Darkness clung to Ares, a familiar, comforting embrace. It was absolute, thick, and smelled of damp stone and stale fear. Chains, cold and heavy, bit into his wrists and ankles, secured to the rough-hewn wall. A lesser being might have struggled, might have cursed or screamed. Ares simply closed his eyes, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor running through the links. They held nothing. They bound only air, a hollow gesture against his true nature.
Seconds stretched into minutes, minutes into an hour. The rhythmic drip of water echoed from somewhere deeper within the dungeon's maw. Footsteps, heavy and deliberate, approached his cell. The clatter of keys, the rasp of a bolt sliding back, these were mere sounds in a dull play.
A guard, burly and stern-faced, peered through the grated door. Lamplight flickered, momentarily illuminating Ares's still form. His eyes, when they opened, were twin pools of ancient night, reflecting nothing. No fear. No anger. Only an endless, chilling void.
"The King wishes for your cooperation, demon," the guard grunted, his voice thick with loathing. Another guard, younger and visibly nervous, stood behind him, spear held loosely.
Ares didn't respond. He merely tilted his head, a slow, predatory movement. The chains remained taut, an illusion of restraint. Their efforts were futile, their threats hollow.