Even Menelaus who had once laid claim to the most beautiful woman in the world, Helen of Troy, found himself captivated by the new arrival. Though in his heart he knew that Helen’s beauty was unrivaled, there was something about this woman, Aisha, that stirred a different kind of admiration in him. Where Helen was a beacon of light and perfection, Aisha was the embodiment of mystery and shadow.
Her black hair, her half-Asian features, and her armor—everything about her whispered of a beauty not bound by the expectations of the world but carved from a different, darker allure.
Aisha stood at the entrance of the tent for a brief moment, surveying the gathered kings and heroes with a calm, discerning gaze.
Like Sienna, Siara, Gwen, and Courtney, Aisha had initially refused to come when Liphiel summoned her to greet the Greek Kings. The very thought of standing before those men, many of whom had already leered at her and her classmates, disgusted her.
Ever since they had arrived, the Greek warriors, with their hardened bodies and minds warped by years of fighting, had gazed at the young women as though they were divine beings descended from Olympus itself. To them, Aisha and the other five greatest beauties were nothing short of goddesses—a rare and unattainable prize after abandoning their homes for the grueling war.
Aisha despised the way those warriors looked at them, as if their beauty was a reward for their suffering. The idea of being objectified in such a crude manner was enough to keep her away, but in the end, her curiosity overrode her disgust.
She wanted to witness how these so-called legendary kings and heroes would strategize for a true war, and if they were as mighty as the myths made them out to be.
Stepping into the tent, Aisha felt every gaze lock onto her once more, though she had grown accustomed to this reaction. The air was thick with the sound of heavy breathing and silent awe. Liphiel’s smile brightened at the sight of her.
“Hero Aisha, you finally came,” Liphiel greeted warmly, her eyes reflecting both relief and admiration.
Aisha gave a small nod in acknowledgment but said nothing, her expression unreadable. She could already feel the weight of lustful gazes crawling over her skin, one of them more prominent than the rest.
Ajax, standing among the Greek kings, shamelessly licked his lips, his eyes devouring her every feature. He had seen many beautiful women in his life, but Aisha was unlike any he had encountered. The old bitterness of losing Helen’s hand to Menelaus resurfaced, though it dulled quickly. In his mind, Aisha was the perfect replacement, an even greater prize.
She would make a fine wife—strong, beautiful, and seemingly unclaimed. He had always resented Menelaus for his good fortune with Helen, but now Ajax felt as though fate had delivered him something better.
Agamemnon, who usually had little tolerance for women in matters of war, took one glance at Aisha and held his tongue. There was something different about her—she radiated strength, not merely the beauty that entranced the likes of Ajax. She could be more than useful on the battlefield, he realized.
Odysseus saw Agamemnon’s unspoken approval as an opportunity to shift the focus. Gesturing toward the large table in the center of the tent, where a map of the Trojan territories was spread out, he spoke with the calm confidence of a seasoned strategist.
“This is our plan,” Odysseus began, pointing to a specific location on the map. “We will start by striking at the City of Lyrnessus. The king there is one of Troy’s strongest allies, and if we sever their connection, it will cripple the Trojan supply routes, isolating the capital from much-needed support.”
Aisha moved closer to the table, studying the map with a discerning eye. The city was positioned strategically, close enough to the Trojan capital to be of significant importance, yet vulnerable without direct reinforcement.
“It’s not a large city,” Heracles interjected. “They won’t have enough knights to match us in strength. It should be a swift victory.”
Diomedes leaned forward. “Then there’s no need for all of us to waste time taking over the city. We can split our forces.”
Odysseus nodded, his grin widening as the plan solidified in his mind. “Exactly. We don’t need everyone. Achilles will lead the initial assault, opening the hostilities.”
At the mention of Achilles, Agamemnon let out a sharp breath, his irritation evident. “Achilles,” he spat, clearly not pleased by the reminder of the one warrior he could never control.
Odysseus, unfazed by Agamemnon’s contempt, continued. “Yes. He is our greatest weapon, and we’ll need him to kickstart this war. It’s the perfect way to draw him in. Achilles thrives on combat, and this will motivate him. He won’t refuse the chance to open the war with his own hands.”
Ajax laughed heartily, his coarse voice filling the tent. “That’s for sure, that bastard always craves the bloodshed,” he said, referring to Achilles, his words heavy with crude admiration.
Odysseus, ever focused on strategy, gestured toward the map once again. “Lyrnessus won’t yet be aware of our early arrival. This is our chance to strike while they’re unprepared. We can take them by surprise and conquer the city with minimal resistance. Let’s not waste time.”
Before anyone could respond, Liphiel stepped forward.
“We will also lend our assistance,” she said calmly.
Agamemnon’s face twisted in displeasure, his pride wounded. He had never felt comfortable around these outsiders—the Heroes of the Empire of Light. To him, this war belonged to the Greeks, and no foreign power should outshine his army. “That won’t be necessary,” he said curtly, his tone dismissive.
Liphiel, unperturbed, offered a knowing smile. “I believe it is necessary, King Agamemnon. If we are to be taken seriously by you and your men, we must prove ourselves on the battlefield. Observe us, and you will understand why the Goddess Hera herself has vouched for us. We do not intend to interfere; we will merely show you our strength.”
Odysseus nodded in agreement. “I think it’s a good idea, King Agamemnon. Let us see what these Heroes from another world are capable of. It may serve us well to know their strengths.”
Agamemnon scowled, but with Odysseus aligning with Liphiel, he had little choice but to concede. “So be it,” he grumbled.
Odysseus, satisfied with the outcome, turned back to Liphiel. “Very well, Lady Liphiel. Prepare your Heroes. We will soon move out.”
As the tension in the room began to settle, Odysseus glanced at Agamemnon one last time. “I will handle Achilles,” he said. There was no need to argue over who would command the strongest warrior among them—Odysseus knew how to motivate Achilles in a way that even Agamemnon could not.