Chapter 19 – Heavy Lies the Barbell
The vulture showed up at breakfast.
Not a metaphorical vulture. A literal one.
It dive-bombed the dining pavilion like it owned the place, landed on my plate of bacon, squawked in my face, and dropped a scroll directly into my cup of orange juice.
Clarisse watched the entire thing from two tables away, scowled, then turned back to her oatmeal like if she ignored it hard enough, it would cease to exist.
I unrolled the scroll, sticky with citrus pulp, and read:
"Lionel. And Clarisse. Get your behinds to Gleason's Gym before sunset. I don't like being made to wait, even by my own spawn.
–A."
I looked at the signature, which somehow radiated testosterone.
Clarisse stood up before I could even say anything. "Let's go."
"No questions?" I asked, standing and throwing the scroll into the fire.
She shot me a glare. "He summons. We go."
I blinked. "Kinda formal for you."
"I'm not doing it for him," she muttered. "I'm doing it because if I don't, he'll haunt my dreams for the next week whispering about how disappointed he is in my footwork."
"Oof. Therapy much?"
"Shut up."
Gleason's Gym was exactly what you'd expect from a war god's private training center embedded in the mortal world.
Chains. Steel beams. A boxing ring in the center surrounded by old tires and punching bags that looked like they were filled with concrete. Mortal fighters grunted in every corner, muscles rippling, sweat flying. The place reeked of blood, old leather, and dreams crushed under a bench press.
And at the back, sitting on a throne made out of barbells and motorcycle parts, was Ares.
Red leather pants. Steel-toed boots. No shirt. Aviator shades. A cigarette smoldering between his lips, even though there were three very clear NO SMOKING signs behind him. They flared into ash when he exhaled.
Clarisse stiffened beside me.
I kept walking, hands in my pockets, cool as I could fake.
"Yo," I said. "Dad."
Ares tilted his head.
"You got taller," he said.
"You got shinier," I replied.
Ares exhaled a puff of smoke so thick it turned into the vague shape of a middle finger. "Still annoying. That's consistent."
He stood, all six-foot-ten of raw power and war god aura, and walked toward us. The room got heavier with every step. The mortal fighters didn't even look up. Probably charmed or cursed or just too used to divine weirdness.
Clarisse stood at attention like she was reporting to a drill sergeant. Ares stopped in front of her, looked her over.
"Holding that spear like it owes you money. Good," he said. "You've been winning?"
She nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Good."
That was it. No hug. No praise. Just one syllable. And Clarisse straightened like it was a gold medal.
Then he turned to me.
And smiled.
It wasn't a nice smile.
More like a lion looking at a slightly intelligent gazelle.
"You've been making waves," he said.
I shrugged. "Training."
"Burning down parts of my ship."
"Minor detail."
"Creating new techniques that made the Fates call me at three in the morning."
"Okay, that one was kind of cool though."
He chuckled. "I like you."
I blinked. "Wait, really?"
"You remind me of a dog," Ares said. "Loud. Overexcited. Dangerous. Kinda dumb."
"Okay, less flattering."
"But," he said, leaning in, "you don't stop."
His shades reflected my face back at me. I looked wild. Scorched. Crackling with the same restless energy I always had.
"You fight like someone who doesn't care about winning," Ares said. "You just want the war."
He clapped a hand on my shoulder. It weighed a ton. "You're not a warrior yet. But you're fun. And in this world? That's enough for me."
I expected more.
But I also knew I wouldn't get it.
Clarisse got pressure. Expectations. Legacy.
I got amusement.
To him, she was his heir.
I was his pet.
But pets bite.
"Thanks," I said flatly.
He grinned wider. "Good. Because I have a job for you."
He waved his hand and the gym cleared out in a heartbeat. Doors slammed shut. The walls shimmered—magic seals, ancient and binding.
Now it was just us.
Ares dropped onto a bench press and stretched like this was casual conversation.
"You remember that time Hephaestus created a trap to trap me and Aphrodite in a net?"
"Hard to forget," I said. "Percy and Annabeth bang on about it."
Clarisse winced. "Please stop talking."
"That net," Ares continued, "was crafted with divine mockery in every thread. Gold. Invisible to gods. Hung above a mortal amusement ride—Tunnel of Love, no less. Poetic garbage."
He crushed the remains of his cigarette between two fingers. "I never got even."
He turned to me.
"You're going to sneak into Tartarus," he said.
Clarisse inhaled sharply. "Wait, WHAT?"
Ares kept talking like he'd just asked me to run to the store.
"There are three Cyclopes down there—Brontes, Steropes, Arges. Hephaestus's old uncles. The originals. The ones who made Zeus's lightning bolts and Poseidon's trident. Zeus doesn't even use their help anymore now he got Hephaestus. Keeps them hidden.
He cracked his knuckles. "I want them out."
I blinked. "You want me to bring three primordial blacksmiths back from Tartarus?"
He nodded. "Yup."
"Stealth mission?"
"Kind of."
"Into the Greek hell dimension."
"Yup."
"To insult your ex's brother."
"Bingo."
I nodded slowly. "That's on brand."
Clarisse looked like she was about to explode. "You can't be serious."
"He's serious," I said.
"He's insane!"
Ares smirked. "You want to impress me?" he asked. "Here's your shot."
He tossed something at me.
A glowing bronze coin. Heavy. It buzzed with magic. The mark of Ares, carved deep.
"Use that to pass the upper circles," he said. "Don't lose it. It's bound to your soul now."
I flipped it once, then caught it. "And the Cyclopes?"
"They'll come if you can convince them. Or knock their heads together. Either works."
I pocketed the coin.
Clarisse grabbed my arm. "Don't do this."
I looked at her.
And for once, I wasn't grinning.
"I have to," I said. "You want him to respect you. I want to know what I'm really made of. This is my 12 labours"
Clarisse's jaw tightened.
"You're going to get killed," she said.
I gave her a small smile. "Probably."
Ares stood. "You leave at moonrise."
And with that, he vanished in a blaze of motorcycle exhaust and godly ego.
I stood in the gym, surrounded by echoes and silence, feeling the weight of the quest sink into my bones.
Tartarus.
The Forge of Titans.
The blackened halls where the gods feared to tread.
I cracked my knuckles.
Time to knock.