. "You can't... maintain... balance alone," he warned. "The mortal world needs... guidance."
"Perhaps," Ares conceded. "But not yours."
Godfall descended in a perfect arc, cleaving through divine flesh and bone with sickening ease. Thoraxus's form erupted in a blinding explosion of golden light that forced even Ares to shield his eyes. When the radiance faded, nothing remained of the god but crystallized fragments scattered across the bloodied earth.
The battle was over. The final rebellion of divine tyrants, crushed.
Silence fell across the battlefield as the surviving soldiers of Ares' Crimson Legion realized what had happened. It began with a single voice—a grizzled veteran missing half his face—who raised his broken spear and shouted, "ARES! ARES! THE GOD OF WARLORDS!"
The chant spread like wildfire through the ranks, growing in volume until it shook the very air: "ARES! THE ONE WHO NEVER KNEELS!"
Only then did Khovar, Ares' aging general, approach. His once-impressive frame now stooped with the weight of thirty years of campaign, he limped toward his commander with a blood-soaked banner clutched in his gnarled hands.
"It's done, my lord," he said quietly, his voice barely audible above the continuing chants. "The last sanctuary has fallen. The Divine Concordat is broken. All of Khalzara now bends to mortal rule."
Ares nodded once, driving Godfall into the ground with enough force to crack the earth beneath. The sword stood vibrating, a monument to victory more valuable than any statue.
"Have the wounded gathered," he ordered. "Burn the dead with honors. Gather the divine remnants—they'll be forged into the Spire's final tier."
"And the prisoners?" Khovar asked, gesturing toward a huddled group of minor deities and their servants, bound in chains of strange metal that suppressed their remaining powers.
Ares considered them for a moment. "They chose their side. Execute them humanely."
"Is that mercy I detect, Lord Ares?" Khovar asked with the familiarity of a man who had stood beside Ares since he was a boy learning to hold a sword.
"Efficiency," Ares corrected, though without heat. "Mercy requires emotion."
As Khovar departed to carry out his orders, Ares remained motionless, watching the setting sun cast long shadows across the field of victory. The cheers of his soldiers washed over him without penetrating the curious emptiness that had settled in his chest.
For thirty years, he had pursued a single purpose: to break the cycle of divine oppression that had plagued Khalzara since time immemorial. He had raised armies, conquered kingdoms, forged alliances, and slain gods with relentless determination. Now, with victory absolute, he found himself facing an unexpected question:
What happens when a man defined by war achieves final peace?
The Dominion Spire rose in the distance, a colossal structure of crimson stone and metal forged from the bones of the first gods he had slain. His fortress. His temple. His throne. From there, he would rule this war-torn world—not as a god, but as a man who had surpassed them.
Yet as he stood alone amid the remnants of battle, Ares Magnus, the Breaker of Pantheons, felt something he had not experienced since childhood: uncertainty.
## Chapter 2: The Ancient Rite
Three days after the final battle, Ares stood at the summit of the Dominion Spire, gazing out across the vast expanse of Khalzara. From this height, the world appeared deceptively peaceful—the continuous warfare that had defined this realm for millennia reduced to distant smoke plumes and the occasional flash of light as lesser conflicts continued despite the fall of the divine pantheons.
The Spire itself was a marvel of both architecture and divine craftsmanship. Rising nearly a mile into the sky, its crimson surfaces were formed from the transmuted remains of fallen gods, giving the structure a faint pulse, as if it retained some echo of the divine lives that had been sacrificed to create it. Intricate carvings depicting Ares' conquests spiraled around its exterior, telling the story of his ascension from nameless warrior to the most powerful mortal in existence.
The summit chamber, where Ares now stood, was open to the elements on all sides, protected only by columns of twisted obsidian. The floor featured an elaborate circular pattern etched in gold and black—symbols of power and dominance passed down from the Old Warlords who had once challenged the reign of gods themselves.
Behind him, the heavy doors to the stairway opened, and Khovar entered, carrying an ancient wooden chest.
"The preparations are complete, my lord," he announced, placing the chest carefully on a stone pedestal at the edge of the circular pattern. "Though I must again express my concerns about this ritual."
Ares turned from his contemplation of the horizon. "Your concerns are noted, old friend. But my decision is made."
Khovar's weathered face creased with worry. "The Binding of Crimson Silk is older than recorded history. Even the gods spoke of it in whispers. To summon beings of such power for... such purposes..." He trailed off, clearly uncomfortable.
"For domestic service," Ares finished bluntly. "Yes, I understand how it might seem bizarre, even trivial, after all we've accomplished."
"Trivial is not the word I would choose," Khovar muttered. "Dangerous, perhaps. Unpredictable, certainly."
Ares approached the chest, running his fingers over its ancient wood. Runes carved into its surface glowed faintly at his touch, recognizing the blood of a conqueror. "Do you know why the Old Warlords created this ritual, Khovar?"
The general shook his head.
"Not for power. Not for armies." Ares opened the chest, revealing nine lengths of crimson silk, each embroidered with golden symbols. "But for understanding. To truly master power, one must understand its nature in all forms—not just destruction and dominance, but service and submission as well."
"And you believe binding nine divine women to servitude will provide this... understanding?" Khovar's tone suggested he found the concept dubious at best.
"I believe ruling a peaceful world requires different knowledge than conquering a chaotic one," Ares replied. "For thirty years, I've known only war. Now I must learn governance." He lifted one of the silk lengths, examining its intricate patterns. "These nine were chosen specifically for what they represent—different aspects of power, different approaches to rule."
Khovar sighed, recognizing the familiar determination in his lord's voice. "Then I shall leave you to the ritual. The Legion has been ordered to remain in the lower levels, as requested."
"Thank you, old friend," Ares said, a rare hint of warmth entering his voice. "When this is complete, we begin the true challenge—building rather than breaking."
After Khovar's departure, Ares carefully arranged the nine lengths of crimson silk in a circle, following patterns described in scrolls so ancient they had crumbled to dust centuries ago, preserved only in his memory. Each silk represented a different divine aspect, a different form of power he sought to understand.
Once the silks were properly arranged, he moved to the center of the circle and unsheathed a ceremonial dagger of pure obsidian. Unlike Godfall, which had been forged for war, this blade had a single purpose—to seal pacts with blood.
"The Binding of Crimson Silk," he intoned, his deep voice echoing across the open chamber as he drew the blade across his palm. "Not a summons for servants... but a demand for obedience."
He allowed his blood—the blood of a mortal who had transcended mortality through sheer will—to drip onto each length of silk. As the crimson droplets touched the fabric, the golden symbols began to glow, first dimly, then with increasing brilliance.
"By right of conquest, by right of strength, by right of the Old Laws that govern even the gods," Ares continued, reciting words memorized from ancient texts, "I call forth those who shall serve. Not in battle, but in submission."
The air thickened with power, growing heavy and electric. The silks began to rise from the floor, suspended by unseen forces, spinning slowly around him in a circle of light.
"Nine shall come," Ares declared, raising his bloodied hand toward the fractured sky. "Nine shall serve. Nine shall know their place in my domain."
The spinning silks accelerated until they became a blur of crimson light. The circular pattern beneath his feet ignited with golden fire that didn't burn. The very air seemed to tear open at nine equidistant points around the circle, revealing glimpses of different realms, different realities.
"From across dimensions, through the veils of existence, I summon you," Ares commanded, his voice gaining the resonance of absolute authority. "Your divine essence bound to mortal form. Your powers diminished but not destroyed. Your will subject to mine."
The tears in reality widened, and through each came a beam of light—gold, blue, crimson, silver, black, green, white, purple, and amber. These lights coalesced in front of each floating length of silk, gradually taking humanoid form.
"By my blood and by the ancient pact, the summoning is complete," Ares concluded as the lights solidified into nine female figures, each radiating power even as they materialized on their knees, heads bowed.
The silks descended, draping over each figure like a mantle of ownership. The golden symbols transferred from the fabric to their skin, burning briefly before fading into intricate patterns that would remain invisible until activated by command or disobedience.
As the ritual energies dissipated, Ares lowered his hand and surveyed what he had wrought. Nine of the most powerful divine women from across dimensions, now bound to his will. Their powers weakened by the summoning, their bodies now flesh and mortal, they knelt before him in a perfect circle.
The first to raise her head was a woman of statuesque beauty with snow-white hair and eyes of icy blue. Velzard, the White Ice Sovereign, regarded him with a gaze that could have frozen lesser men solid.
"You dare," she said simply, her voice like the crack of glaciers.
Next came a golden-haired woman with crimson eyes burning with fury. Female Gilgamesh, the Queen of Heroes, did not speak—her expression of utter outrage apparently beyond words.
One by one, the others lifted their gazes: Sovereign Artoria, her emerald eyes assessing him with calm calculation; Vados, the Angel of Precision, her lavender eyes betraying no emotion; Kali, her multiple arms now reduced to two, her silver eyes cold with cosmic judgment; Summer Morgan, her cool blue eyes regarding him with aloof disdain; Void Shiki, her pale blue eyes empty yet somehow containing universes; Tiamat, her violet eyes holding both primordial rage and strange curiosity; Reinhardt, her sapphire eyes filled with noble defiance; and finally Lucoa, whose heterochromatic eyes—one gold, one emerald—held an unexpected gleam of amusement.
"Welcome," Ares said, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority, "to your new home."
"Home?" Gilgamesh finally found her voice, practically spitting the word. "You call this prison home?"
"Prison implies punishment," Ares replied calmly. "This is not punishment, Queen of Heroes. This is purpose."
"What purpose could possibly justify this... this abduction?" Reinhardt demanded, her crimson hair seeming to glow with her indignation.
Ares regarded them all with steady eyes. "For millennia, gods have ruled over mortals, demanding worship and obedience while offering little in return. Now, in this realm, that order is reversed. You will serve as I see fit, not as punishment, but as balance."
"Balance?" Artoria's voice was calm but carried undertones of steel. "There is no balance in forced servitude."
"Isn't there?" Ares challenged. "Each of you has known power in your realm. Absolute power. Have you never wondered what lies on the other side of that equation?"
"I need no lessons in humility from a mortal upstart," Velzard stated coldly, frost forming on the floor around her kneeling form.
Ares smiled slightly. "And yet, here you are, Ice Sovereign. Bound by silk and blood to a 'mortal upstart.' Perhaps that is precisely the lesson you require."
He paced slowly around the circle, studying each of them. "The binding allows you to retain a fraction of your powers—enough to fulfill your duties, but not enough to challenge me or harm others without permission. You will serve in various capacities within my domain, according to your natures and abilities."
"And if we refuse?" Morgan asked, her voice like ice.
"You cannot," Ares stated simply. "The binding compels obedience. You may resist, but such resistance will only cause you pain. Accept your roles with grace, and you will find this existence not without its... satisfactions."
"What roles did you envision for us, Summoner?" Lucoa asked, her voice carrying a purr of interest that clearly shocked some of the others.
Ares stopped his pacing. "You will serve as attendants, advisors, companions—fulfilling duties both practical and... personal." His gaze swept the circle. "You are not trophies to be displayed, but functional elements of my household. You will learn to serve with perfection, as befits beings of your stature."
Tiamat, who had remained silent until now, spoke in a voice that seemed to contain echoes of primordial oceans. "You seek to domesticate primordial forces," she observed. "This has never ended well for mortals."
"I am not like other mortals," Ares replied without arrogance, simply stating fact. "I have slain gods and broken pantheons. I have united a world that knew only eternal war. And now, I will teach divine beings the meaning of service."
He moved to the center of the circle again. "Rise," he commanded.
Against their will, all nine women found themselves standing, the binding responding to his direct order.
"Your duties begin immediately," Ares continued. "You will be shown to your quarters, provided with appropriate attire, and instructed in your specific responsibilities. Resistance will be met with consequences. Acceptance will be rewarded. The choice, limited though it may be, is yours."
He turned to leave, then paused, looking back over his shoulder. "One final thing. Power without submission is merely noise. You serve me because you were great—and now, you are mine. Remember that."
As Ares departed, leaving the nine divine women standing in stunned silence, none of them yet realized that their binding represented not just a change in circumstance, but the beginning of a complex dance of power, submission, and unexpected transformation.
For Ares Magnus had conquered gods, but he had never attempted to understand them. That journey was just beginning.
## Chapter 3: First Night in the Spire
Sunset painted the Dominion Spire in hues of blood and gold as Ares Magnus stood in his private chambers, watching the last light fade from the war-torn world below. Behind him, mortal servants—actual volunteers, not bound divinity—worked efficiently to prepare the room for the night, lighting ornate oil lamps and laying out his evening attire.
A knock at the door interrupted his contemplation. "Enter," he commanded, not turning from the view.
Khovar stepped into the room, his expression carefully neutral. "The divine... guests... have been situated in their quarters as instructed, my lord."
Ares noted his choice of words with faint amusement. "Guests, Khovar? An interesting euphemism."
The old general shifted uncomfortably. "What would you have me call them? Slaves seems... inaccurate, given their nature."
"Servants will do," Ares replied, finally turning to face his most trusted advisor. "How are they adjusting?"
Khovar snorted. "About as well as you might expect. The golden one—Gilgamesh—has already destroyed three pieces of furniture and threatened to eviscerate any mortal who approaches her. The ice woman froze her entire chamber, including the attendants who were unfortunate enough to be inside at the time."
"They'll thaw," Ares noted without concern. "Continue."
"The red-haired knight—Reinhardt—attempted to break through her window but discovered the binding prevents escape. She's currently sitting in stoic silence, refusing all offerings of food or clothing." Khovar paused. "The one called Artoria has been more... composed. She accepted her situation with a dignity that surprised the staff, though she speaks to no one."
"And the others?"
"The pale woman with the kimono—Void Shiki—has done nothing but stare at the wall since being escorted to her room. The servants find her... unnerving." Khovar cleared his throat. "The Angel, Vados, has apparently reorganized her entire chamber according to some system only she understands. Kali has established what appears to be a small shrine and is performing some kind of ritual. Morgan has been coldly cooperative while making it clear she considers everyone beneath her notice."
"Tiamat and Lucoa?" Ares prompted when Khovar hesitated.
"Tiamat requested larger accommodations, which we provided by removing a wall between two chambers. She seems... contemplative rather than angry." Another pause. "As for Lucoa, she has been disturbingly cheerful, requesting wine and asking detailed questions about you that no servant dared answer."
Ares nodded, processing this information. It was roughly as he had expected. "Have the appropriate garments been provided?"
"Yes, my lord. Though I must note that some of the designs seem..." Khovar, a veteran of countless battles, actually blushed slightly. "Impractical."
"They are symbolic, not practical," Ares corrected. "Each garment reflects the nature of its wearer while marking them as mine. The silk contains threads of the binding material—it will help them adjust to their new existence."
Khovar looked unconvinced but knew better than to argue further. "Will you be requiring anything else tonight, my lord? Perhaps additional guards near their quarters?"
"No guards," Ares said firmly. "The binding prevents them from doing any significant harm. They must learn there is no escape, no rescue coming. Only acceptance."
After Khovar's departure, Ares dismissed the mortal servants and changed into a simple black robe. While he typically preferred full armor—a habit from decades of warfare where assassination attempts were common—tonight he chose comfort over protection. The bound goddesses could not harm him, and there were no other threats within the Spire that warranted concern.
He was just pouring himself a glass of rare wine when a soft knock came at his door. Curious—he had given no summons and expected no visitors—he called, "Enter."
The door opened to reveal Void Shiki. She had changed from her original attire into the garments provided: a crimson kimono with black trim, embroidered with golden symbols that echoed the binding marks now hidden on her skin. Her expression remained as unreadable as ever, her pale blue eyes seeming to look through him rather than at him.
"You did not summon me," she stated in a voice so soft it was barely audible.
"No," Ares agreed, studying her with interest. Of all his bound servants, Void Shiki was perhaps the most enigmatic—a being who existed as the human embodiment of the Root, the origin of all existence in her reality. "Why have you come?"
Shiki entered the room with silent grace, moving as if she were floating rather than walking. "Curiosity," she replied simply. "You are... an anomaly."
Ares raised an eyebrow. "In what way?"
"I cannot see your end." She stopped a few paces from him, her gaze disconcertingly direct. "All things, all beings—I see their death, their conclusion. It is written in their existence from the moment of creation. But you..." She tilted her head slightly. "Your death is hidden from me."
"Perhaps because I've already died many times," Ares suggested, recalling countless near-fatal wounds over his decades of warfare. "Or perhaps because I've killed too many deaths."
The faintest flicker of something—perhaps amusement—crossed Shiki's face. "Poetic, but incorrect. This is unprecedented in my experience."
Ares gestured to a nearby chair. "Would you care to sit?"
"I prefer to stand," she replied. Then, after a pause, "For now."
He nodded, accepting her preference. "Have you explored your new limits? The constraints of the binding?"
"I have." Her voice betrayed no resentment, merely stating fact. "My connection to the Root is... attenuated. I retain awareness but not access. My ability to perceive the death of things remains, but my power to enact those deaths is greatly diminished."
"Yet you don't seem angry," Ares observed, taking a sip of his wine. "Unlike the others."
"Anger requires attachment to expectations," Shiki explained. "I observe. I experience. I exist. This situation is merely a new form of existence."
"A surprisingly philosophical perspective," Ares noted.
"Philosophy implies seeking understanding," she countered. "I do not seek. I already contain all understanding within me, even if I cannot currently access it fully."
Before Ares could respond to this intriguing statement, another knock came at the door—this one more forceful.
"Come," he called, curious about this second unexpected visitor.
The door swung open to reveal Lucoa, the serpent goddess, dressed in her provided garments—though "dressed" might have been a generous term. The crimson and gold silks draped her voluptuous form in a way that concealed just enough to emphasize everything else, and she had added gold bands around her upper arms that had not been part of the original outfit.
"Well, well," she said, her heterochromatic eyes widening at the sight of Shiki already present. "It seems I'm not the only one with evening visitation in mind."
Unlike Shiki's silent grace, Lucoa moved with deliberate sensuality, her hips swaying as she approached. "I thought I might introduce myself properly, my lord, without the audience of my... colleagues." She cast a sidelong glance at Shiki. "Though I see the void has beaten me to it."
"I was just explaining to Lord Ares why his existence interests me," Shiki said, unperturbed by Lucoa's arrival.
"Oh?" Lucoa's smile widened. "And here I assumed you were negotiating more favorable terms of service. How refreshingly abstract of you."
Ares watched this interaction with interest. "I gave no summons to either of you," he pointed out. "The binding doesn't compel you to seek me out. Why have you come, Lucoa?"
The serpent goddess laughed, a warm, rich sound. "Isn't it obvious? Adaptation, my dear summoner." She moved closer, her perfume—something exotic and faintly intoxicating—filling the space between them. "Unlike some of our more... resistant companions, I've lived long enough to recognize when circumstances require flexibility."
"Flexibility," Ares repeated, his expression neutral despite her provocative tone. "An interesting choice of word."
"I've been imprisoned before, you know," Lucoa continued, making herself comfortable on the edge of a nearby table. "My own pantheon once punished me quite severely. This—" she gestured to the luxurious room, "—is practically a vacation by comparison."
"You're saying you accept your servitude willingly?" Ares asked, skeptical.
Lucoa's mismatched eyes gleamed with ancient cunning. "I'm saying that service has many forms, my lord. Some more... mutually beneficial than others." She crossed her legs slowly, drawing his attention to their length. "If I must serve, I prefer to do so in ways that provide pleasure rather than mere utility."
Before Ares could respond to this blatant proposition, a third knock interrupted—this one so soft it might have been missed if the room hadn't fallen momentarily silent.
"Enter," Ares called, increasingly curious about these unexpected visitations.
The door opened to reveal Tiamat, who had to duck slightly to pass through the entryway. The primordial mother goddess had altered her provided garments significantly, creating a flowing ensemble of crimson and black that emphasized her maternal aspects while maintaining an undeniable sensuality. Her violet eyes took in the scene before her—Ares standing near the window, Shiki a silent presence nearby, and Lucoa perched provocatively on the table.
"I see I am not the first to seek understanding," Tiamat observed, her voice carrying those strange oceanic echoes. "May I join this... gathering?"
"By all means," Ares replied, gesturing her inside. "Though I find myself curious about the sudden interest in my company."
Tiamat moved into the room with surprising grace for one of her size, her presence somehow making the chamber feel both smaller and more significant. "The others rage against what cannot be changed," she explained. "Such is the folly of younger divinity. They have not yet learned that adaptation is the true path to power."
"Exactly what I was saying," Lucoa agreed with a grin. "Great minds think alike, Mother of All."
"Perhaps," Tiamat acknowledged with a slight inclination of her head. "Though I suspect our motivations differ somewhat."
Ares studied the three divine women who had sought him out voluntarily. Each represented a different aspect of feminine power: Shiki's unknowable void, Lucoa's sensual vitality, and Tiamat's primordial creation. It was fascinating that these three, in particular, had chosen to approach him first.
"I offered no summons, yet you came," he observed. "What do you hope to gain?"
"Insight," Shiki answered simply.
"Advantage," Lucoa admitted with shameless honesty.
"Context," Tiamat said after a moment's consideration. "To understand the nature of our binding, we must understand the one who bound us."
Ares nodded slowly. "Reasonable approaches, all. But remember this—the binding cannot be negotiated, manipulated, or undone. It is absolute."
"All absolutes contain their own contradictions," Shiki murmured, so softly it might have been meant for herself alone.
"Contradiction or not, I'm practical enough to make the best of my situation," Lucoa declared, stretching languidly. "If you summoned me to serve, I'll make sure you never regret it."
Tiamat's expression remained serene. "We have existed since before time had meaning, mortal king. A binding, however powerful, is but a moment in our eternal existence."
"Perhaps," Ares conceded. "But it is your existence now, and would be wise to accept it."
A fourth knock at the door interrupted their exchange. This one was firm, authoritative.
"Come," Ares called, wondering which of the remaining six had chosen to join this impromptu gathering.
The door opened to reveal Vados, the Angel of Precision. Unlike the others, she had not altered her provided garments at all—the flowing teal and black gown with white sashes fit her perfectly, maintaining a balance between dignity and allure. Her lavender-gray eyes took in the scene with a single sweeping glance, assessing and cataloging.
"I apologize for the intrusion, Lord Ares," she said, her voice melodious yet precise. "I was not aware you were... entertaining." She cast a mildly disapproving glance at Lucoa's provocative pose.
"I gave no summons," Ares explained. "They came of their own accord, as have you, it seems."
Vados nodded once. "I came to inquire about the schedule for tomorrow's duties. I prefer to be adequately prepared."
Lucoa laughed. "Always the administrator, even in captivity."
"Organization is efficient regardless of circumstance," Vados replied without inflection. "Unlike some, I see no purpose in emotional rebellion."
"How delightfully pragmatic," Lucoa teased. "I'm sure our new master appreciates your... efficiency."
Vados ignored the innuendo. "Will there be a formal assignment of duties, Lord Ares, or are we to discover our roles through trial and error?"
Before Ares could respond, yet another knock came—this one a sharp, angry rap that suggested the person behind it might have preferred to break the door down.
"Enter," Ares called, beginning to wonder if all nine would eventually appear at his door this night.
The door swung open with unnecessary force to reveal Gilgamesh, the Queen of Heroes. She had apparently rejected her provided garments entirely, as she still wore the golden armor she had arrived in, though it was notably dimmer without her full divine power to sustain its luster.
"So this is where the traitors gather," she declared, her crimson eyes blazing as she surveyed the room. "Conspiring with our captor already? How predictably pathetic."
"Hardly conspiring," Lucoa replied with a smirk. "More like... getting acquainted."
Gilgamesh sneered. "I came to make something clear to our so-called master." She strode forward until she stood directly before Ares, chin lifted in defiance. "You may have bound my power, mortal, but you will never bind my pride. I am Gilgamesh, the first among sovereigns, and I bow to no one."
"Yet here you stand in my chambers, Queen of Heroes," Ares observed calmly. "Seeking me out when I did not summon you."
"I came to issue a warning," Gilgamesh declared. "This binding will not hold forever. And when it breaks—as all things must—my vengeance will be legendary even by divine standards."
"An impressive threat," Ares acknowledged without concern. "But premature. The binding has never been broken in all of history."
"History has never encountered me before," Gilgamesh retorted.
Shiki, who had remained silent throughout these exchanges, suddenly spoke. "Your death would come before the binding breaks," she said, her soft voice somehow cutting through the tension. "I can see that much, at least."
Gilgamesh rounded on her. "You dare to threaten me, Void?"
"Not a threat," Shiki corrected. "An observation. Facts have no emotional content."
Before this confrontation could escalate, the door opened again—this time without a knock. Morgan entered, her cool blue eyes taking in the increasingly crowded room with evident disdain.
"How chaotic," she observed, her voice as cold as her gaze. "I had hoped for a private audience, but it seems everyone had the same unoriginal idea."
Unlike Gilgamesh, Morgan had accepted her provided attire—a luxurious white and gold ensemble that emphasized her regal bearing—though she had added several personal touches that made it clear she considered herself above the role of mere servant.
"What did you hope to accomplish with a private audience, Morgan?" Ares asked directly.
The fairy queen's perfect lips curved in a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Information, of course. Knowledge is survival." She glanced at the others. "While these fools posture and plot, I prefer to understand the rules of the game before making my moves."
"This is no game," Gilgamesh snapped.
"Everything is a game, Golden Queen," Morgan replied smoothly. "Only the stakes and pieces change."
As these two powerful women faced off, the door opened once more to reveal Reinhardt. The crimson-haired knight had compromised with her provided attire, wearing the crimson and gold silks but adding a more modest white undershirt and maintaining her dignified bearing despite the revealing nature of the garments.
"What is happening here?" she asked, her sapphire eyes widening at the sight of so many of her fellow servants gathered in Ares' chamber.
"An unplanned gathering, it seems," Ares replied to Reinhardt's question, his expression unreadable. "Each of you sought me out independently."
Reinhardt frowned, her noble features tightening with disapproval. "I came to discuss the terms of our binding. I see others had similar ideas."
"Or completely different ones," Lucoa purred, sliding from her perch to approach the crimson-haired knight. "Not everyone views captivity as something to be escaped, my dear. Some of us see... opportunity."
"Opportunity for what? Degradation?" Reinhardt challenged, keeping her distance from the serpent goddess.
"For survival," Morgan interjected coolly. "The wise adapt to their circumstances."
"The wise resist tyranny," Reinhardt countered.
Ares watched this exchange with interest, noting the alliances and divisions already forming among his divine servants. Before the discussion could progress further, the door opened once more to reveal Artoria. The lion queen entered with quiet dignity, her emerald eyes taking in the gathered divinities before settling on Ares.
"I see I am late to the council," she observed, her voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of steel.
Unlike the others who had either rejected their provided garments or modified them, Artoria wore hers exactly as given—a noble blue and crimson ensemble that balanced modesty with subtle sensuality. The choice seemed deliberate, a statement that she would neither rebel overtly like Gilgamesh nor curry favor through seduction like Lucoa.
"No council was called," Ares informed her. "Each of you came of your own accord."
"Interesting," Artoria noted, her gaze sweeping the room once more. "And telling."
The final door opening brought Kali, completing the nine. The destruction goddess had altered her garments significantly, creating an ensemble that emphasized her martial nature while still conforming to the crimson and gold color scheme that marked her as Ares' servant. Her silver eyes assessed the gathering with cold detachment.
"The circle completes itself," she observed, her voice carrying an edge of cosmic judgment. "Nine points of power, bound to one axis."
"How poetic," Gilgamesh sneered. "Did you rehearse that line before entering?"
Kali's gaze shifted to the golden queen. "Mock if you wish. Patterns exist whether you acknowledge them or not."
Ares raised a hand, silencing the brewing argument. "Since all of you have chosen to come, let me be clear about several things." His mismatched eyes swept the circle of divine women. "First, your duties begin at dawn. Each of you has been assigned specific responsibilities according to your natures and abilities. These assignments are not negotiable."
"And what exactly are these 'duties'?" Artoria asked, direct and unafraid.
"You, Sovereign Artoria, will oversee my personal armory. Every weapon, every piece of armor—their care and maintenance falls to you." Ares' gaze moved to the next woman. "Vados will manage my daily schedule, ensuring proper timing for all activities and meetings."
The Angel of Precision nodded once, accepting her role without comment.
"Kali," Ares continued, "will prepare the ritual blood-wine each morning and evening, and attend certain ceremonial functions."
"A waste of my talents," the destruction goddess muttered, though not loudly enough to constitute defiance.
"Morgan will oversee my personal grooming and nightly oil rituals." His gaze fixed on the fairy queen, who merely raised an eyebrow in response.
"Void Shiki will attend me during formal audiences, a silent presence beside my throne." The void entity gave no reaction to her assignment, her expression remaining unreadable.
"Tiamat will manage my bedchamber and sleeping arrangements." The primordial mother inclined her head slightly, accepting the intimacy implied in such duties.
"Gilgamesh will serve as training partner in combat exercises." The golden queen's eyes narrowed at this, recognizing both the honor and humiliation in being assigned physical combat with her captor.
"Velzard will oversee bathing rituals and temperature regulation throughout the Spire." The Ice Sovereign, who had not joined their gathering, would likely receive this news with cold disdain.
"And Reinhardt will serve as honor guard during formal occasions and oversee weapons training for the mortal guards." The crimson-haired knight frowned but said nothing, apparently finding this role less degrading than she had feared.
"Lucoa," Ares concluded, "will manage entertainment and relaxation—music, conversation, and massage therapies."
The serpent goddess smiled broadly. "A perfect fit for my talents, my lord."
"These duties are your primary responsibilities," Ares clarified. "Additional tasks may be assigned as needed. Your accommodations, attire, and personal comforts will reflect your performance."
"And if we refuse?" Gilgamesh challenged, her crimson eyes flashing.
"The binding will not permit outright refusal," Ares explained calmly. "But the quality of your service remains within your control. Excellence will be rewarded. Resistance..." He let the implication hang in the air. "Will have consequences."
"What kind of consequences?" Reinhardt asked, her noble brow furrowed.
"The binding responds to both obedience and defiance," Ares replied. "Prolonged resistance causes physical discomfort that increases over time. Complete submission, on the other hand, allows for greater comfort and certain... privileges."
"Such as?" Morgan prompted, ever practical in her pursuit of advantage.
"Increased access to your divine powers. Greater freedom of movement within the Spire. Improved accommodations. Perhaps eventually, supervised excursions beyond these walls." Ares watched their reactions carefully. "The path of service offers its own rewards."
"Service," Artoria repeated, her tone making the word sound like a challenge. "Is that what you call this arrangement?"
"What would you call it, Lion Queen?" Ares countered. "You were a sovereign who demanded loyalty and service from your subjects. How is this fundamentally different?"
"My subjects chose to serve," Artoria stated firmly. "Choice is what separates service from slavery."
"Did they truly choose?" Ares asked, his voice thoughtful rather than confrontational. "Or were they born into roles predetermined by circumstance, tradition, and necessity? How many of your knights truly had the freedom to reject their duty?"
Artoria's emerald eyes flashed, but before she could respond, Tiamat spoke.
"The mortal makes an interesting point," the primordial mother observed. "Freedom is rarely absolute, even for gods. We are bound by our natures as surely as by this ritual."
"Speak for yourself," Gilgamesh snapped. "I have always been master of my own fate."
"Have you?" Shiki's soft voice somehow cut through the tension. "Every choice is predetermined by the conditions that preceded it. Free will is the greatest illusion of consciousness."
"How convenient that such philosophy justifies our current predicament," Reinhardt noted dryly.
"Philosophy aside," Vados interjected, practical as always, "what is the schedule for tomorrow? I prefer to prepare appropriately."
Ares seemed almost amused by her focus on logistics amidst such existential debate. "Dawn begins with ritual cleansing, followed by breakfast. Individual duties commence afterward. A detailed schedule has been prepared for each of you."
"And tonight?" Lucoa asked with deliberate suggestiveness. "What are your requirements, my lord?"
An uncomfortable silence fell as the implications of her question registered with the others. The "personal" nature of their service had been implied but not explicitly addressed until now.
"Tonight," Ares stated clearly, "you will return to your assigned quarters and rest. Tomorrow brings challenge enough without adding further complications."
Something like disappointment flickered across Lucoa's features, while relief was evident on Reinhardt's and Artoria's faces. The others maintained careful neutrality.
"Dawn comes early," Ares continued. "I suggest you all prepare accordingly."
It was a dismissal, gentle but firm. One by one, the divine women departed, each with her own thoughts on what had transpired. Lucoa lingered longest, throwing a suggestive glance over her shoulder before finally exiting.
Only Void Shiki remained, her presence so still and silent that it seemed Ares might have forgotten her.
"You have a question," he observed, turning to the embodiment of the Root.
"Not a question," she replied softly. "An observation. You treat us neither as slaves nor as equals. You seek something between."
"Perceptive," Ares acknowledged. "I seek understanding."
"Of what?"
"Of power in all its forms," he explained. "I have mastered destruction and dominance. Now I must learn governance and harmony."
Shiki regarded him with those empty yet infinite eyes. "Using divine beings as your tutors is... unprecedented."
"I am not interested in precedent," Ares replied. "Only in result."
"The journey shapes the destination," Shiki murmured. "Remember that, Godslayer."
With those cryptic words, she finally departed, leaving Ares alone with his thoughts as the first night of his new existence as master of nine bound goddesses came to an end.
## Chapter 4: Morning Rituals
Dawn broke over the Dominion Spire, painting its crimson surfaces with golden light. Inside the master chamber, Ares Magnus woke instantly—a habit formed through decades of warfare where a slow awakening could mean death. For a moment, disorientation gripped him as he registered the unfamiliar sensation of being truly at peace, without the constant backdrop of battle plans and strategic concerns.
A soft knock at the door preceded Vados's entrance. The Angel of Precision moved with ethereal grace, carrying a silver tray with a steaming basin, cloths, and various oils arranged with mathematical precision.
"Good morning, Lord Ares," she greeted, her voice melodious yet formal. "I trust you slept well."
"Well enough," he confirmed, rising from his bed. Unlike many warriors, Ares slept unclothed, confident in his ability to respond to threats regardless of attire. Vados's lavender eyes registered his nudity without embarrassment or particular interest—merely observing a fact relevant to her duties.
"The morning ablution ritual requires fifteen minutes," she informed him, setting down her tray on a nearby table. "Kali awaits with your morning blood-wine, followed by breakfast in the main hall where the others will attend you."
Ares nodded, appreciating her efficiency. "You adapt quickly to your role, Angel."
"Service is not unfamiliar to me," Vados replied, dampening a cloth with perfectly heated water. "In my realm, I served as attendant to Lord Beerus for millennia. Your requirements are... less temperamental."
She approached him with the cloth, her movements precise and professional as she began cleansing his face and neck. Despite her divine origins, there was no reluctance or disgust in her service—merely the focus of one who valued perfection in all tasks, regardless of their nature.
"The others do not share your perspective," Ares observed as she worked.
"The others lack experience with the fundamental order of existence," Vados responded. "Hierarchy is not merely a mortal construction but a cosmic constant. There are always those who serve and those who are served."
"And this reversal of your position in that hierarchy doesn't trouble you?"
Vados paused briefly, considering. "It is... instructive," she finally said. "All beings benefit from understanding both sides of any equation."
As she continued the morning ritual—applying scented oils to his skin, preparing his face for the day, arranging his hair with careful attention—Ares found himself impressed by her composure. Of all his bound servants, Vados seemed the most naturally suited to her role, finding dignity in the precise execution of her duties.
When she had finished, she stepped back with a small bow. "Your morning attire has been prepared," she indicated a set of light training clothes laid out nearby. "Will you dress yourself, or would you prefer assistance?"
"I can manage," Ares replied, reaching for the garments.
"Very good. Kali will attend you in the anteroom when you are ready." With another precise bow, Vados departed, leaving Ares to dress in privacy.
The anteroom connected to his bedchamber was a smaller space designed for private meetings and personal rituals. As promised, Kali awaited him there, kneeling beside a small ornate table that held a single crystal goblet filled with blood-wine—the ritual drink that enhanced physical prowess and mental clarity.
Unlike Vados's practical acceptance, Kali's demeanor radiated cold intensity. The destruction goddess knelt with rigid formality, her silver eyes downcast as tradition demanded, but her body language betrayed the leashed power within her. Even bound and diminished, she exuded the aura of cosmic judgment that had made her feared across dimensions.
"Rise," Ares commanded as he entered.
Kali stood in a single fluid motion, lifting the goblet with both hands. "The morning strength, Lord Ares," she intoned, her voice carrying ritualistic weight. "May it fortify your flesh and sharpen your mind."
Ares accepted the goblet, noting the perfect temperature and the subtle variations in the blend. "You've adjusted the formula," he observed after taking a sip.
"Yes," Kali acknowledged. "I sensed you would benefit from increased clarity today, with reduced physical enhancement. The binding allows me to perceive such needs."
"Impressive," Ares commented, finishing the drink. "Your attention to detail rivals Vados's."
"We serve in different ways," Kali replied, her tone revealing nothing of her feelings about such service. "Precision is her nature. Transformation is mine."
Ares studied her for a moment. Unlike the others who had visited him the previous night, Kali had not sought to negotiate, seduce, or challenge him. Her approach to servitude seemed almost ritualistic—treating it as a sacred duty despite its forced nature.
"You find meaning in your service," he observed. "Why?"
Kali's silver eyes met his directly—a breach of formal protocol that the binding permitted due to his implicit question. "All acts contain potential for transcendence," she explained. "Service and dominance are merely roles in the cosmic dance. To resist the role is to resist reality itself."
"A philosophical perspective your fellow servants might benefit from adopting," Ares noted.
"They will find their own paths," Kali replied. "Or break against the immovable."
With the morning rituals completed, Ares made his way to the main dining hall, where the full complement of his divine servants awaited. The enormous chamber, designed to seat hundreds during formal occasions, now contained a single long table at its center. Ares' chair—more throne than dining seat—occupied the head, while nine places were set for his servants.
As he entered, the reactions were varied and telling. Vados and Kali, already having performed their morning duties, stood with quiet dignity. Tiamat and Lucoa offered warm, if different types of smiles—maternal from the former, seductive from the latter. Artoria and Reinhardt maintained noble composure, neither welcoming nor openly hostile. Morgan and Velzard displayed cold indifference, while Gilgamesh made no attempt to hide her continuing rage, her crimson eyes burning with barely contained fury. Void Shiki, as always, remained unreadable, her pale eyes seeing something beyond the physical plane.
"Be seated," Ares commanded as he took his place.
The binding compelled obedience, though some fought against it more than others. Gilgamesh practically threw herself into her chair, while Velzard moved with glacial deliberation, making her reluctance clear without crossing into outright defiance.
Mortal servants—actual volunteers who had chosen to serve in the Dominion Spire—brought platters of food. The fare was excellent but not extravagant: fresh bread, fruits, meats, and various beverages. Ares had never developed the taste for excessive luxury that often accompanied power, preferring simplicity and quality over ostentation.
"You will note," he addressed the table, "that mortal servants handle food preparation and general household duties. Your responsibilities are more... personal in nature."
"How considerate," Gilgamesh muttered, loud enough to be heard. "To spare us the indignity of common labor while reserving the intimate degradations for divinity."
"Is it degradation to ensure the comfort of one you serve?" Ares countered calmly. "Were your own attendants degraded when they bathed you, dressed you, or prepared your chambers?"
"They chose their service," Artoria interjected, echoing her argument from the previous night. "And they served a worthy ruler, not a mortal upstart."
"A worthy ruler," Ares repeated, his expression thoughtful rather than offended. "Tell me, Lion Queen, what makes a ruler worthy? Divine birth? Ancient lineage? Or perhaps the ability to protect and guide those under their authority?"
Artoria's emerald eyes narrowed slightly. "A worthy ruler sacrifices personal desire for the greater good. They embody the virtues they expect from their subjects. They bear the burden of difficult decisions so others need not."
"And have I demonstrated otherwise?" Ares asked, genuine curiosity in his tone. "I fought for thirty years to free this realm from divine tyranny. I sacrificed any semblance of normal life to protect mortals from capricious gods who viewed them as playthings. I made the difficult decision to bind nine divine women not for personal pleasure, but to establish a new order."
"You speak of noble intentions while forcing us to satisfy your every whim," Reinhardt countered, her sapphire eyes flashing. "How convenient that your 'new order' places you at its center, with divine beings literally at your feet."
"Power must reside somewhere," Ares replied evenly. "I merely shifted it from the hands of immortal beings with no understanding of mortal suffering to one who has experienced it firsthand."
"He makes a fair point," Tiamat observed unexpectedly, her voice carrying those strange oceanic echoes. "Gods rarely comprehend the consequences of their rule. They lack the perspective that mortality brings."
"Speak for yourself, Mother of Abominations," Gilgamesh sneered. "I ruled my kingdom with perfect understanding of my subjects' needs."
"Did you?" Morgan's cool voice cut in. "Or did you simply impose your will because none could oppose it? There is a difference between ruling and dominating."
"Rich coming from you, Winter Queen," Gilgamesh shot back. "Your manipulations were legendary even among fae."
As the divine women began arguing amongst themselves, Ares observed the dynamics with interest. Already, alliances and animosities were forming—natural fault lines between different types of power and perspectives on rulership.
"Enough," he finally commanded, his voice cutting through the growing chaos. The binding instantly silenced them, though the effects varied based on their level of resistance. Gilgamesh seemed to struggle against invisible bonds, while Vados merely composed herself with fluid grace.
"After breakfast, you will begin your assigned duties," Ares continued once he had their attention. "Artoria will accompany me to the armory for inspection and maintenance of my personal weapons. Reinhardt will oversee guard training in the eastern courtyard. Vados will manage my schedule of meetings with various officials. The rest of you have been provided with detailed instructions for your respective responsibilities."
"And if we have questions about these... duties?" Velzard asked, speaking for the first time that morning. Her voice carried the chill of arctic winds, making even simple inquiry sound like potential threat.
"Direct them to Vados, who will serve as chief among you in matters of household management," Ares replied. "For matters requiring my personal attention, she will determine when and how such concerns are brought to me."
This establishment of hierarchy among the bound goddesses caused visible reactions. Gilgamesh's outrage was expected, but even Reinhardt and Morgan seemed displeased at being placed beneath another in the order of service. Vados herself remained impassive, accepting the additional responsibility without comment.
"A chain of command among slaves," Artoria observed. "How organized your tyranny is."
"Structure provides clarity," Ares countered. "And clarity reduces unnecessary conflict. You may be bound to serve, but your experience need not be unnecessarily unpleasant."
"How considerate," Velzard murmured, frost forming briefly on her goblet.
The remainder of breakfast proceeded with tense conversation punctuated by long silences. When the meal concluded, Ares rose from his seat.
"Artoria, attend me in the armory in ten minutes," he instructed. "The rest of you, to your duties."
As he departed, leaving the divine women to disperse to their assignments, Ares reflected on this first formal gathering. The dynamics were complex, the potential for both conflict and unexpected alliance apparent. Managing nine beings of such power and divergent personalities would require careful balance—not unlike the strategic challenges of warfare, but with subtler weapons and more intricate objectives.
For the first time in decades, Ares Magnus faced a challenge that could not be overcome with blade and battle plan alone. Governing divine servants would require a different kind of strength—one he was determined to master as thoroughly as he had mastered warfare.
## Chapter 5: The Lion Queen's Pride
The armory of the Dominion Spire was a cathedral to warfare. Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, supported by columns carved to resemble the spines of fallen gods. Weapons of every conceivable type lined the walls—from common swords and spears to exotic artifacts captured from divine realms. Armor stands displayed battle gear ranging from lightweight scout leathers to the massive plate armor Ares had worn during the final battle against Thoraxus.
At the center of this martial collection stood Godfall, the obsidian broadsword Ares had used to slay countless deities. It rested on a simple stone pedestal, unadorned but unmistakably the most significant weapon in the chamber. Unlike the other items that were arranged with military precision, Godfall stood alone, demanding respect through presence rather than presentation.
Artoria entered precisely ten minutes after Ares had issued his command. The Lion Queen moved with the fluid grace of a born warrior, her posture perfect despite the inner rebellion she clearly harbored. She had modified her crimson and blue silks slightly, adding a simple white cloth tied at her waist that resembled the sword belt she would have worn as sovereign.
"You wished to see me, Lord Ares," she stated rather than asked, her tone formal but not subservient.
"Yes," Ares confirmed, gesturing to the vast collection of weaponry surrounding them. "As I explained, you will oversee the maintenance of my personal armory. Every weapon, every piece of armor—their care falls to you."
Artoria's emerald eyes scanned the chamber, professionally assessing the collection. "An impressive arsenal," she acknowledged. "Though some pieces appear to have been neglected."
"The demands of warfare left little time for proper maintenance," Ares explained. "Many of these weapons were seized during campaigns and simply stored until needed."
"Inefficient," Artoria commented. "A warrior is only as effective as the tools they maintain. Even legendary weapons require care."
Ares nodded, pleased by her professional assessment despite her personal feelings about her captivity. "Then you understand the importance of your role."
"I understand weapons," she replied. "I've wielded them my entire existence."
"Including Excalibur," Ares noted, referring to her legendary sword that had not made the journey with her to Khalzara. "A blade said to represent the pinnacle of holy swords."
Something flickered in Artoria's eyes—a flash of longing quickly suppressed. "Excalibur was more than a weapon. It was symbol and substance together—the physical manifestation of humanity's desire for protection."
"Yet you used it to slay your enemies," Ares observed.
"When necessary," Artoria acknowledged. "A sword that never cuts is merely decoration. But every cut was made with purpose, not pleasure."
Ares approached Godfall, gesturing for her to follow. "This blade has slain more gods than any weapon in existence," he told her. "Yet I take no joy in the deaths it has delivered. Like you, I cut with purpose."
"You compare our circumstances as if they were similar," Artoria noted, her voice gaining an edge. "I fought to protect a kingdom. You fought to dominate one."
"Did I?" Ares challenged, turning to face her directly. "The pantheons of Khalzara demanded worship while delivering suffering. They started wars for amusement, created plagues when bored, manipulated mortal lives like game pieces. I fought to end their tyranny, not to replace it with my own."
"Yet here I stand," Artoria countered, "a sovereign bound to service against my will. How is this not tyranny of a different flavor?"
Instead of answering immediately, Ares reached for a nearby sword—a simple but well-crafted blade with no special properties beyond excellent balance and edge. He offered it to her, hilt first.
"Take it," he instructed.
Artoria's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Why?"
"A demonstration."
After a moment's hesitation, she accepted the weapon, her hand automatically finding perfect position on the grip. The binding did not prevent her from holding the blade—an interesting detail she clearly noted.
"Now," Ares said calmly, "strike me if you wish."
Her emerald eyes widened in surprise. "The binding would prevent it."
"Try," he suggested simply.
Artoria raised the blade slightly, testing the limits of her constraint. She managed to lift it to a potential striking position before her arm began to tremble with the effort of fighting against the binding's restriction.
"I cannot," she finally admitted, lowering the weapon.
"Because the binding prevents harm to me," Ares confirmed. "But note that you can hold the weapon. You can perform maintenance. You can even train with it, so long as your intent is not to cause harm."
"Your point?" Artoria asked, her voice tight with the strain of her recent effort.
"The binding constrains action, not thought or capability," Ares explained. "It prevents harm, not dignity. Within its boundaries, you retain significant freedom—more than the gods ever allowed mortals under their rule."
He took the sword from her unresisting hand, replacing it on its stand. "I do not demand worship, only service. I do not require you to love your captivity, only to fulfill your duties. And unlike the divine tyrants I overthrew, I recognize that even bound servants deserve respect."
"Respect," Artoria repeated, skepticism evident in her tone. "Is that what you call this arrangement?"
"I call it necessary," Ares replied honestly. "The transition from divine rule to mortal governance requires... safeguards. Nine beings of your power, left unbound, could tear this realm apart in your attempts to return home or reclaim dominance."
"And when this transition is complete?" Artoria asked. "What then of our binding?"
Ares considered her question seriously. "That depends on many factors, including how you and the others adapt to your new reality. The binding is not necessarily permanent—though it has never been broken in all of history."
A flicker of surprise crossed Artoria's face. "You would consider releasing us eventually?"
"I would consider adjusting the terms of your service as circumstances warrant," Ares clarified. "Complete freedom would be... imprudent, given the power you represent. But a gradual relaxation of constraints for those who demonstrate trustworthiness? That may be possible."
Artoria fell silent, absorbing this new information. For the first time, a spark of something other than cold defiance appeared in her emerald eyes—not hope exactly, but perhaps the seed from which hope might eventually grow.
"Now," Ares continued, returning to the immediate matter, "I recommend beginning with Godfall. As my primary weapon, it deserves priority attention."
He gestured to a nearby table where cleaning implements, oils, and polishing cloths had been arranged. "You'll find everything you need here. The blade requires special handling—its edge can cut even divine flesh, as you well know."
"I know weapons, Lord Ares," Artoria stated, a hint of pride entering her voice. "I will treat your arsenal with the respect good blades deserve, regardless of my feelings toward their owner."
Ares nodded, accepting this professional compromise. "I'll return in three hours to check your progress."
As he turned to leave, Artoria spoke again. "One question, if I may."
He paused, looking back. "Ask."
"You speak of purpose and necessity, of transition and governance," she said, her green eyes intent. "But I have ruled a kingdom. I know that even the most logical ruler is driven by personal desires beneath their stated aims." She straightened her shoulders, regal despite her servant's attire. "What do you truly want from this binding, Lord Ares? Not the political necessity, not the strategic advantage—but your personal desire?"
The question hung in the air between them, unexpectedly perceptive and directly challenging the narrative Ares had constructed. For a moment, he considered dismissing it or offering another political explanation. Instead, he chose honesty.
"Understanding," he admitted. "For thirty years, I have known only war. I have mastered destruction, dominance, and conquest. But to rule a peaceful realm requires wisdom I do not yet possess." He gestured to the weapons surrounding them. "I know how to break gods. I do not know how to build a world without them."
Artoria's expression shifted subtly, recognition flickering in her eyes. "And you believe binding divine beings to service will provide this wisdom?"
"I believe experiencing power from all perspectives is essential to wielding it justly," Ares replied. "The binding forces both of us to confront new realities—you, the experience of service rather than sovereignty; me, the responsibility of governance rather than conquest."
"An interesting experiment," Artoria observed. "With nine divine subjects."
"The Old Warlords created this ritual for a reason," Ares said. "Perhaps they understood something about the nature of power that has been forgotten."
Artoria considered this, then gave a small nod—not agreement, but acknowledgment. "I will tend to your weapons, Lord Ares. And perhaps, in time, we will both learn something from this... arrangement."
As Ares departed, leaving the Lion Queen to her duties, he reflected on their exchange. Of all his divine servants, Artoria perhaps understood his position best—having borne the burden of rulership herself. Her questioning was not merely rebellion but genuine inquiry from one sovereign to another.
It was, he realized, the beginning of something unexpected. Not submission, not even acceptance—but understanding. And in that understanding lay possibilities neither of them had anticipated.
## Chapter 6: Unexpected Encounters
Midday found Ares in the training yard, observing Reinhardt as she drilled the mortal guards. The crimson-haired knight had adapted to her role with surprising effectiveness, her natural authority and martial expertise earning her immediate respect from the soldiers despite her status as a bound servant.
"Footwork!" she barked at a young guard who had overextended during a practice thrust. "Your balance determines your survival! Again!"
The soldiers responded to her commands with immediate obedience, recognizing the value of instruction from a warrior of her caliber. Reinhardt moved among them with the confidence of one born to leadership, correcting stances and demonstrating techniques with efficient precision.
Ares watched from the shadows of a nearby colonnade, his presence unannounced. There was a certain satisfaction in seeing Reinhardt apply her skills so effectively, even within the constraints of her servitude. Unlike Artoria, whose royal bearing remained deliberately distant, Reinhardt engaged directly with those under her instruction—a difference in leadership style that reflected their distinct personalities.
"She has a gift for teaching," observed a voice beside him.
Ares turned to find Morgan standing nearby, her cool blue eyes fixed on the training session. The fairy queen had approached with such stealth that even his battle-honed senses had failed to detect her—a concerning demonstration of how her powers, though diminished, remained formidable.
"You're not at your assigned duties," Ares noted, neither accusation nor question.
"I've completed my preparations for this evening's grooming ritual," Morgan replied smoothly. "The oils require time to properly blend. I thought I might observe other aspects of your household in the interim."
"Curiosity? Or assessment of potential allies?" Ares asked bluntly.
A faint smile touched Morgan's perfect lips. "Can it not be both? Knowledge serves many purposes."
"Indeed it does," Ares agreed, returning his attention to the training yard. "What do you make of her methods?"
Morgan considered the scene thoughtfully. "Effective. Direct. Honest." She said the last word with a subtle inflection that might have been admiration or disdain. "She teaches as she fights—with honor as her primary weapon."
"Unlike your approach," Ares observed.
"Honor is a luxury for those with overwhelming power or simplistic minds," Morgan replied without offense. "I preferred... efficiency."
"Meaning deception and manipulation."
"Meaning whatever tool best suited the objective," she corrected. "Sometimes that was truth, sometimes falsehood. The wise sovereign understands that reality is malleable."
"And yet here you stand, bound by very solid reality," Ares pointed out.
Morgan's expression remained unperturbed. "All circumstances are temporary, Lord Ares. Even binding rituals."
Before Ares could respond to this veiled suggestion, a commotion from the far side of the training yard drew their attention. Gilgamesh had arrived, her golden armor gleaming in the midday sun despite its diminished luster. The soldiers parted before her like water around a stone as she strode directly toward Reinhardt.
"Playing commander to these mortals, Knight?" her voice carried clearly across the yard. "How quickly you adapt to servitude."
Reinhardt straightened, facing the Queen of Heroes with calm dignity. "Teaching warriors to defend themselves is hardly servitude. It is duty."
"Duty to him," Gilgamesh retorted, gesturing vaguely in Ares' direction without looking. "Performed with such enthusiasm. One might question where your true loyalties lie."
Reinhardt's sapphire eyes flashed dangerously. "My loyalty to duty has never wavered, regardless of circumstance. Can you say the same, Golden