The Titan War God Returns

The Sect’s Blindside

Nesse drew in a shaky breath as she noticed the stares circling her.

Some faces carried pity, others curiosity, but beneath them all lay suspicion. She straightened, forcing her voice steady.

“Please, lead the way,” she told the detective, giving her mother a quick nod.

Jules pressed her lips together to hold back a sob. She understood her daughter’s signal well enough. Nesse wasn’t guilty. Stubborn? Yes. Defiant? Absolutely. But not a killer. The problem was the timing—her sudden disappearance, Vince’s death minutes later, and their very public feud. It painted an ugly picture.

Nesse followed the detective, keeping her head high, heels striking against the marble floor. She refused to look broken, not when she knew the truth. Jules watched her daughter walk away, her heart heavy.

Outside, the heavy air inside the mansion gave way to the evening breeze. Nesse barely had time to inhale before flashing lights blinded her. Paparazzi swarmed the steps, microphones shoving forward, questions flying in every direction. The chaos was suffocating.

The last time she had faced this many reporters was when she took her seat as CEO after her marriage to Iron. Déjà vu clawed at her, but there was no pride in this walk—only humiliation.

“Ma’am, please step in,” the officer said, holding open the car door.

Nesse ignored the shouts and ducked inside. The smell hit her instantly—cheap cologne, cigarette smoke, and stale food. She wrinkled her nose. After the polished luxury of the mansion, the contrast was jarring.

“This is what I get for leaving,” she muttered as the car pulled away.

---

Hermès slipped into his own car without drawing notice. His chest rose with a slow breath, relief mixed with unease. He rubbed his temple, then chuckled. For months the Sect had suspected Vince Loreson of being one of the Valhalla. Yet the blood on that rug told a different story—Vince was nothing but a pampered heir.

“Not so divine after all,” Hermès muttered.

He thought about calling Iron, his hand brushing over the phone on the seat beside him. But then he shook his head. Some things couldn’t be spoken over a line. This news deserved to be given face to face.

The car hummed as he drove through the city. The setting sun washed the buildings in orange light, stretching shadows across the road. Hermès barely noticed the traffic. His mind was fixed on how Iron would react.

By the time he reached Iron’s estate, the sky had deepened to violet. The tall electronic gates slid open at his signal, their soft beep cutting into the quiet night. He drove in, passing the polished fountain and trimmed gardens. The house loomed ahead, every window glowing with warm light.

He parked and stepped out, taking long strides to the front door. No hesitation. No pause. He pushed it open and walked straight inside.

Iron was at his desk, a neat stack of files spread before him. His pen moved quickly, his face set in focus. He didn’t notice Hermès until the door slammed shut behind him.

Iron’s head snapped up, irritation flashing in his eyes. “You really should learn manners.”

Hermès only smirked and sank into a chair. “Too late for that.” He stretched his arms over the chair’s sides. “I bring news.”

Iron didn’t look up again, his pen scratching across the page. “Good news?”

Hermès let the silence linger until Iron’s pen slowed. Then he said, clear and sharp, “Vince is dead.”

Iron’s face stayed still. “As he should be.” His voice was flat, like it was a fact he had long expected.

Hermès leaned back further, his smirk widening. “And,” he said with deliberate pause, “he was human.”

The pen froze mid-stroke. Iron’s eyes lifted, locking on Hermès. He studied him, searching for the smallest trace of a joke.

“There is no mistake?” Iron asked at last, his tone clipped.

Hermès tilted his head. “I saw it myself. The bullet went straight through his forehead. Blood everywhere.” His voice stayed calm, almost cold. “No tricks. No godhood. Just a spoiled boy who played too big.”

Iron leaned back slowly in his chair. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“Surprised?” Hermès asked, enjoying the silence that followed.

Iron didn’t answer. His pen slipped from his hand and rested on the desk. His stare grew hard, unreadable.

Hermès chuckled under his breath. “The Sect will not see this coming.”

Iron’s surprise was buried beneath a mask of control. He gave a small nod. “Good work, Hermès.”

Hermès stood, satisfied. As he reached the door, and leaves.

Ares stopped in front of her, resting one hand on the desk. His eyes stayed locked on her face.

“You don’t look like her,” he said quietly.

Jane shifted in her chair, clutching her walking stick. “Like who?”

“The Jane I knew,” Ares replied. His tone was calm, but his stare was sharp. “She was strong. She didn’t tremble.”

Her lips parted, but no words came. She lowered her head. “I don’t know you.”

“You don’t remember me,” he said, almost to himself. “But I remember you. Every detail.”

Jane’s chest tightened. She looked up, meeting his gaze for a moment before turning away. “Your name… it feels familiar. But I can’t place it.”

“That’s because you’ve buried it,” Ares answered. His voice grew firmer. “But I won’t let you stay like this. Not broken. Not lost.”

Her fingers gripped the stick tighter. “Why? Why do you care?”

“Because I already lost you once,” Ares said. He leaned closer, his eyes dark with resolve. “And I will not lose you again.”