Several hundred meters from the towering gates of Troy, the grand, fortified city-empire, a brutal and unrelenting battle raged. The clash of metal on metal, agonized screams, and frenzied warrior cries filled the air, reaching even the innermost streets of Troy. At first, the thunderous noise had jarred the city’s inhabitants, cutting through their peace with violent clarity. But now, after two long, grueling months, the sounds of war had woven into the backdrop of their lives. The war, now entering its third month, seemed to grow more ferocious with each passing day, each dawn signaling a new escalation.
With sunrise came the renewal of this bitter struggle, a vicious cycle that persisted until the sun dipped beneath the horizon. Neither the Greeks nor the Trojans were mere mortals fighting with bare strength alone; each side was fortified by the blessings of their gods, granting them endurance and ferocity beyond ordinary human limits. This divine empowerment only served to make the conflict more relentless, the warriors battling as though in another realm, one where violence was the only law.
“Die, you filthy Greek!” a Trojan would snarl, sword raised high, while his Greek opponent would respond with equal venom, “I’ll kill you, damn Trojan!” The battlefield rang with guttural roars, screams of pain, and the heavy thud of bodies hitting the ground. Blood soaked the earth, staining it red and turning it into a ghastly scene unlike anything witnessed before. Even the heroes among them—men of near-mythic strength and skill—found themselves hardened by the brutality, forced to adapt to the unyielding cycle of life and death around them.
Both sides committed only fractions of their full armies, but still, thousands fought each day, locking the battlefield in a continuous dance of death. As each morning dawned, the fallen from the previous day were replaced by fresh soldiers, eager to continue the fight. The Trojans, stationed close to their city, could quickly replenish their ranks. For the Greeks, however, the daily march from their distant camp to the battlefield added to their hardship, a journey they took despite the looming threat of night raids by Trojan forces. At the break of dawn, the Greeks would gather their fallen, carrying them back to camp, and only when they had gone would the Trojans retrieve their own dead before cleaning the blood-soaked earth, preparing it for yet another day’s carnage.
For two agonizing months, this macabre ritual had repeated, a grim reminder that peace was nowhere on the horizon. Both sides fought with undiminished ferocity, neither willing to yield, and the bloodshed showed no sign of abating.
The Trojans fought with grim determination, defending their city from the invaders who encroached on their land, striving to protect their families and their way of life. Across the blood-soaked field, the Greeks wielded their swords and shields not only for honor or pride but to reclaim Helen, the fabled Queen of Sparta, and to avenge the bruised pride of Menelaus. But beneath this facade of noble cause lay something far more selfish, a truth as bitter as the battle itself.
Helen’s abduction was nothing more than a pretext. The Greek warriors fought for their own desires—glory, riches, and the plunder of Troy. The promises of wealth, fame, and women awaited them beyond Troy’s massive gates, and these lures drove them with relentless hunger. Each side harbored its own ambitions, and they clashed with an intensity born not only of loyalty but of personal lusts and dreams of power. Leading these forces were warriors of monstrous skill and brutality, fierce commanders who spurred the chaos to new, bloodier heights.
On a battlefield of this size, sprawling with more than ten thousand soldiers, encounters between commanders were scarce. Even if both sides’ leaders yearned to prove themselves by facing each other in combat, the field was simply too vast. Occasionally, a warrior of renown would emerge, sought after by lesser soldiers hoping to claim the glory of a champion’s head. These leaders, however, were primary targets, barely given a moment to catch their breath amid the hail of arrows and swinging blades.
“Die!” snarled a Trojan soldier, lunging forward with his sword, his face twisted in fierce determination.
“Siara!” Jason shouted, his voice straining as he blocked the Trojan’s blade with a practiced, powerful parry. He spun, only to see three more soldiers charging toward him, their expressions filled with bloodlust. In the two months of battle, the Trojans had taken careful note of the most dangerous individuals in the Greek ranks—those they must either kill or avoid. Jason Spencer, known as the Hero of Light, stood high on that list. Though he wasn’t as feared as the mighty Greek kings, he was nonetheless a force to be reckoned with.
“I’m on it!” Siara replied, her voice carrying over the chaos as she raised her staff. With a swift, practiced motion, she summoned two glistening shields of water, their translucent surfaces shimmering in the dim light, enveloping Jason protectively.
“What is this sorcery?!” one Trojan yelled, stumbling back in surprise, only to be met by the unexpected force of Siara’s magic. Jets of water sprang forth from the shields, fierce and precise, like serpents striking with deadly intent. The water pierced through armor and flesh, leaving a trail of fallen Trojans, their bodies slumping to the ground as Siara’s powers ruthlessly cut through them.
Once, Siara had shied away from the thought of killing. She had been hesitant, her heart heavy with the burden of taking lives. But a year had passed since she’d been summoned to this world, and these two brutal months in the heart of the Trojan War had stripped her of innocence. She now fought not only to survive but to protect her comrades. Resignation had settled over her heart, steeling her against the lingering traces of guilt. If her survival—and that of her friends—meant spilling blood, then she would do what was necessary.
“Gahahah! A bunch of ants!” Aidan’s laughter boomed across the battlefield, cutting through the clash of metal and the cries of the fallen. Not far from where Jason and Siara fought, Aidan tore through Trojan ranks like a madman, his massive sword cleaving through one soldier after another. Unlike Siara, Aidan had abandoned any hesitation about killing long ago. His eyes glinted with a feral rage, a thirst for blood fed by more than just the demands of war. The humiliation he’d suffered in Lyrnessus at the hands of its prince still burned within him, festering like a wound. Here, he sought retribution, eager to reclaim his pride by channeling his fury into the Trojans who dared to stand in his path.
But while Aidan’s wrath was fierce, others on the battlefield were even more devastating, warriors whose very presence sent chills down the spines of their enemies. Two women, in particular, carved a path of ruin among the Trojan ranks, wielding their power with a precision that struck terror into any who dared to approach.
One of them was a dark-haired figure, her jet-black hair tied in a swift ponytail that swayed behind her like a banner of death. Her movements were like lightning—swift, fluid, and deadly. She danced through the battlefield, her blade flashing in arcs that left trails of blood and severed limbs in her wake. Heads rolled, bodies fell, yet she never paused to witness the destruction she wrought. It was Sienna slicing down every enemy within her reach. Even the hardened Trojan soldiers, men who had fought through countless skirmishes, began to retreat from her, their courage faltering at the sight of her relentless slaughter. It was whispered among them that Sienna was favored by Athena herself, and her presence bore testament to that divine blessing. She was Athena’s chosen—her movements were precise, her strength unparalleled. Of all the Heroes of the Empire Light, Sienna stood as the strongest, a true embodiment of Athena’s wrath.
Not far from Sienna, another figure burned a path through the battlefield, her power equally fearsome but striking in a different way. This young woman, younger than Sienna and adorned with a mane of long chestnut hair, seemed wreathed in flames, her body glowing with a fiery aura that mirrored the burning intensity of her gaze. Courtney was her name, and her approach was not swift or silent like Sienna’s. Instead, she moved like an inferno, leaving destruction in her wake. Where Sienna was swift and lethal, Courtney was deliberate, her kills slower but far more merciless. Trojans fell to her flames, their bodies engulfed, screams ringing out as they were reduced to smoldering ash. Her presence was so dreadful that soldiers, hardened though they were, instinctively recoiled, purposefully avoiding her path. Some attempted magic, sending spells hurtling toward her, but their attacks vanished against the wall of fire that cloaked her. Courtney moved forward with cold eyes, her expression devoid of pity or remorse, a predator focused solely on her prey.
To her, this war was little more than training—a preparation for a far darker vengeance she longed to unleash. The Trojan War, with its endless bloodshed, was merely the first act in her own tale of retribution. Courtney’s purpose lay beyond the defeat of the Trojans. She was driven by a promise of vengeance, a desire to make the Divine Knights suffer as she had suffered. They had taken Nathan from her, killing him without mercy, and she was determined to make them pay. One day, she vowed, her flames would consume them, burning their flesh as they had burned her heart.
All of that because they had dared to take Nathan from her.