Ares nodded at the mention of their mortal avatars. He knew his son's well, and was unsurprised at Phobos' dawdling; that body was stronger than it sometimes seemed, more resilient by far, and clung terribly to those tendrils of 'reality' that grounded it. So many times that mortal shell had come so close to guessing the truth; so many times he had pulled away, fearful of what he might learn.
"Soon," Ares said, one word to answer all. Soon they would join the battle; soon their hosts would learn the power they possessed. He felt on the cusp of something grand, pushed to the very edge, his body taut as a wire and humming with the kind of energy and pleasure so few pursuits granted him. Again he snapped the reins, raising welts on the stallions' backs. They bucked wildly - but only once - and leapt forward, bloodlust renewed. Their golden hooves beat the ground, a wild gallop whose brutal drumbeats reverberated through the earth, announcing their arrival to those who would be today's blood sacrifice.
They came hard and fast upon the battleground, its beaten dust pockmarked by far fewer bodies than any of them would like. The warriors seemed weary, their armor dull from countless half-hearted strikes, their movements listless and formations sloppy. But between them they would fix this, and make of it something worthy of song.
"Make me proud," Ares said, and left the first strike to his son.