The Return Of the God Of War

THE COURTROOM STORM

The stale taste of cheap coffee clung to Ares Kane’s tongue as he stood outside the courthouse. The city had changed since he’d last walked its streets as a free man, but the scent of power — old marble, polished wood, and lies thick enough to choke on — stayed the same.

He rolled his shoulders beneath the jacket that hid the scars across his back. The world thought he was dead. The world thought he was nothing. Let them. It kept him alive. It gave him time to watch, to learn, to sharpen every jagged edge they’d left inside him.

A passing lawyer brushed his shoulder, muttering an apology without looking up. Ares didn’t move. He watched the man hurry up the steps, briefcase swinging like a judge’s gavel. Here, truth was currency only the powerful could afford. The rest paid with their souls.

He stepped through the courthouse doors as drizzle tapped the stone behind him. Inside, security guards gave him the look they saved for nobodies who didn’t belong. He didn’t glance back. If they knew who they were staring at, they’d drop their radios and run.

He paused at the hallway’s end, eyes narrowing at the sign above the heavy oak doors: Courtroom 3B. A brass plaque, worn smooth by trials where guilt and innocence were auctioned.

Inside, his sister sat in chains — alone, terrified, her life dangling from the lips of men who’d never dirtied their hands with anything heavier than a pen.

Ares’s fists clenched until his knuckles cracked. He heard Duke’s old voice: “Ain’t no medals in this dump, soldier.” He didn’t need medals. He needed justice. Or vengeance. Some days they tasted the same.

. . .

The bailiff barely looked up as Ares pushed the doors open. Rows of benches were packed with reporters, photographers, and vultures who called themselves friends. None lifted a finger to help her. They came for blood.

At the front, behind a battered table, sat Leah Kane. Her hair tied back in a knot, wrists shackled to steel armrests. The lights turned her skin pale. Her eyes found him the instant he stepped inside, wide with disbelief and hope.

The prosecutor’s voice droned on about evidence, betrayal — again and again. Blurry photos flashed on a projector. Grainy statements waved like execution papers. The judge, an old man with liver spots and cold eyes, pretended to listen while his fingers tapped the bench.

Ares scanned the room — faces from another life. The family lawyer, hunched over useless files. The prosecutor’s smug grin. And near the back, leaning against the wall in an immaculate suit, stood Caleb Thorn — heir to the Thorn Consortium. The man who’d made this happen.

Ares’s jaw tightened until his teeth nearly cracked. Caleb raised an eyebrow when their eyes met, then turned away like Ares was dust. Ares promised Caleb would choke on that arrogance before this was over.

. . .

“Objection, Your Honor!” the lawyer rasped. “These allegations are circumstantial —”

“Sustained,” the judge sighed, but his tone said it didn’t matter. The verdict was sealed before Leah sat down. This was theater for cameras.

Leah’s shoulders slumped. She didn’t even cry. Fear hollowed her out. Her spirit drained out of her on that cold floor.

Ares stepped forward, boots echoing on marble. He didn’t belong here — oil under his nails, scars on his neck. A ghost in a room that thought it was real.

The bailiff put out a hand. Ares brushed past him.

“Sir, you can’t —”

He didn’t hear him. He only saw Leah.

She shook her head slightly. Don’t. Please. You’ll get hurt. But she didn’t know — he’d been hurt enough. Nothing left for them to break.

. . .

The judge cleared his throat. “Who are you?”

Ares stopped at Leah’s side, rested a calloused hand on her shoulder. He felt her bones through thin fabric. He remembered carrying her when they were kids. Her laughter lit up shadows. He wouldn’t lose her now.

He turned to the bench. “Ares Kane.”

A ripple spread through the gallery — soft gasps, clicks of cameras. Caleb Thorn’s smirk vanished, replaced by disbelief.

“Ares Kane?” the judge repeated, squinting. “You have no authority here, Mr. Kane.”

Ares ignored him. He slipped a battered phone from his pocket and tapped the screen. One call. That was all.

It rang once. A crisp voice answered: “Shadow One.”

The room froze. Even the prosecutor stopped mid-sentence.

Ares spoke softly. “Is the line secure?”

“It is, sir.”

“Execute Protocol Seven.”

A pause. Then, “Understood.”

. . .

Outside, black SUVs glided to the curb like sharks scenting blood. Men in dark suits stepped out, earpieces snug. Every camera snapped to attention as the courthouse doors swung wide. Security stepped aside. They always did.

Inside, the judge’s gavel struck wood. “What do you think you’re —”

His words died when a new figure entered — an older man in a tailored suit, silver hair slicked back, eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses. He moved with the certainty of someone who’d never heard no.

He handed the judge an envelope. The judge tore it open, read it, read it again — his face drained of color.

“Court is adjourned,” he croaked.

The prosecutor stammered, “But, Your Honor —”

The gavel slammed down. “Charges dismissed. The defendant is free.”

Cameras exploded. Reporters barked questions. Caleb Thorn slipped away, phone to his ear, barking orders no one could follow.

Ares bent and unshackled his sister’s wrists. Her breath caught when his fingers brushed hers.

“How?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer. He brushed hair from her forehead and gave her a smile — soft but dangerous.

“Let them wonder.”

. . .

He guided Leah through the chaos, his hand firm on her back as they stepped into the hallway where black suits parted like the Red Sea. Cameras flashed. Reporters shouted his name like they were conjuring a ghost. The world had seen him rise — and they’d remember.

At the courthouse steps, Ares paused. The drizzle turned to steady rain, cold and clean, washing the city in silver streaks.

He glanced back, eyes finding Caleb Thorn in the doorway — pale, powerless behind glass walls he’d built.

Rain dripped from Ares’s hair, slid down his neck, soaked his collar. He lifted his chin, feeling the storm build inside him. They thought they’d buried him. They’d only given him time to sharpen his blade.

The God of War had taken his first step back into the light.

And the world would tremble.

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