Then, suddenly, her focus shifted. Thetis’s divine senses sharpened, her attention drawn inexplicably to Khillea. More specifically, her gaze fell upon her daughter’s abdomen, as if something there demanded her immediate attention.
Her eyes widened in shock, and she took an involuntary step closer, her hand flying to her mouth. “I… Impossible!!”
Khillea’s brows furrowed as she observed the unusual expression on her mother’s face. It was a rare sight—Thetis, the steadfast, unshakable sea goddess, looking truly unsettled.
“Mother, what is it?” Khillea asked, her voice steady but tinged with concern.
Thetis stepped closer without answering, her gaze softening as she raised a hand to her daughter’s stomach. The cool touch of her palm rested there briefly before her eyes fluttered shut. A serene silence fell between them, broken only by the faint whisper of the wind outside. Seconds passed, each feeling stretched and heavy with unspoken anticipation.
When Thetis opened her eyes, they were wide with disbelief.
“Khillea…” her voice quivered, laden with an emotion she rarely allowed herself to show.
Khillea tilted her head, confusion deepening. “Yes, Mother?”
Thetis hesitated, her lips parting as though the words themselves were too impossible to utter. Finally, she said, “You are… pregnant.”
The revelation struck Khillea like lightning. Her body stiffened as her mind faltered, grasping for comprehension.
“What?” she whispered, her voice nearly inaudible as the world seemed to tilt around her.
Patroclus, standing nearby, froze mid-step. His expression mirrored hers—stunned, disbelieving, and overwhelmed. “How… how can that be, Mother?” he asked, his voice low yet urgent.
To Thetis, Patroclus was like a son. She had raised him alongside Khillea, binding their fates so closely that they often felt more like siblings than cousins. His distress mirrored her own.
“I don’t know,” Thetis admitted, shaking her head as if trying to dispel the impossibility of it all. “It shouldn’t be possible.” She paused, her gaze distant as she delved into memories. “Gaia herself foretold it. The best seers have always agreed—if Khillea were to set foot on Trojan soil, she would achieve great glory. But she would die there… and without bearing children. It was inevitable, or so I thought.”
Her voice grew softer, almost a whisper. “Every vision confirmed it. Even the gods I consulted were certain.” Her hand slipped away from Khillea’s stomach as she took a step back, grappling with a truth that defied divine foresight.
“I am… pregnant,” Khillea murmured, her words unsteady as she tried to process them. Her hand slowly rose to her abdomen, her fingers trembling as they brushed against the fabric of her tunic. She felt no difference, yet her heart knew the truth.
Tears began to pool in her eyes, spilling over before she could fully understand why. Confusion flickered across her face, a contradiction of emotions—shock, disbelief, and something deeper, something warm and achingly fragile.
Her lips quivered as they curved into a smile. It was small at first, hesitant, but it grew, radiant and genuine, illuminating her features with a rare softness. She glanced at her mother, her tears glistening like dew in the morning sun.
“I… I’m going to have a baby. Is that true, Mother?”
Thetis’s breath hitched. For a moment, she saw not the hardened warrior her daughter had become, but the girl she had raised, the one who had always dreamed of a future she believed was forever out of reach.
“Yes,” Thetis whispered, her own eyes glistening. She reached out to cradle Khillea’s face, her thumb brushing away a stray tear. “Yes, my child. You are going to have a baby.”
Khillea let out a shaky laugh, her hand never leaving her stomach. A tender joy began to unfurl within her, soft and unfamiliar.
Thetis watched her daughter, her heart swelling with affection and bittersweet pride. She had always known what Khillea had sacrificed to come to Troy. To see her now, with tears of joy streaming down her face, was nothing short of a miracle.
She didn’t understand how this had come to pass. Perhaps it was the work of the Fates, weaving a thread of kindness into Khillea’s tragic destiny. Perhaps the gods, moved by her daughter’s courage and suffering, had granted her this gift.
Whatever the reason, Thetis didn’t care.
It was a miracle—a fleeting, precious blessing in the shadow of inevitable loss. She would cherish it for as long as the gods allowed.
Thetis enveloped her daughter in a warm embrace, her arms trembling with both joy and relief.
“It’s wonderful news, Khillea,” a gentle voice broke the tender silence. Briseis stepped forward, her expression radiant with genuine happiness. “I give you my congratulations.”
Khillea turned toward her cousin, her grin widening. Two months ago, when she had spoken so persistently about her dream of bearing a child, Briseis had doubted her, thinking it a futile hope amidst the chaos of war. And yet, here they were.
“I told you it could happen,” Khillea said, her voice filled with a mixture of triumph and uncontainable joy.
Briseis returned the grin, shaking her head in disbelief but sharing in her cousin’s happiness.
Khillea’s thoughts drifted for a moment, her hand resting protectively on her stomach. The life growing within her was more than a miracle—it was a legacy. After death, she would leave behind more than just glory. She would leave a part of herself, her blood, someone who would carry her story into the future.
But Thetis’s voice shattered the moment of celebration with a seriousness that froze the air.
“Khillea,” she said, stepping forward and gripping her daughter by the shoulders. Her sea-blue eyes, fierce and unyielding, locked onto Khillea’s with a depth of urgency. “Do you understand what this means? You’re pregnant. If you truly want this child—if you truly want to protect it—then you must stop this madness. Leave Troy. Forget this war. Leave now.”
Thetis’s words were a plea wrapped in the command of a goddess. She had spent years trying to dissuade Khillea from her fate, from the path that would lead to her glory and death. But now, at last, she had found the leverage she needed. If not for herself, then surely Khillea would fight to live for the child growing within her.
Thetis’s gaze softened momentarily, her hands trembling as she held her daughter. “I don’t want to lose you, Khillea. Please.”
Khillea’s heart was torn. Her mother’s words struck deeply, and the weight of her responsibility settled over her like a shroud. She wanted to fight, to prove herself, to etch her name into the annals of history alongside the greatest heroes. And yet, the thought of abandoning her child, of leaving nothing behind but a hollow memory…
Her internal battle raged, her decision hanging in the balance, until a voice abruptly cut through her thoughts.
“Khillea,” Patroclus said, his tone edged with urgency, “Odysseus is waiting outside.”
Khillea blinked, her internal turmoil momentarily shelved. She took a deep breath, straightening her posture and donning the mantle of Achilles once more.
“I see,” she said, her voice cool and composed.
Thetis sighed heavily, recognizing the shift in her daughter. Reluctantly, she raised a hand, dispelling the barrier that cloaked them from view. Her divine presence receded like a tide retreating from the shore, vanishing into the shadows. She stepped back, knowing that her appearance would only draw unwanted attention among mortals.
Khillea strode confidently out of the tent, her golden armor catching the sun’s light as she emerged. Her piercing gaze swept over the scene before her. The Greek kings had gathered, their faces tense with unspoken purpose. Around them, her loyal Myrmidons stood guard, their stances wary and prepared.
Agamemnon’s cold stare bored into her, his face unreadable but his intentions clear. Khillea’s lips twitched into a smile, her mood seemingly unshaken by the growing tension. It was almost as though she relished the scene, her radiant confidence a pointed contrast to Agamemnon’s simmering resentment.
Behind her, Briseis lingered at the edge of the tent’s shadow. When she felt Agamemnon’s piercing gaze sweep toward her, she shrank instinctively, taking refuge behind Patroclus.
Odysseus, standing at the forefront, hesitated as his gaze met Khillea’s. Her expression was uncharacteristically light, almost jubilant, as though she had already won some secret victory. He swallowed hard, his throat dry. He truly admired Khillea—Achilles, as he knew her. To him, she was like the younger sibling he had never had, and the thought of disappointing or angering her was something he wanted to avoid at all costs.
But duty weighed heavily on his shoulders.
“Odysseus,” Khillea asked again feeling something bad. “What do you want?”
Before he could answer, Menelaus, standing just behind him, stepped forward.
“Odysseus, are you going to say it, or shall I?” Menelaus growled.
For Menelaus, the war was simple: reclaim Helen at all costs. She was his wife, his possession, and her abduction by Paris had been the spark to ignite this brutal conflict. To achieve victory over the Trojans, the Greeks needed unity, and that required Agamemnon, his elder brother, to be in peak form. But Agamemnon’s current state was anything but stable.
When Odysseus approached Menelaus and the other Greek kings for support in convincing Achilles, Menelaus had not hesitated. Whatever was needed to restore Agamemnon’s pride and ensure their campaign continued was worth it.
Odysseus, however, stood conflicted. His fists clenched at his sides, his gaze dropping momentarily to the ground. Among all the Greek leaders, he was the closest to Achilles, the one who might temper the warrior’s infamous temper. He bore this responsibility with the weight of a thousand shields.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low but clear.
“Agamemnon wants Briseis.”
The moment the words left Odysseus’s mouth, the air itself seemed to shift. Khillea—Achilles—narrowed her eyes, and a palpable wave of murderous intent exploded from her.
It was as if a storm had descended upon the Greek encampment. The soldiers standing behind the assembled kings recoiled, many gripping their weapons tightly or falling to their knees, unable to withstand the suffocating aura of rage. Even the Greek leaders themselves—Odysseus, Menelaus, Ajax, Diomedes, and Heracles—felt the oppressive weight, though they managed to remain standing.
Odysseus pressed on, his voice strained under the pressure.
“It’s Agamemnon’s condition to continue the war,” he explained, forcing the words out. “He claims he deserves a new prize after his own was taken—”
“I don’t care what he deserves,” Khillea spat, her voice sharp as a blade. Her eyes burned with fury as she stepped forward, her hand dangerously close to the hilt of her sword. “I’ve done a hundred times more for this army than he has, and I haven’t even given my all. Briseis is mine.”
“Achilles,” Odysseus implored, his tone softer now, almost pleading. “If you don’t give Briseis to him, Agamemnon will refuse to lead the army. Without him, we’ll lose the Greeks’ morale. We’ll have no choice but to retreat, and we both know the seas are unforgiving. To return as failures… the gods will never forgive us.”
Khillea’s expression darkened further. “The gods?” she echoed, her voice dripping with disdain. “This war was Agamemnon’s doing. His arrogance lit the spark. And now he dares to demand more from me?”
Ajax stepped forward, his massive frame radiating authority. “It’s just a woman, Achilles,” he said bluntly. “You’ll have your pick of the finest once we breach Troy.”
Khillea’s lip curled in disgust. “I said no.”
Diomedes frowned, his brow furrowing as he addressed her. “Are you truly willing to sacrifice the entire Greek campaign for a single Trojan woman? We’ve all agreed. This is bigger than you.”
Khillea clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. She could scarcely believe they had stooped to this—manipulating her with the fate of the Greeks.
Then, Agamemnon himself stepped forward, his gaze cold and unfeeling. His voice cut through the tense air like a knife.
“You should listen to them, Achilles. Give her up.”
That was the breaking point.
“You!” Khillea roared, her hand darting to her sword, her intent unmistakable—to end this insult of a king once and for all.
But before her blade could leave its sheath, she felt an invisible force grasp her hand. Her entire body tensed, and her eyes darted to the side. No one else could see her, but Khillea knew exactly who it was.
Athena.
Her voice didn’t come in words but in an overwhelming sense of presence, a calming weight against Khillea’s fury. The goddess who had silently supported her through countless battles now demanded restraint.
Khillea’s hand trembled as her mind waged war against itself. Her lips tightened until she could taste blood, but slowly, she released the hilt of her sword.
She turned her gaze back to Agamemnon, her eyes blazing with unspoken defiance.
“If you take Briseis,” she said, her voice unwavering and cold, “I will leave this war. I swear it on Zeus himself.”
Her declaration rippled through the camp like a thunderclap. The assembled Greeks froze, their faces etched with disbelief. Without Achilles, they would lose the Myrmidons—the most fearsome soldiers in the war.
Agamemnon, however, remained unmoved. He met her gaze with icy arrogance and spoke a single word.
“Take her.”
A soldier stepped forward, striding toward Briseis. She recoiled in fear, her eyes darting desperately to Khillea and Patroclus. But neither moved. Patroclus stood rigid, his face a mask of anguish, while Khillea glared daggers at Agamemnon, her body trembling with barely restrained rage.
The soldier grasped Briseis’s arm, pulling her roughly away. She thrashed, her voice trembling as she cried, “Leave me! Let me go!” But her struggles were futile.
Khillea stood motionless, her fists clenched, her heart pounding with the fury she could no longer unleash. As Briseis’s cries faded into the distance, she turned on her heel and stalked back into her tent. Patroclus followed silently, his face pale.
That day, Khillea—Achilles—abandoned the Trojan War.