Lyrnessus was attacked.
The Greeks had attacked Trojan soil, a decisive strike signaling the dawn of the Trojan War. With that single blow, the world stood at the precipice of an unprecedented conflict—one that would capture the attention of not only men, but also the gods.
The skies above Olympus stirred, their vast pantheon watching the war unfold. Gods, whose existence stretched across millennia, found themselves intrigued by the carnage below. For centuries, they had lived through the rise and fall of civilizations, the ebb and flow of empires, but recently, the world had been disappointingly quiet. Mundane.
Yet, here in Troy, something different was happening—something that had piqued their interest.
The war was not just between men. Divinity itself was split. On one side stood Athena and Hera, aligned against their fellow Olympians, Apollo, Aphrodite, and Artemis. Their squabble over the fates of mortals had drawn sharp battle lines, even in the heavens. This, too, promised intrigue.
From his seat atop Olympus, Zeus looked down upon the battlefield, his expression unreadable. Beside him, Hermes shifted his gaze between the warriors, while Ares leaned forward, thirsting for the bloodshed to come. Dionysus sipped wine casually, but even his eyes gleamed with interest. Each god had their own reasons for watching, and the tension among them mirrored the growing chaos below.
Most of their focus lay on two names whispered among mortals—Achilles and Agamemnon—the so-called stars of the Greek army. Their feats were anticipated, their glory a foregone conclusion in the eyes of the gods. But Zeus’s attention, like that of many others, was also drawn to a different group—Khione’s Heroes. A band whose reputation had been scorned, often called the weakest of the summoned Heroes.
Khione herself had endured ridicule from the other gods for her perceived weakness.
Yet Jason, one of her chosen, had shattered expectations in a single moment.
His attack had leveled the walls of Lyrnessus in one swift blow, an act of such power that even the gods blinked in surprise. For a fleeting moment, Olympus itself seemed to pause as whispers rippled through the ranks of the Gods. This was no minor feat. A murmur spread among them, disbelief tinged with curiosity. Could the so-called weakest Heroes be stronger than they appeared?
As the hours passed, the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a crimson glow over the smoking ruins of Lyrnessus. From the heights of Olympus and the realms beyond, the gods bore witness to the devastation. The once-proud city lay in tatters, its gates shattered, its streets littered with the bodies of soldiers and innocents alike.
The wails of the wounded and the cries of the fleeing echoed like a mournful chorus.
But the gods, for all their power, could do nothing. They watched in silence, some uncaring, others filled with a fleeting sense of pity. Yet none moved to intervene. Such was the delicate balance of divine power—if one god acted, others would follow, and the chain of retaliation would spiral out of control.
The earth could not bear the full force of all Gods’ might on Earth ground, which is why they dwelled in the heavens, in a dimension beyond the reach of mortals.
The gods watched from above, eyes glittering with a mixture of disinterest and vague curiosity. Far below, Lyrnessus was ablaze, plumes of smoke curling into the sky as the final throes of battle ebbed away. Most of the gods floating in the heavens did not bother to intervene—they watched the scene like a staged play, impassive observers as human lives crumbled beneath the blades of warriors.
Yet there was a stir in the air, a ripple of interest when the Trojans finally arrived. Among them, two figures stood out, their presence like boulders amidst a stream—Hector and Aeneas, the demigod warrior with the blood of gods in his veins. There was a quiet murmur among the onlookers. What they craved most was a confrontation between these two champions and Achilles.
The thought of their clash stirred a certain anticipation, even among those who had seen countless wars.
But that moment of excitement quickly fizzled as Achilles, having already dispatched the Trojan King, strode away from the battlefield with Briseis, his prize, by his side. His part in the slaughter was over. Achilles had no interest in prolonging a battle already won, nor in facing Hector or Aeneas when his victory was already certain.
As for Hector and Aeneas, their intent was clear—they were not there for glory, but to shepherd the survivors out of the city. Stealthily, they moved through the chaos, cutting down the weaker Greek soldiers who crossed their path. But their efforts went largely unnoticed, the brief skirmishes hardly enough to catch the attention of the gods above.
“It seems it’s over,” Athena muttered. She floated high above the ground, several meters away from the ruins of Lyrnessus. Beside her, Hera stood, her regal form unmoved by the spectacle below.
From their vantage point, they watched the last remnants of Lyrnessus fall. Smoke rose in thick black tendrils, the cries of the dying and wounded growing fainter with each passing second until only the eerie silence of conquest remained.
“Yes,” Hera replied, her gold eyes gleaming. “Lyrnessus has fallen, just as it was destined.”
Neither goddess seemed particularly pleased by the outcome—it had been inevitable. Yet Hera couldn’t conceal a flicker of satisfaction. Aphrodite had failed to protect one of her cities. That alone was enough to bring a smirk to Hera’s lips. She cast a glance toward the trio of gods floating within the burning city—Apollo, Artemis, and, most satisfyingly, Aphrodite.
Apollo and Artemis wore somber expressions, their divine features etched with displeasure at the fall of Lyrnessus. Hera relished the sight of their bitterness, but her eyes were drawn to Aphrodite. To Hera’s ire, the goddess of love met her gaze with a radiant smile, her face unbothered by the ruin around her. She even had the gall to wave.
“This arrogant bitch,” Hera muttered, her hands curling into fists at her side. She could never stand Aphrodite, even in defeat.
Athena, sensing her companion’s irritation, began to turn away. “Let’s go,” she said, her voice calm and composed. But before they could depart, both goddesses halted, their eyes widening in unison.
“Did you feel that?” Athena’s voice, usually controlled, was edged with shock.
“Yes,” Hera replied, her tone equally unsettled.
A presence—powerful, ancient, and overwhelmingly inhuman—had appeared in Lyrnessus out of nowhere.
Then, a moment later, the sky trembled as a massive explosion shook the earth.
BADOOOOM!
The sound echoed through the heavens, and the shockwave blasted through the air, reaching even the heights where Hera and Athena floated. The force whipped their hair wildly.
“W-what in the world?” Athena’s voice trembled, unable to conceal her shock. Her wide eyes turned toward Hera, hoping for an answer. “Who…?”
“I’m searching,” Hera replied, her gold irises glowing with divine power as she scanned Lyrnessus below. She had already begun to probe the ruins, trying to identify the source of the overwhelming energy that had erupted from the city. Her mind raced through the possibilities—Hector, Penthesilea, Agamemnon, Aeneas—none of them could have been responsible.
Achilles had already left the battlefield, his business with Lyrnessus concluded. And while the others were strong, Hera knew their power well. None of them could generate such a presence.
This new energy was something entirely different. Something more dangerous.
Her eyes swept across every corner of Lyrnessus, focusing on any potential clues, and finally, she spotted a familiar figure. A blonde-haired beauty lay collapsed on the ground, her breaths shallow, her body visibly trembling with exhaustion. Sweat gleamed on her pale face, and her clothes were now torn and bloodied. Hera recognized her—Gwen, one of Khione’s Heroes.
The girl had clearly spent all her mana, drained from whatever encounter had just transpired. In her arms, she cradled Iphlea, a powerful fairy known for her vast reservoirs of magical energy. Yet, Iphlea was unconscious, blood trailing from a wound on her head.
Hera’s frown deepened. Whoever had done this was far more dangerous than she had anticipated.
A cold realization settled over her. This had to be the work of someone from the Trojan side. But who? Hector, Penthesilea and Aeneas were the strongest, and yet, this attack didn’t seem to match their typical methods.
Her eyes flickered with frustration. “Impossible,” Hera muttered, her face darkening with displeasure. For there to be another powerful figure among the Trojans, someone who had remained hidden until now—it was a threat she had not accounted for.
“Who!!” Hera’s voice cracked with fury as she scoured the battlefield, her senses reaching out for the intruder. But it was as if the presence had vanished, dissolved into the air like a mirage. No trace. No pulse of power. Nothing.
Frustrated, she shifted her approach. Instead of trying to sense the powerful presence, she followed the trajectory of the ice lance that had pierced the air moments before the explosion. Her divine eyes traced it to its origin, a secluded corner of the ruined city.
And then, she saw them.
Two figures stood in the shadows of the crumbling ruins. One was a young man, dressed in dark, unremarkable clothing. His black hair was wind-tossed, and his ice-blue eyes gleamed faintly in the dim light. He looked ordinary, like a mercenary plucked from the masses. Yet, Hera’s eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, something about his presence—his aura—felt… off.
He seemed too calm, too composed in the midst of the chaos.
But her gaze soon shifted to the second figure, and her breath caught in her throat.
“This…” Hera murmured, her voice tight with disbelief.
Standing beside the man was a woman with deep ocean-blue hair that cascaded down her back, her eyes the same mesmerizing shade. There was something familiar about her, as if Hera had seen her before, or perhaps felt her presence from afar. But this woman wasn’t ordinary—Hera could tell that much.
She was concealing the true extent of her abilities, but her power was undeniable, at least equal to that of Aeneas. Yet, there was something deeply unsettling.
Why would a woman of such strength stand by the side of an ordinary-looking man? More than that—why did she seem to obey him?
Hera’s eyes narrowed, her gold irises sharpening as she watched the pair from a distance. There was no mistaking it. The woman, though powerful, deferred to the man. Her posture, her body language, it all pointed to a strange dynamic where the stronger bowed to the weaker.
Suddenly, the man’s ice-blue eyes flickered. For the briefest moment, they darted toward Hera’s direction, piercing through the distance as if he could see her.
“What…?” Hera’s breath hitched, an unexpected chill creeping down her spine. She faltered, losing her focus for the first time in centuries. For just a split second, she felt as though he had seen her—not merely sensed her presence, but actually laid eyes on her.
She quickly looked back and he was speaking to the woman normally as if nothing happened.
“It must have been my imagination…” Hera mumbled, shaking off the unease that clung to her.