1. The Scent Of Thyme
The God of War was tired of the scent of copper. For eons, Ares had moved through the world as a storm of adrenaline and iron, fed by the screams of the dying. But in the golden valleys of Attica, the air smelled of wild thyme and drying wool.
He had taken the name Aris. He had dulled his glow, shortened his stature, and hidden his eyes—which usually burned like banked coals—behind a heavy brow. He was merely a wandering sell-sword, or so the village believed, who had traded his blade for a laborer's life.
Then he saw Elara.
She sat beneath a silver-leafed olive tree, her fingers dancing across a hand-loom. She didn't look at him with the terror of a victim or the frantic lust of a worshipper. She looked at him and saw a man with heavy shoulders who looked like he needed a drink of cool water.
"You carry the weight of the world in your gait, stranger," she said, her voice a low melody that silenced the war-drums in his mind.
For the first time in an eternity, Ares was silent. He tried to look away but his body betrayed him. Instead of avoiding her, he sat at her feet, watching the shuttle fly back and forth. In the rhythm of her weaving, he found a pattern more intricate than any phalanx, and a peace he didn't know he was allowed to possess.
