CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN: SUMMONED BY THE ELDERS

Nicholas and Elsa walked in silence, the weight of the summons pressing down on them. The path leading to the elders' chamber was lined with towering stone pillars, each etched with the marks of past warriors. The torches lining the hall flickered, casting long shadows on the cold walls.

Neither of them spoke, but the air between them buzzed with unspoken thoughts.

Nicholas clenched his fists. He had seen the way Gravill had been treated—the whispers, the resentment. And now, they were being called before the elders. It didn't sit right with him.

Elsa, on the other hand, walked with her usual poise, her face unreadable. But Nicholas knew her well enough to sense the tension in her shoulders. She was just as wary as he was.

The doors ahead loomed large, carved with ancient symbols of the gods. Two armored guards stood at either side, their expressions blank as they pushed the heavy doors open.

Inside, the room was vast, the ceiling lost in shadows. A long stone table stretched before them, and seated around it were the elders—figures draped in heavy cloaks, their faces partially obscured by the dim lighting.

At the head of the table sat the eldest among them, his piercing gaze settling on them the moment they stepped forward.

"You were summoned," he said, his voice low and commanding. "Do you know why?"

Nicholas glanced at Elsa, but she gave no sign of answering. He straightened his back. "No, my lord."

The elder studied him for a moment before shifting his gaze to Elsa. "You are not here by chance, children of the gods. Your presence in this realm of warriors has not gone unnoticed. Nor has the presence of your companion, Gravill."

At the mention of Gravill's name, Nicholas stiffened.

One of the elders leaned forward. "Tell us… what do you know of his power?"

Elsa finally spoke, her voice even. "He is strong. He is determined. But he is still discovering who he is."

The room was silent for a moment. Then, another elder spoke. "And yet, he carries the blood of Poseidon. That alone makes him a threat… or a weapon."

Nicholas bristled at that, but he bit his tongue. The elders were testing them, searching for something beneath their answers.

The eldest elder steepled his fingers. "Keep watch over him. Guide him, if necessary. But remember—blood alone does not make one worthy."

Elsa's gaze sharpened. "And if others do not see it that way?"

The elder's lips curled slightly. "Then it will be up to him to prove them wrong."

The summons was over as quickly as it had begun. The doors opened once more, and they were dismissed.

As they stepped into the open air, Nicholas let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "They're watching him," he muttered. "Closely."

Elsa nodded. "They're watching all of us."

And that was what worried them the most.

Ares: The Warrior's Domain

Far from the training grounds where Gravill and the others fought, a different kind of battle was taking place.

Here, in the domain of the Warborn—the descendants of Ares and Hephaestus—strength was not a choice; it was survival.

Ares wiped sweat from his brow, his muscles burning from the relentless drills. The Warborn training grounds were nothing like the rest. There was no sand to cushion their falls, no soft landings. Here, the earth was solid rock, cracked and stained with the sweat and blood of those who had trained before him. The air smelled of metal and fire, the forges never resting.

Sparks flew as weapons clashed. Warriors trained in brutal combat, their strikes heavy and unrelenting. The sounds of steel against steel echoed in the cavernous expanse, mixing with the grunts and shouts of those being pushed to their limits.

Ares was among them, but he was different.

Unlike many of the others, he wasn't just here to prove his strength. He already knew he was strong. His goal was to master control—to turn raw power into something even deadlier.

"Again."

The voice of their combat master, Ajax, rang out like a war drum. The man was massive, his arms thick as tree trunks, his face a patchwork of old scars. He didn't tolerate weakness.

Ares rolled his shoulders, stepping back into his stance. His opponent, a towering brute named Varkas, grinned at him, his knuckles wrapped in leather.

"No weapons this time," Ajax commanded. "Hand-to-hand. Show me how a son of war fights."

Ares didn't need to be told twice.

Varkas charged first, throwing a thunderous punch meant to take his head off. Ares didn't dodge. He blocked—his forearm meeting the blow with bone-crushing force. The impact numbed his arm, but he didn't stop moving.

He twisted, stepping into Varkas's space, and drove his elbow into his ribs. A dull crack sounded, but Varkas barely stumbled. He retaliated with a knee aimed at Ares's stomach.

Ares anticipated it, catching the knee mid-air before twisting sharply. Varkas lost his footing, and Ares used the opening to slam a fist into his jaw.

Varkas staggered, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. But he didn't back down.

"Good," Ajax muttered. "But not good enough."

Varkas roared, launching himself at Ares like a maddened bull. This time, Ares moved faster.

A side step. A feint. A precise strike to the throat.

Varkas choked, his body locking up just long enough for Ares to land the final blow—a brutal punch to the solar plexus. The air rushed out of his lungs, and he collapsed to his knees.

Silence.

Then Ajax nodded. "Better."

Ares breathed heavily, but he wasn't satisfied. He had won, but he hadn't dominated. Not yet.

"You're improving," Ajax admitted. "But you hesitate. You think before you strike."

Ares wiped the sweat from his brow. "Isn't that a good thing?"

The older warrior scoffed. "Only if it makes you dead slower." He clapped a heavy hand on Ares's shoulder. "You have potential, boy. But if you want to survive in the Warborn ranks, stop thinking like a tactician and start fighting like a warrior."

Ares nodded, absorbing the words.