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    Summary

    Daylight has faded from the room but he can still distinguish precisely where the fine, pink-hued porcelain of her skin gives into a flaw at her wrist. The place where the mortal Greek soldier had drawn ichor and sent her weeping into Ares’ arms. His goddess is now forever marked by war, wearing it upon her skin.

    She returns his touch, rubs his scarred fingers and blade-marked hand, “we match now, my Ares.” She says with a soft sort of pride that makes his heart ache.

    Language:
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