“So boring!” Penthesilea huffed, her voice sharp with frustration. She paced back and forth, her fists clenched, her impatience growing by the minute. “I didn’t see any Achilles, Agamemnon, Menelaus, or Ajax! None of the true warriors were here. Just weaklings! Is this what the great Lyrnessus had to offer?
I’m disappointed—I wanted to fight real men, warriors worthy of my strength!”
The Amazonian queen’s anger simmered beneath her calm exterior, but those who knew her well could see it in the tense set of her jaw, the way her spear twitched in her grip. She had come to Lyrnessus with high expectations, eager to test herself against the legendary heroes of the Achaeans, the so-called strongest fighters of the Greek world.
After all, she wasn’t just any warrior—she was the queen of the Amazons, a title she had earned by constantly pushing herself beyond her limits. She lived for battle, for the thrill of facing a foe who could challenge her.
But instead of worthy adversaries, all she had found was a ruined city, its once-proud streets now littered with corpses and the remains of homes burned to ash. The Greeks who had laid siege to Lyrnessus were no better than scavengers, plundering like wild beasts, too cowardly or too complacent to stand and fight her.
“This is pathetic,” she muttered under her breath, glaring at the smoldering ruins around her. “A real disappointment.”
Hector, standing nearby with a sword resting against his shoulder, exhaled in exasperation. “We aren’t here for a fight, Penthesilea,” he reminded her, his voice level but tired. “Our mission was to evacuate the survivors, not seek glory in battle.”
Penthesilea shot him a look, rolling her eyes. “Whatever. So why are we still hanging around? We’ve rescued the survivors, haven’t we? What’s the point in waiting? The longer we stay, the higher the risk of getting caught.” Her voice was laced with impatience, and the twitch in her hand suggested she was ready to leave this miserable place behind.
The Amazons and Trojans had done what they came to do—rescued the few who survived the Greek onslaught and spirited them away in carriages hidden on the outskirts of the city. The survivors were already on their way to the Trojan capital, safe and out of harm’s reach. Now, they were simply lingering, disguised as soldiers of Lyrnessus amidst the rubble, waiting for…something.
Hector, ever the calm and steady leader, shook his head. “We’re still missing two people,” he explained, keeping his eyes on the horizon, as if expecting trouble at any moment.
Penthesilea raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Who?” she demanded.
“Heiron and his companion,” came the answer from Aeneas, who had been standing quietly near the edge of the group. His gaze was distant, thoughtful, as if recalling something important.
“Probably dead by now,” Penthesilea replied bluntly, with a dismissive shrug. “Let’s just leave. I don’t care about some random fighters, especially not ones foolish enough to stay behind in this wasteland.”
Aeneas frowned, clearly not swayed by her indifference. “No, they aren’t dead,” he said firmly, shaking his head. “I’m sure of it.”
Hector, though trusting Aeneas, shared a sliver of Penthesilea’s doubt. “Are you certain, Aeneas? With the chaos that’s unfolded here, it’s not impossible.”
Aeneas met Hector’s gaze, his expression serious. “Yes, I’m certain. I saw Heiron in the heat of battle—he was fighting one of the Empire’s Heroes.”
Penthesilea’s interest piqued for a moment, her eyes narrowing. “One of those Heroes? Then he’s probably dead after all. I’ve heard those Empire warriors are strong—stronger than most.”
But Aeneas wasn’t convinced. “No,” he said again, his voice steady with conviction. “Heiron was confident, far too confident to be reckless. He told me to leave and take care of the survivors while he handled things here. If he wasn’t sure he could hold his own, he wouldn’t have stayed behind.”
Penthesilea let out a short laugh. “Confident, you say? Sometimes confidence gets you killed, Aeneas.”
“Perhaps,” Aeneas conceded. “But it wasn’t Heiron who seemed nervous in that fight—it was the two girls he was facing. They were the ones uncertain, not him.”
Hector exchanged a thoughtful glance with Aeneas, weighing the words carefully. If Heiron had faced one of the Empire’s Heroes and lived, or perhaps even triumphed, that would make him an invaluable ally, one worth waiting for. But waiting in a war zone came with its own dangers, and time was running thin.
“Alright,” Hector said finally, his decision made. “We wait a little longer. But not too long. If Heiron and his companion don’t make it soon, we’ll have no choice but to leave without them.”
Penthesilea grunted, still dissatisfied. She didn’t care much for waiting around, especially for someone she barely knew, but she respected Hector’s judgment enough not to argue further. For now.
Fortunately, she didn’t have to wait long for the information she was seeking. A familiar figure approached them, her presence unmistakable from a distance. Her long, deep ocean color hair glistened under the light, flowing like a serene river. It was Charybdis.
She was a sight that no one could forget or confuse with anyone else. Her mere arrival seemed to still the air around them, drawing attention effortlessly. Hector, Penthesilea, and Aeneas stood there, mouths slightly agape, unable to disguise their awe. For a brief moment, none of them spoke, their minds captivated by her presence.
Charybdis was breathtaking.
Her beauty wasn’t the kind one could easily describe; it was ethereal, almost otherworldly. While they had caught glimpses of her before, none of them had been prepared for the sight that now confronted them.
Penthesilea let out a low, amused laugh, breaking the silence. “That bastard Heiron hid quite the beauty for himself, didn’t he?” she said with a smirk, her tone light but tinged with admiration.
Hector, still shaken by Charybdis’ appearance, recovered quickly. After all, he had seen Helen, whose beauty was fabled to be even more divine, though even he silently acknowledged that Charybdis had a charm of her own—something raw, something untamed.
Aeneas, shaking off his own trance, was the first to speak with purpose. “Where is Heiron?” He asked urgently.
Charybdis’ response was swift and cold. “He’s not coming,” she said bluntly, her voice flat and detached.
The trio exchanged glances, a mix of surprise and concern flashing across their faces. It wasn’t just her words that unsettled them—it was the way she spoke, as if interacting with humans was beneath her. Charybdis radiated a disdain she barely bothered to conceal. Speaking to these mortals seemed almost like a chore for her.
To her, they were insignificant. Fragile. Fleeting.
The only human she had ever tolerated was Medea, and even then, it was because of the witch’s power and cunning. As for Nathan… Nathan was a different story entirely. In Charybdis’ eyes, he transcended humanity. He was not simply a mortal; he was something divine—no, more than divine. Nathan was something even greater than the gods themselves, a force that stood beyond their understanding.
Hector frowned, breaking the silence that had stretched too long. “What do you mean he’s not coming?”
“He said he was going to spy on the Greek camp to gather information.” Charybdis said casually.
But it was as if she had tossed a bomb at their feet. The reaction was immediate.
Aeneas’ eyes widened in disbelief. “What? Has he gone mad?” He almost shouted, unable to comprehend how reckless Heiron could be. Charybdis’ nonchalant tone only made it worse. She said it as though Heiron was merely taking a stroll through a peaceful meadow instead of infiltrating a heavily fortified enemy camp.
Penthesilea’s lips curled into a smirk, ever the cynic. “Perhaps he’s betrayed us,” she suggested, her voice laced with amusement. “Wouldn’t that be something? Especially since he could know the layout of Troy so well.”
Hector’s expression hardened. The possibility of betrayal weighed heavily on him. If Heiron had truly turned against them, it would be catastrophic. The information he carried could spell their doom.
But Aeneas shook his head, his voice firm. “No. He didn’t betray us.”
Hector narrowed his eyes, unsure how Aeneas could be so certain. “How do you know that?” he asked, suspicion creeping into his tone.
Aeneas hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “I can’t be certain, but I trust my instincts. Something about Heiron… he doesn’t strike me as the type to betray those he fights alongside.”
He thought back to the brief interactions he had with Heiron. Though they didn’t know each other well, there was something about him that inspired trust, something honest and unspoken that Aeneas had sensed during their exchanges.
“And besides,” Aeneas added, “if he were truly planning to betray us, would he have sent his companion back to us?”
Hector considered this for a moment, nodding slowly. “You’re right. Maybe… Let’s just hope he comes back with good information—and alive.”
But Aeneas, still troubled, glanced at Charybdis. Her calm demeanor unnerved him. He couldn’t understand how she wasn’t worried, how she could be so indifferent when Heiron was taking such a dangerous risk.
“Aren’t you worried about him at all?” Aeneas asked, genuinely surprised by her composure.
Charybdis turned her gaze on him, her expression one of disdain and disbelief, as though she had just heard the most absurd question imaginable.
“The ones who should be worried,” she said icily, “are the Greeks.”
With that, she walked away, her ocean-blue hair swaying gently with each step, leaving the trio behind in silence.
Hector, Penthesilea, and Aeneas exchanged glances. They said nothing as they followed her out of Lyrnessus,