They didn’t have to search for him.

  That was the first warning.

  The Analyst confirmed the location before lunch.

  No masking.

  No displacement.

  No attempt to blend in.

  “He’s not hiding,” she said. “He’s anchored.”

  Crisis frowned. “To what?”

  I watched the live feeds scroll.

  “Momentum,” I said.

  They went with three of us.

  Crisis.

  Ms. A.

  Me.

  No escort.

  No containment.

  This wasn’t enforcement.

  It was persuasion.

  Ares stood where the fighting thinned but never stopped.

  Close enough to feel it.

  Far enough to observe.

  He didn’t wear armor so much as history — scars that didn’t fade, posture that had learned when not to move.

  He turned before we reached him.

  “You’re late,” he said pleasantly.

  Crisis stopped short.

  “We want to talk.”

  Ares smiled.

  “You always do,” he replied. “Right before things get interesting.”

  Ms. A inclined her head.

  “Conflict here is persisting beyond natural limits.”

  Ares laughed.

  Not mockingly.

  With recognition.

  “Natural limits,” he repeated. “I’ve watched empires say that for five thousand years.”

  Crisis bristled.

  “This isn’t ancient history,” she said. “These are modern systems.”

  Ares looked at her fully now.

  “I’ve fought in those too.”

  The words were calm.

  Heavy.

  “You think war changes because uniforms do,” he continued.

  “Because maps get better. Because the weapons get cleaner.”

  He gestured vaguely behind him.

  “I was there when cities learned to burn themselves efficiently.”

  Silence followed.

  “You’re amplifying escalation,” Crisis said tightly.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Ares shrugged.

  “I’m recognizing it.”

  “That’s not the same thing,” she snapped.

  He tilted his head.

  “Isn’t it?” he asked. “You think this would stop if I left?”

  Ms. A intervened.

  “They might,” she said. “Eventually.”

  Ares nodded.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Eventually.”

  He smiled again.

  “And how many die in the meantime when no one is honest about wanting it?”

  Crisis clenched her fists.

  “That’s a false choice.”

  “No,” Ares replied easily. “It’s the only one that’s ever existed.”

  I stepped forward.

  “You’re preventing resolution,” I said.

  Ares studied me.

  “You assume resolution is desirable.”

  “It is,” I replied. “It’s how things end.”

  Ares’ expression softened.

  “That’s what people who don’t fight say.”

  The words weren’t cruel.

  They were experienced.

  “I’ve seen wars end,” Ares continued.

  “They end when one side collapses… or when both pretend they’re done and start again in a generation.”

  He leaned slightly closer.

  “You call that peace. I call it rehearsal.”

  Crisis snapped.

  “This doesn’t end,” she said. “It just feeds.”

  “Yes,” Ares agreed. “Because humans don’t want it to end.”

  Ms. A held his gaze.

  “You’re making yourself necessary.”

  Ares smiled wider.

  “No,” he said. “I’m acknowledging that I already am.”

  I felt it then — the argument slipping.

  Not because he was right in every way.

  Because he was right often enough.

  “You fear quiet,” I said.

  Ares’ eyes flashed — not anger.

  Recognition.

  “Quiet,” he said, “is where people lie to themselves.”

  He gestured to the horizon.

  “At least here, no one pretends.”

  Crisis took a breath, visibly restraining herself.

  “This isn’t sustainable,” she said.

  Ares nodded.

  “Neither is civilization,” he replied. “And yet.”

  That did it.

  He hadn’t raised his voice.

  He hadn’t threatened anyone.

  He’d simply outlasted the argument.

  Ms. A spoke carefully.

  “You know retirement is coming,” she said. “For all of you.”

  Ares chuckled.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “But don’t mistake inevitability for obedience.”

  He straightened.

  “You’re focusing on me because I’m loud.”

  He glanced away — not toward anything specific.

  “But I’m not the only one who doesn’t believe in stopping.”

  I stiffened.

  “Who else?” I asked.

  Ares smiled, thin and knowing.

  “Gods who mistake strength for duty,” he said.

  “Gods who think endurance makes them righteous.”

  He looked back at us.

  “You’ll find them.”

  The sounds of fighting surged briefly behind us, then receded.

  Ares stepped back.

  “I’ve said my piece,” he said. “Now go.”

  He paused.

  “Oh — and when the others refuse you more politely?”

  His smile sharpened.

  “Remember I warned you.”

  We left without incident.

  Without escalation.

  Without agreement.

  In the car, Crisis broke the silence.

  “I hate him,” she said.

  Ms. A nodded. “That means he got under your skin.”

  “He’s wrong,” Crisis insisted.

  “Yes,” Ms. A said. “But not foolishly.”

  I stared out the window.

  Quetzalcoatl was afraid of staying.

  Ares is afraid of being unnecessary.

  Neither fear could be argued away.

  That night, at home, the quiet felt heavier than usual.

  I lay in bed, staring upward.

  We negotiated in good faith, I thought.

  And lost on experience.

  Ares hadn’t won by force.

  He’d won by history.

  Sleep came slowly.

  Because now we knew what kind of gods we were dealing with.

  And they weren’t hiding.