A week had passed since the golden dragon descended from the heavens, leaving behind a trail of carnage and despair. The beast’s fury had consumed a dozen of Agamemnon’s prized ships, their charred remains now littering the once-proud waters of his fleet. The incident was etched into memory as the day Agamemnon’s wrath reached its zenith, his seething rage becoming the stuff of whispers among the Greeks. The war between the Greeks and Trojans, already a blazing inferno, now raged with an even more furious intensity.
Agamemnon’s fury was unmatched, a terrifying storm of rage that none dared to weather. His brother Menelaus, usually bold enough to counsel him, kept his distance, his lips pressed into a thin line as he observed the king’s volcanic temper from the shadows. Only the aged and wise Nestor, with his measured words, and the cunning Odysseus, ever the master of persuasion, could manage to approach him. Even so, their words fell on ears deafened by fury. Everyone else ensured they remained well out of the king’s reach, lest they bear the brunt of his ire.
The disappearance of Briseis was the breaking point, the final insult that shattered what little restraint Agamemnon had left. She was the jewel he had coveted, the woman he had intended to humiliate and ravage in front of Achilles to savor the warrior’s anguish. Her presence had been a source of his twisted fantasies, a symbol of his dominance. And now, she was gone, whisked away before his very eyes. The image of her retreating form, carried off by a dragon, burned itself into his mind, a fresh wound to his pride.
The sight was a humiliation too public to ignore. First Astynome, now Briseis—both stolen from him as if he were nothing more than a hapless child robbed of his toys. His ships, once symbols of his unassailable might, were reduced to smoldering wreckage. The Greeks whispered among themselves, some openly pitying their king despite his power. This, they said, was no longer warfare; it was mockery. Agamemnon, the king of kings, was being bullied.
Yet pity only fueled his resolve. Agamemnon’s fury hardened into an unrelenting determination, a fire that consumed reason and stoked vengeance. He channeled his wrath into rallying his men, transforming his humiliation into a rallying cry for destruction. The Trojans would pay with their blood. He would not rest until the mighty walls of Troy lay in ruins, its people slaughtered or enslaved, and its name reduced to ash in the annals of history.
He was convinced—utterly convinced—that the man responsible for his humiliation was among the Trojans. His rage, blinding and all-encompassing, demanded retribution. Yet even in his fury, Agamemnon remained a seasoned ruler. Thetis’s warnings about his calculated restraint were not unfounded. His wrath did not dull his instincts. He knew that his death would spell disaster for the Greek forces. Despite his wild proclamations and battle cries, he maintained a strategic distance from the front lines, barking orders with a ferocity that left no room for dissent.
Nathan, watching from the shadows, saw precisely what he had anticipated. The king’s anger, while potent, was not enough. As Thetis had predicted, Agamemnon’s fury, though a powerful weapon, lacked the recklessness needed to topple him entirely. The man was a beast driven by rage, but he was still a king—a ruler who understood that survival was the key to victory.
For now, Nathan waited, the gears of his plan turning silently. Agamemnon’s blind fury might not have been enough yet, but it was a start. The king’s wrath was a fire, and all Nathan needed was to find the right moment to fan it into an inferno.
“How are you holding up, brother?!” Castor called out, his voice ringing over the chaos of battle, a wicked grin plastered across his face. He swung his sword in a deadly arc, cutting down another Greek soldier as though it were a casual chore. “I’m on my hundredth kill already!” He laughed, his tone tinged with savage delight.
“You’re a bit late, brother,” Pollux replied coolly, his blade dripping with fresh blood as he dispatched yet another foe. “I’m on my hundred and fifteenth.” His voice carried a hint of impatience, as though his brother’s pace were an annoyance rather than a source of camaraderie.
“Come on, Pollux! Live a little! Enjoy it to the fullest!” Castor bellowed, reveling in the carnage.
Despite their banter, the two brothers were not to be taken lightly. Their strength was nothing short of terrifying, surpassing even that of Sarpedon and Aeneas, two of Troy’s mightiest warriors. But among the twins, Pollux was undeniably the stronger—a gift of his divine lineage as the son of Zeus himself.
“Look! It’s Castor and Pollux!” one of the Greek soldiers shouted, his voice trembling with disbelief.
“Traitors!” another bellowed, his words a mix of outrage and betrayal. “How dare they side with the Trojans against their own people!”
The Greeks were incensed. Castor and Pollux, renowned for their valor and heritage, had chosen to fight for Troy. To the Greeks, this was a betrayal of the highest order, a stain upon their honor.
“You can scream all you like, you filthy rats!” Castor jeered, his laughter ringing out even as he plunged his blade into another soldier. “We will never ally ourselves with that bastard king who murdered our niece, discarded our sister, and now seeks to kill the other!” His voice was as sharp as his sword, cutting through the Greeks’ morale as effectively as their bodies.
For the twins, their sisters were everything. Family was their only creed. With Clytemnestra and Helen both under the protection of Troy, their allegiance was clear. The Greeks, who threatened to destroy everyone within the city’s walls, had become their sworn enemies.
“You’ve fallen low, Castor! Pollux!” a booming voice rang out, heavy with fury.
The twins turned to see Menelaus, King of Sparta, standing before them. His face was a mask of rage, his eyes burning with betrayal and indignation.
“Oh?” Castor smirked, his tone dripping with mockery. “Isn’t this a pleasant surprise? Our sister’s ex-husband has decided to join us on the battlefield.”
“I am still her husband,” Menelaus snarled, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “And I will take her back. She’ll regret leaving me for the rest of her miserable life!”
“You think we’ll let you walk away alive after saying that?” Pollux growled, his voice cold and menacing.
Menelaus, unfazed, threw back his head and laughed, the sound laced with scorn. “Two brats trying to intimidate me? The King of Sparta?!”
“King?” Castor’s grin widened into a feral smile. “The only reason you wear that crown is because our father handed it to you when you married Helen. If not for that, the Spartans would be bowing to me or Pollux instead.”
“You?! Ruling Sparta?!” Menelaus snorted, his disdain palpable. “You couldn’t rule a flock of sheep, let alone warriors!”
With a roar, Menelaus lunged at Castor, his blade aimed to strike, but before he could close the distance, a whistling sound tore through the air.
An arrow, swift and precise, hurtled toward him. Menelaus reacted instinctively, throwing himself backward to avoid the projectile. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the battlefield, searching for the archer.
“They are not your opponents, Menelaus,” a calm, taunting voice declared.
Menelaus’s gaze snapped upward, and his expression twisted into one of unbridled fury as he spotted the source.
“PARIS!” he roared, his voice shaking with anger. His hands trembled as he gripped his sword tighter. “You cowardly bastard! Finally, you’ve crawled out from your hole!”
Paris’s expression was unusually serious as he stepped forward, his bow gripped tightly in his hand. The chaos of the battlefield seemed to dim around him, the clamor of swords and shields fading into the background. His voice rang out with determination.
“I am here to propose an end to this war, Menelaus,” he declared, his tone resolute.
“An end to the war, you say?” Menelaus repeated, a cold, bitter laugh escaping his lips. “The very war that began because you couldn’t keep your dick in check?” His gaze sharpened, his voice dripping with venom. “You stole my wife, you bastard, and now you think you can prance in here and talk about peace? No! I’ll end this war, Paris, but not through words. I’ll end it by taking your life in front of everyone! Including Helen!”
His eyes darted to the tall walls of Troy, where the figures of royals and other key Trojan figures stood watching. Among them, Helen’s silhouette was faintly visible.
“You see her, don’t you?” Menelaus sneered, his voice rising. “She’s watching, Paris! She’ll see me cut you down and know what happens to traitors and thieves!”
Paris ignored the mockery and venom, his gaze unflinching. “I propose a one-on-one fight,” he stated, his voice calm yet unyielding.
“What?” Menelaus growled, caught off guard.
“If I win,” Paris continued, his tone unwavering, “you will abandon Helen to me and leave Troy with all your Greeks.”
Menelaus’s laughter erupted once again, harsh and guttural. “And if I win?” he demanded, mockery lacing his words.
“If you win,” Paris said, locking eyes with him, “you may take Helen and my life. But in return, you will leave Troy untouched. You will take your armies and never return.”
The proposal sent a ripple of shock through the Trojan ranks. Hector, standing not far from Paris, stepped forward, his face contorted with fury.
“Paris! What are you saying?!” Hector barked. “You dare to plan such things without consulting us? Without even asking Helen what she wants?!”
Paris turned to his elder brother, his gaze filled with disdain. “You all treat me as useless, a burden,” he said bitterly. “Now that I’m taking action to end this war, you want me to stop? No, Hector. I will do this my way. I’ll defeat Menelaus and prove my worth.”
“You can’t beat him,” Aeneas said gravely, his tone laced with frustration and concern. “Menelaus is seasoned in battle, Paris. This isn’t the time for bravado.”
“Don’t speak to me like I’m a child!” Paris snapped, his pride stinging at the reprimand. “I am the Prince of Troy! I’ll show you all my strength!”
Casting aside his bow, Paris picked up a sword and shield from a fallen soldier. The weight of the weapons seemed unfamiliar in his hands, but his resolve was firm. He faced Menelaus, his posture rigid with defiance.
Menelaus’s lips curled into a wide, wolfish grin. This was better than he had hoped. A fight against the man who had humiliated him, here on the battlefield, in front of Troy’s walls. It was perfect. He would finally exact his vengeance, and there was no doubt in his mind that he would emerge victorious.
He turned to his brother, Agamemnon, seeking confirmation. Agamemnon met his gaze, his expression cold and calculating. With a small nod, he gave his approval.
But in Agamemnon’s heart, there was no intention of honoring the terms Paris had laid out. Whether Menelaus won or lost, Troy would burn. Its people would be slaughtered, and its riches plundered. The war was not about reclaiming Helen anymore—it was about domination, power, and revenge.
Menelaus stepped forward, his sword gleaming in the sunlight. “Very well, Paris. Let’s see if you’re worth anything more than the words you spew.”
The battlefield grew silent as the warriors formed a rough circle, all eyes fixed on the two men who now stood as symbols of the war’s stakes. Above, the figures on Troy’s walls watched with bated breath, the tension so thick it seemed to halt time itself.
This was no longer just a fight. It was a reckoning.