Samuel had long since relinquished his control; in this dream-world Ares easily took the reins, with no complaint from his mortal vessel. It was brighter here, bolder, painted with all the colors of blood and rust and bone, lit with the glint of shields and arms and armor. It was no place for a mortal, however suitable a host he had proven to be. As the year had waxed, and Ares' influence over his human skin had strengthened, he had found himself walking these fields more and more. It was rare, though, that he had found himself with company. His first glance toward the newcomer had been one of open mistrust and even judgment; his second glance showed him the truth.
His answering grin was broad and wolfish, sharp even though it lacked the pointed fangs of his son. Before the gleaming chariot four stallions stamped their bloodstained hooves, tongues of flame spouting from their lips as they trumpeted their welcome. Konabos and Aithôn strained at their traces, the chariot kept in place only by Ares' iron grip.
"At last," he said, extending one broad, bronze-tanned arm. "Phobos. I wondered how long you would keep me waiting."