Tragos found himself utterly sick with relief. He didn't let it show, as he joined the crowd around Ares. A visual exhibition of relief would be proof that he hadn't had utmost faith that Ares would win, and that felt tantamount to betrayal.
Of course Ares would win.
Of course Ares would always win.
He was the most powerful person Tragos had ever seen. Impossibly powerful. Inhumanly powerful.
Tragos had made the right choices, coming here. Joining this. The knowledge settled in his chest, crystal clear. He hadn't known faith could feel like this, so certain. So true.
Along with his brothers-in-arms, he held Ares aloft. The pain in his chest where Apollo had struck him hurt, but instead of bothering him, he had the strangest feeling that the pain was purifying him. And above him, Ares. From this exulted position, held high by his men, the blood and the sweat of his leader, his god, poured down Tragos' wrists, like a blessing.