Nathan’s eyes darted back to the woman. Her hands were clenched tightly into fists at her sides, her knuckles white, and the rage in her eyes was almost palpable.
“I will never forgive him,” Clytemnestra said, her voice trembling with emotion. “That man—” She broke off, her shoulders shaking with suppressed anger. “He took everything from me. My freedom, my dignity, my happiness…my daughter.”
“Daughter.”
“Yes,” Hector replied, his voice tinged with disgust. “Agamemnon sacrificed his own daughter when the winds did not favor his voyage to Troy.” His expression twisted in revulsion, as if merely speaking the words left a foul taste in his mouth.
The thought was abhorrent—unthinkable. How could a man, even one consumed by ambition, offer his own child to the gods for the sake of war? Hector could scarcely fathom it. To him, this act alone stripped Agamemnon of any semblance of humanity. He was no longer a father, no longer a man, but a hollow shell consumed by obsession.
Agamemnon’s fixation on Troy had only grown since that horrific sacrifice. It had morphed into a grotesque duty: conquering Troy had become the only way to justify his daughter’s death, to assign some twisted sense of purpose to her senseless loss. Yet to Hector, it was nothing more than a madman chasing shadows, desperate to give meaning to his heinous choice.
“She was just a child…” Clytemnestra muttered, her voice trembling as she clenched her fists. Tears gathered in her anguished eyes, threatening to spill. “All that… for his stupid war.” Her words dripped with contempt, and her grief was palpable, each syllable a testament to the wound that could never heal.
“It’s all my fault, sister,” came a soft voice.
The room grew silent as Helen stepped forward. Her beauty, unmatched and renowned across the world, was marred by an expression of overwhelming guilt. She seemed smaller somehow, diminished by the weight of her shame. She had avoided her sister until now, too afraid to face her fury, too certain she would be cursed and disowned.
Instead, Clytemnestra shook her head, her gaze softening as she looked at Helen.
“I know you, Helen. You have always been responsible and cared for others. You would never have left Menelaus willingly, not under normal circumstances. Something happened—something beyond your control.” Her voice wavered, but her conviction was firm. “I am certain that bastard Paris did something to you…” Clytemnestra hesitated before turning to Hector. “I apologize for my words, Prince Hector.”
Hector shook his head solemnly, his expression shadowed. “My brother is at fault. There is nothing to deny.” His voice was steady, but the shame in his tone was evident.
Clytemnestra nodded, then returned her attention to her sister. She placed a hand on Helen’s shoulder, a faint smile breaking through her grief. “You are not to blame for Iphigenia’s death. That burden lies entirely with Agamemnon.”
“Sister…” Helen’s voice broke as tears streamed down her face. She threw her arms around Clytemnestra, clutching her tightly. The relief in her embrace was palpable, as though a massive weight had been lifted from her soul.
Nathan’s voice cut through the tender moment, his words cold and unyielding. “Your husband has caused more pain than any man has a right to. He is the lowest of scum.”
Clytemnestra turned to face him, her eyes narrowing.
“I’ve seen the Greek camp with my own eyes,” Nathan continued, his icy stare unwavering. “It mirrors Agamemnon’s soul—cruel, corrupt, and irredeemable. The Greek kings are nothing more than tyrants, and their men are their reflections. None of them deserve mercy.”
His tone was sharp, like the edge of a blade, and it sent a chill through the room. Clytemnestra shivered at the intensity of his words but found herself unable to refute them. She understood his meaning all too well.
“Do not expect me to defend Agamemnon,” she said, her voice low but steady. “There is no love left for that man in my heart. In truth, I wish for his death more than any Trojan could.” Her teeth clenched, and her hands balled into fists as she spoke, the raw venom in her words unmistakable.
“Good,” Nathan said, his voice cold as steel. “Because Agamemnon will die, and I won’t grant him an easy death.” Without another word, he turned and strode away, his movements precise and controlled, but his aura seething with barely contained fury.
The hatred Nathan harbored for Agamemnon was an ever-growing inferno, feeding on the atrocities committed by the Greek king. Each day, that fire burned brighter, consuming Nathan’s thoughts with vengeance.
The reasons for his enmity were as clear as they were horrifying. He had seen enough of Agamemnon’s vile nature to despise him utterly: sacrificing his own daughter to appease the gods, killing a desperate father who only sought to rescue his child, and attempting to violate that very daughter—a woman who now stood among Nathan’s most cherished women.
But it wasn’t just Agamemnon’s actions that stoked Nathan’s ire. The man reminded him far too much of someone he despised even more—his own father.
Agamemnon’s treatment of women as mere objects, his arrogance in claiming to be the strongest and most exalted man—every aspect of his character mirrored the figure Nathan loathed above all else. It was as if Agamemnon embodied the very shadow Nathan had hated his entire life.
“Who is he?” Clytemnestra finally asked, her voice tinged with curiosity and a hint of unease. The man’s presence was enigmatic, and she couldn’t help but wonder who he was and why he burned with such intensity.
“Heiron,” Aeneas replied with a smile. “A mercenary… and one of our strongest allies.”
Her eyes widened in shock as the realization struck her. “He is the one who killed Ajax?”
The name of Ajax’s killer had already spread across the Achaean continent like wildfire. It was whispered in taverns and shouted in war councils—the name of the mercenary Heiron was on every tongue, his deeds already taking on the air of legend.
“Yes,” Hector confirmed with a proud smile.
°°°°
Meanwhile, Nathan had left the castle, his feet carrying him toward the training grounds. There was someone he had yet to see—someone he had been eager to find.
The rhythmic clash of swords rang out through the air, sharp and relentless. The sound drew him closer until his gaze fell upon her: Penthesilea.
There she stood, a vision of raw power and grace. Her blond hair clung to her face, dampened with sweat, and her piercing eyes were fixed on her opponents. She moved like a storm, her sword flashing as she fought against a dozen of her Amazon warriors. Each strike was precise, each movement deliberate, her expression one of fierce determination.
Nathan watched her silently for a moment, his eyes tracing the lines of her form, the strength in her stance. She was utterly captivating, a warrior queen in her element.
But then, the Amazons noticed him. One by one, they stopped, their weapons lowering as their eyes turned toward the man who had approached. Penthesilea followed their gazes, and when her eyes met Nathan’s, her expression softened instantly.
She let her sword fall to the ground with a clatter and ran to him, closing the distance between them in an instant. Without a word, she threw her arms around him, holding him tightly as if afraid he might vanish. Her body trembled in his embrace, the strength of her earlier stance giving way to vulnerability.
Nathan returned her embrace, wrapping his arms around her securely. One hand rested gently on her head as he stroked her hair with a tenderness that stood in stark contrast to the icy anger he had displayed earlier.
The Amazons exchanged surprised glances, their Queen’s behavior a stark departure from her usual demeanor. She looked… soft. Feminine. Almost childlike in the way she clung to him.
And yet, as the initial surprise faded, smiles broke out among the warriors. Their Queen, their unyielding leader, had found someone who could bring out this side of her. It was a sight they hadn’t expected, but it filled them with a strange pride.
“Looks like she chose well,” one Amazon whispered with a grin, earning a chorus of nods and murmured agreement.
As Penthesilea clung to Nathan, the weight of the world seemed to lift from her shoulders, if only for a moment. In his arms, she could allow herself to be vulnerable, to let the warrior’s mask slip away. And for Nathan, in her embrace, the flames of his hatred dimmed.
Penthesilea had always carried a quiet but profound worry for Nathan. It was an emotion she hadn’t expected, and one she rarely allowed herself to dwell on. Yet, after what had happened on the battlefield, that worry had grown into something overwhelming.
She hadn’t been there when it happened. Positioned on another front of the battlefield, she was leading her Amazons in a relentless clash against the Menelaus and the Spartans. By the time she heard the news and saw him again, Nathan had already been struck down, his body teetering on the edge of death.
The sight of him—pale, bloodied, and barely clinging to life—shattered something inside her. She had seen men fall in battle before, comrades and enemies alike, but this was different. For the first time, fear gripped her so tightly she could hardly breathe. She had never felt this kind of terror for another person, never cared so deeply whether someone lived or died.
“I should have been there,” Penthesilea said, her voice trembling as her hands clenched into fists.
“No,” Nathan replied firmly, his voice steady despite his weakened state. “You have your own fights to fight. I don’t need you to cover me.”
Penthesilea shook her head, her jaw tightening. “But—”
“Don’t worry.” Nathan cut her off, his tone leaving no room for argument.
“I’m not going to die,” he continued, his voice softer now, but no less certain. “Not yet. I just need to hold on a little longer.”
Penthesilea searched his face, her heart aching at the sight of him pushing through his pain with sheer determination. She wanted to argue, to insist that he shouldn’t bear this alone, but the quiet confidence in his words stopped her.
Nathan’s eyes shifted, looking past her toward the distant horizon. Somewhere out there, the tides of war continued to churn, and his mind was already ahead, calculating and planning.
“Until Apollo comes back,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Then, finally, I can end this war.”