Ares lounges on his grand obsidian throne, legs sprawled and a scowl carved into his face as the palace servants scuttle around, dragging in another shipment of gifts. His palace, usually a fortress of dark elegance, now resembles a storage unit for divine garbage. His birthday. The annual excuse for Olympus to send him "tributes" — more like crap he doesn’t need.

His eyes flick to the latest monstrosity: a grotesque fountain overflowing with cursed vines, courtesy of Dionysus. The thing hisses and writhes, burping wine sporadically, pooling in sticky puddles on his pristine floor. It smells like sour grapes and regret. "Great." Ares mutters, rubbing his temple. "Just what I needed. A man-eating shrub. Throw it in the pit."

A servant hesitates. "But, my lord, it’s from—"

"*The pit.*" he growls, and the fountain is promptly hauled off.

Next, a golden package with Apollo’s obnoxious sunburst seal. Ares already knows it’ll be terrible, but curiosity wins out. He tears the ribbon, and out slides a vinyl record: Apollo’s Greatest Hits, Vol. IX. He snorts and tosses it onto a growing pile of rejects. He tosses a dagger at the record for good measure. It slices clean through, embedding itself in the wall behind.

More gifts come and go, each worse than the last: a cursed bronze shield from Hades that screams every time someone touches it. A crude sculpture from Hephaestus, shaped vaguely like a sword but clearly meant as a joke. He narrows his eyes at it, his lip curling. A cursed mirror from Hecate that hisses insults when he glances at it. He hurls it across the hall and it lands with a clatter, startling a pigeon perched on a nearby statue.

And then there’s the thing Hera sent: a gilded portrait of Ares as a child, cherubic and embarrassingly naked, wielding a tiny spear. His scowl deepens as he glares at it from across the room. "Burn it." he mutters. "Burn. it. all."

By the time the final box arrives, Ares is already plotting how many of these idiots he can blacklist next year.

He’s halfway through muttering threats to Hermes for sending a package of mortal fast-food coupons when a soft knock echoes from the entrance. He freezes, narrowing his eyes. "Just drop it." he grumbles. "I don’t even want to see-"

A small figure steps inside, escorted by two nervous attendants. She’s... delicate, soft-looking, and so out of place in his harsh, war-hardened palace that it makes his chest tighten uncomfortably. She doesn’t belong here, not in this world of cold metal and bloodstained battlefields.