In stark contrast to the bustling life of the Trojan camps, the Greek encampment lay shrouded in an oppressive silence, a heavy gloom hanging over every corner. The air felt stifling, as though the loss they had suffered had stolen the very vitality from their souls. The once-proud warriors who filled the camp with laughter, shouts, and the clang of preparation now moved like shadows, burdened by grief.
Their most recent battle had dealt them a blow that many feared might be insurmountable. Heracles—one of their mightiest champions, a pillar of strength and honor—was no more. The weight of his death pressed down upon them like a boulder crushing fragile reeds.
But Heracles had been more than just a warrior. To his comrades, he was a beacon of hope, an embodiment of everything noble in their cause. His courage was unparalleled, his kindness boundless, and his sense of honor unshakable. He had fought not just with unparalleled strength but also with an unyielding sense of justice. His death had torn a gaping hole in the hearts of those who had fought beside him, those who had shared in his laughter and sought his wisdom.
Many of the soldiers, hardened by years of bloodshed and death, now found their eyes stinging with tears they thought long buried. They whispered prayers of gratitude, at least finding solace in one thing—Heracles had not been abandoned in his final moments. He had been carried away by the gods themselves, a sight both wondrous and heartbreaking.
Yet, even the knowledge of his divine ascension could not fill the void he left behind. His absence was a wound that would not heal, a constant reminder of the toll this war exacted on them.
Heracles had fallen to a single man, a name now spoken in hushed and fearful tones throughout the camp: Heiron.
Heiron. The name was a curse on the lips of the Greeks, carrying the weight of despair and fury. He was the shadow that loomed over their once-great warriors, the man who had slain Ajax, Jason, and now Heracles. His growing legend was one of terror—a phantom that haunted their dreams, his promises of doom resonating like a death knell.
He had cursed Agamemnon himself, vowing the most horrifying deaths to all Greeks, and his words had taken root in their minds like a dark prophecy. Though they would never admit it aloud, many of the warriors harbored a secret fear of Heiron, this man who dared to challenge not only mortal armies but even the gods themselves. Heiron, who fought for the Trojans, seemed to defy all reason, his presence a stark contradiction to the natural order.
They wondered with trepidation, Who is this man? Where did he come from?
But one thing was indisputable: their king, Agamemnon, hated Heiron with a fervor that surpassed even his infamous disdain for Achilles—a feat no one had thought possible.
Agamemnon’s hatred burned with the intensity of a wildfire, consuming everything in its path.
Inside the Greek commander’s tent, the atmosphere was tense. The space, once filled with the voices of their leaders debating strategies and victories, now felt desolate.
Ajax. Jason. Diomedes. Heracles. Their names echoed like ghosts, a painful reminder of the seats now empty.
Standing behind Agamemnon, Nestor sighed deeply, his weathered face etched with exhaustion and grief. The veteran warrior’s voice was low and heavy as he broke the silence.
“This war is taking far more than we ever anticipated…”
Odysseus nodded grimly.
“We must acknowledge a bitter truth—we underestimated the Trojans. Gravely so.”
Next to him, Chiron—the wise centaur—stood in stoic silence, his ageless eyes filled with sorrow as he rested a hand on Asclepius’ shoulder. The healer, though young, bore the burden of countless lives slipping through his fingers, and his face betrayed the weariness of a man carrying the weight of an army’s pain.
Menelaus, arms crossed, leaned against a table covered with maps and battle plans. His face was clouded with frustration and anger, his thoughts consumed by the biting words Nathan had hurled at him during their last encounter.
But before anyone could respond, Agamemnon erupted. His voice was a thunderclap, shaking the very ground beneath their feet as he slammed his fist against the table.
“I don’t care about your excuses!” he roared, his face contorted with fury. His anger burned brighter than ever, his words like molten steel. “I want that Trojan dog DEAD!”
The others exchanged uneasy glances. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind who Agamemnon meant—Heiron.
His hatred for the man had transcended all reason, becoming an obsession that threatened to consume him.
“I may be able to assist you, King Agamemnon.”
The voice came suddenly, soft and sweet like honey dripping from the comb, yet it carried an edge of authority that commanded immediate attention. The men turned sharply toward the entrance of the tent as a figure stepped inside.
The light from the campfires outside illuminated her striking form. Her light blue hair, flowing like liquid moonlight, framed a face that was both ethereal and commanding. Her eyes, glowing faintly with a divine radiance, swept over the gathered men with an almost disarming serenity.
It was her—Liphiel, a Divine Knight of the Light Empire.
A murmur passed through the tent as the warriors exchanged glances. They all recognized her, though her presence had been something of a mystery throughout the war. Despite the ongoing battles, she and her Heroes had remained curiously silent, refraining from participating directly. Those who speculated knew this silence could only have been at Liphiel’s order, though none dared question her motives openly. But now, at last, she had chosen to step forward.
“What do you want, woman?” Menelaus growled, his voice low and hostile. His arms crossed tightly, and his glare could have melted stone.
Liphiel, unperturbed, smiled faintly, her expression calm and unshaken. “I have come to offer you a way to kill this Heiron,” she said simply, her words flowing like silk.
Menelaus snorted, his laugh dripping with derision. “And how, pray tell? Will you deign to do it yourself?”
Her smile widened, a gleam of amusement flickering in her luminous eyes. “No, not me,” she said, shaking her head with an almost playful air. “But my strongest Hero will.”
The mention of her Hero piqued the interest of the men in the room. Odysseus, ever the thinker, leaned forward slightly, his sharp gaze locking onto her. “Your strongest Hero?” he repeated, his tone carrying a mix of curiosity and skepticism.
“Yes,” Liphiel replied, her voice brimming with confidence. “Her name is Sienna. She is the mightiest Hero of the Light Empire. Blessed directly by Athena herself since the day she appeared in this world. She is one of Athena’s favorites, her chosen champion. There is no way she will lose.”
The name struck a chord, especially with Odysseus. He remembered her vividly—Sienna, a name spoken in hushed tones among the Heroes. Alongside another notable figure, a woman named Courtney, Sienna had stood out as a figure of immense potential. But Sienna was in a league of her own. Her reputation as the strongest Hero had preceded her, yet her absence from the frontlines had been puzzling to many.
Odysseus narrowed his eyes. “Sienna, you say…” His voice trailed off as he pieced together the puzzle. The realization struck him like a lightning bolt. Of course. Liphiel had held her back deliberately, keeping her as a secret weapon, waiting for the perfect moment to unleash her might. And now, with the Greeks at their most desperate, that moment had arrived.
Liphiel’s smile deepened, the corners of her lips curling into a smirk. Her radiant presence seemed to grow, filling the tent with an almost suffocating sense of inevitability. “Together,” she said, her tone laced with conviction, “we will kill one of Troy’s leaders. And after Heiron falls, Hector will be next. With their champions gone, Troy will crumble like sand beneath the waves.”
°°°°°
While Liphiel conferred with Agamemnon in the war council’s tent, Patroclus made his way to Khillea’s quarters, his steps heavy with despair. His heart felt as though it had been wrenched from his chest, each beat a painful reminder of the tragedy that had befallen their camp.
The tent loomed before him, encased in an ethereal glow from the divine barrier that only he and Thetis, Khillea’s mother, were permitted to cross. As he stepped inside, the somber air seemed to dissolve for a moment, replaced by an almost surreal sense of calm.
The scene within was unlike the war-torn world outside. Khillea lay on a luxurious bed adorned with golden threads and silken fabrics that shimmered in the dim light. Her radiant beauty was undiminished, her smile serene as she hummed a soft melody. One hand gently rested on her swollen belly, which had grown significantly with her unborn child. She looked every bit the picture of divine grace, yet the contrast between her tranquility and the grief that burned within Patroclus was unbearable.
His fists clenched as he took in the sight, his heart aching with a mix of anger and sorrow.
“Heracles is dead, Khillea,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion. “You must know that… or have you already forgotten?”
Khillea turned her gaze toward him, her calm demeanor unshaken. Her eyes, luminous and deep, studied him for a moment before she let out a soft sigh.
“A pity, yes,” she said finally, her voice as smooth as the melody she had been singing. “But Heracles was a warrior. He chose his own death. What do you expect me to do about it?”
Patroclus’s breath caught in his throat. The casual indifference in her tone cut through him like a blade.
“So many Greeks are dying, suffering—and yet you feel nothing?” he asked, his voice cracking under the weight of his anguish. Tears welled in his eyes as he thought of the countless comrades he had tried, and failed, to save. Their pain and his own guilt had become an unbearable burden.
Khillea’s expression remained unmoved, her gaze sharp. “Why should I?” she asked coolly. “None of them came to my defense when Agamemnon dishonored me. They abandoned me when I needed them most. I owe them nothing. As far as I’m concerned, unless Agamemnon crawls here on his knees to beg for my help, I have no reason to care.”
Her words stung, but Patroclus knew there was truth in them. He lowered his gaze, unable to meet her piercing eyes.
Khillea sighed softly, her cousin’s sorrow tugging at the edges of her heart. Rising carefully from her bed, she approached him, each movement deliberate and graceful despite her condition. Her hand reached up to cup his face, her touch surprisingly gentle.
“Listen to me, Patroclus,” she said, her voice softer now. “I will be leaving soon, to my mother’s divine dimension. The time has come—I will give birth soon, in the next weeks, and I cannot do so here. My mother’s care is necessary for this moment. It might take a week or more.”
Patroclus’s shoulders slumped further, though he nodded faintly. “I see… Be careful,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
A faint smile graced Khillea’s lips, a rare warmth softening her features. “Thank you, cousin.” She stepped back slightly, her tone growing firm again. “While I am gone, I want you to take care of the Myrmidons in my absence. Protect them, guide them—but listen well, Patroclus. You are not to take part in the fighting. Do you understand me?”
Her piercing gaze bore into him, leaving no room for argument.
“I… won’t,” he said hesitantly, though his voice carried a hint of uncertainty.
“Good,” Khillea said, her smile returning, this time tinged with a maternal glow. She placed a hand over her belly, her voice softening. “When my child is born, I want her uncle to be there to hold her. She will need her family, just as I need you now.”