“Lyrnessus has fallen. Our first battle ended in great success,” Patroclus announced, his voice carrying a tone of satisfaction.
The commanders and heroes of the Greek forces had gathered inside a large, well-furnished meeting tent, spacious enough to accommodate over twenty individuals. The atmosphere inside was thick with the heady scent of sweat, dust, and battle-worn armor. At the center of the tent stood a large wooden table, and spread across it was a meticulously detailed map of the Trojan territories.
The map was marked with strategic points—fortresses, rivers, and the path to Troy itself. Lyrnessus, once a powerful stronghold in support of the Trojan capital, had been a key obstacle to their campaign. Its fall now represented a crucial victory.
“Lyrnessus was a thorn in our side, threatening to aid the Trojan capital if we allowed it to stand. This is indeed good news,” Odysseus added thoughtfully, turning his gaze toward Agamemnon. The King of Mycenae, towering over the table with his arms crossed, looked particularly pleased with himself.
Odysseus, ever the tactician, had a reason behind his compliment. “Good job, King Agamemnon,” he said, his voice smooth and calculated. It wasn’t that Odysseus was known for flattery—far from it—but he was always a man of strategy, and right now, Agamemnon’s mood needed to be kept in check.
Ever since the king had sacrificed his own daughter, Iphigenia, to the gods for favorable winds on their journey to Troy, his temper had been unstable, brooding under the surface.
“Yes, brilliant work as always, Agamemnon,” Nestor, the elder statesman, added with a smile, his voice full of praise. There was a weariness in his eyes, though. Nestor, wise and aged, knew the balance of egos among the Greeks was as delicate as the war they waged.
Agamemnon, basking in the attention, grunted approvingly, his lips curling into a satisfied smile. For all his titles and power, he was, at his core, a simple man who relished recognition—especially after the personal sacrifice he’d made.
But not everyone shared their view.
“Why is he taking all the praise when he did nothing?” A voice, sharp and irritated, rang out, cutting through the air like a blade.
Odysseus and Nestor inwardly groaned, exchanging a glance that spoke volumes. They could practically feel the tension crackling in the air before even turning their heads. The timing couldn’t have been worse.
Jason Spencer, his expression darkened with frustration, strode into the tent, Liphiel accompanying him. Jason’s golden armor gleamed in the dim torchlight, a stark contrast to the scowling face beneath his helm. He wasn’t trying to mask his displeasure; it was clear he had had enough of being sidelined by the Greek kings.
From the very beginning, the Heroes of the Empire of Light had been treated like children, barely acknowledged, despite their invaluable contributions. They had fought fiercely, yet here they were, excluded from the praise and recognition being showered upon Agamemnon, a king who hadn’t even been at the forefront of the battle.
Jason’s annoyance had finally boiled over. He had been the one to breach the walls of Lyrnessus, tearing down its defenses and paving the way for the Greek army’s advance. Yet here was Agamemnon, smugly soaking up praise he had not earned.
“Watch your tongue, brat,” came a growling voice, filled with warning and threat.
It was Ajax, the mighty warrior, towering at the far end of the tent. His eyes blazed with fury, and for a moment, Jason felt a cold chill of fear creep down his spine. The air seemed to thicken with the weight of Ajax’s presence, as if the very earth under their feet could crumble under his rage.
Ajax was a towering figure, his massive frame more akin to a mountain than a man. His body, broad and muscled like a living fortress, was riddled with scars from countless battles. Each scar told a story—of victories, of violence, of near-death encounters that he had always come out of as the victor.
His hands, resting on the hilt of his sword, seemed capable of snapping necks with ease, and his stare was enough to make lesser men falter.
Jason felt a pulse of instinctive fear, knowing full well that Ajax was one of the strongest warriors in the Greek army. Perhaps only Achilles, Heracles, or Agamemnon himself could hope to best him. His height alone was intimidating—he stood head and shoulders above most of the soldiers, his presence casting a long shadow that seemed to stretch across the tent.
Jason forced himself to stand his ground, though he could feel his heartbeat quicken. Ajax was not someone to trifle with. His eyes, dark and burning with murderous intent, locked onto Jason like a predator sizing up prey.
“Did you forget your place, boy?” Ajax rumbled, his fingers twitching near the hilt of his sword.
For a fleeting moment, Jason faltered, fear creeping into his heart. But pride and anger quickly surged back, fortifying his resolve. He clenched his jaw, unwilling to back down completely, even in the face of Ajax’s barely contained fury.
Ajax, a close ally of Agamemnon and himself a king, felt his blood boil at the sight of a mere teenager daring to insult the King of Kings, the man leading all the Greek armies. For Ajax, the Heroes of the Empire of Light had only intruded upon their war for glory and reward. The only reason they weren’t outright dismissed was because they had been chosen by Hera herself.
Jason, despite the pressure, quickly bit his tongue, his eyes narrowing in defiance as he glared back at Ajax. It was his pride, his unyielding sense of self-worth, that resisted the overwhelming presence of one of the greatest warriors among the Greeks.
The tension was palpable, and those gathered in the tent exchanged uneasy glances. Jason, though young, was standing his ground, and that was no small feat. Even Ajax, towering like a mountain, with his scarred body and aura of death, was slightly taken aback, his frown deepening.
For a boy who had grown up in a peaceful world, untouched by war, and had been here for less than a year, Jason was showing unexpected grit.
Still, many thought his pride was misplaced, almost reckless. A man like Ajax could break him with a flick of his wrist. Yet Jason’s eyes burned with defiance, unwilling to yield even an inch.
Liphiel, watching from behind, couldn’t help but smile. Jason Spencer, despite his brashness and youth, had something special. He wasn’t the strongest person here—far from it—but there was a reason why he had been chosen as the Hero of Light. Walking into this tent, facing down the kings of Greece and one of its fiercest warriors, took more than just courage.
It took guts and the sort of raw audacity that could turn the tide of a war. Liphiel knew Jason had potential, a hidden darkness within him that could be shaped into something truly terrifying. But it would take more than a mere threatening gaze from Ajax to awaken it.
“I don’t care,” Jason began, his voice steady despite the pressure. “We are here too, and I don’t have to remind you kings that it was the Goddess Hera herself who chose us. You can either accommodate us or tell Hera directly that you refuse her help—and we’ll leave.”
His words, calm yet laced with a thinly veiled threat, caused Ajax to grit his teeth in frustration. Even Ajax, with all his strength and might, could not open his mouth to defy the will of the gods so openly. Hera’s favor was not something to take lightly, and Jason had just used it as his shield. The silence in the tent thickened.
Odysseus, who had been watching the exchange with a calculating eye, allowed a small smile to creep onto his lips. “He’s no ordinary kid,” Odysseus remarked, stepping forward to mediate. “Let’s accept that much.”
Heracles, standing tall beside Ajax, then added in a calm, measured tone, “Yes, but I ask that you show respect to your elders—especially when they are kings.”
Jason’s eyes flickered for a moment, as if weighing the admonishment, but before he could respond, Liphiel stepped forward.
“I apologize on behalf of Hero Jason. His frustration is understandable. But we are all on the same side, aren’t we?” She turned to Patroclus, who had observed the Heroes of Light during the battle. “Lord Patroclus, you saw how our Heroes fought. What do you think?”
Patroclus, who had remained quiet up until this point, nodded. “Yes. They are not to be underestimated,” he admitted, his voice carrying the weight of an honest warrior’s assessment. There was no denying the contribution the Heroes of Light had made during the fall of Lyrnessus.
Odysseus, sensing the moment was right, smoothly interjected. “Then it’s settled.” He glanced around the room, his words helping to ease the mounting tension. His timing, as always, was impeccable, lending support to Liphiel’s efforts to smooth things over.
Ajax, still simmering with anger, gave Jason one last glare before stepping back. Heracles placed a hand on Ajax’s shoulder, calming the towering warrior with his steady presence. Jason, still standing tall, nodded but said nothing further.
The meeting continued none of them unaware that outside an intruder was wandering in their camp…