She was confused – he watched her complexion change, falter, furrow down into thought and bewilderment, as if she’d never thought of other ways to gain prowess and prestige; but the boy had been around for longer, had seen more of the sovereigns, had rested on his laurels one too many times, had seen Gods fall, had watched lives altered, changed, for better, for worse, because of their avaricious tongues and their hungry wiles. “No.” He shook his head, smiled gently, gleamed in that dangerous, Cheshire way; as if he knew each and every secret of the world, when he’d truly only learned from the depths of the mountains and the scalding of sands, the rising of ocean tides and the simmering world of Machiavellian prospects. But he didn’t chide her, didn’t scold her, didn’t mock or growl – his voice was soothing, a quiet, considerate tone his mother would’ve used when her children cut their knees and bruised their chins. “Ruling doesn’t make you powerful. Having command over someone doesn’t make you omniscient. Monarchs can be just as weak as the rest of us, just as indecisive, just as unsure.” The Reaper, while not meek, while not yielding, still fumbled every now and then – because all of them were flawed, imperfect, but it was those that could overcome their faults that truly resounded, truly reverberated, truly held dominion and authority. They didn’t need to hold a scepter, didn’t need bodies to direct, didn’t need souls to be vanquished – but potency from within. He’d learned that at the very least, while watching beasts slay deities, while witnessing cretins march and pray, while becoming another part of the hollowed hills and the contorted flesh; the youth always knew what he yearned and longed for, knew what he desired and coveted. His quest for power didn’t require a throne or a crown, a medallion or praise; but simple, utter vengeance, justice for those who’d fallen, who’d never been given an option or an opportunity to fight back. He wanted to be strong, he wanted to be feared, and all of those things would come with a price, with glory, with triumph, and with defeats nestled and tucked together.
 
But he continued before she got too lost in the thick of it: grinning and wise, as if he were a sage from the summits and peaks, instead of a soldier deigning to eradicate those who’d wronged him. “What makes us strong is buried in your soul, in your might, in your commitment to the things you want, the things you crave.” Erebos' maw pointed towards her chest, where her heart was coiled and beating between bones, muscles, and marrow, where her entity and essence were bound for rapture, reverence, or chaos. Then it glided in the air, near her head, never quite touching, but illustrating a point. “The ability to use your mind can make you powerful. Can you overcome your enemies? Can you think faster than them? Can you outwit them at their own game?” Are you willing to completely destroy them? He pondered further, but didn’t admit aloud, because then he’d give a part of himself away too – how much he hankered for violence and destruction, ruin and treachery, to assail and condemn the deserving. His pause was short-lived, unwinding more and more of his thoughts, beliefs, and directions. “The ability to use your strength, your fortitude, or your endurance can make you powerful. Can you still strive for a throne, even when the world is falling apart around you?” Then the warrior’s head tilted, staring over her magic and all its transformations – if it would give away her emotions to the rest of the world, if it would note her weaknesses so her enemies knew where to shoot, where to kill. “Even magic and how you wield it can make you powerful.”