Without a word, Khillea released her grip on Penthesilea, letting the Amazon queen crumple to the ground. Penthesilea gasped for breath, her body trembling from the aftershock of narrowly escaping death. But Khillea’s attention was no longer on her.
It was on Paris.
In a blur of motion, Khillea surged forward, her flaming sword leaving trails of light in its wake carving arcs of brilliance through the air as she advanced on her prey. Paris’s instincts screamed at him to flee, and he obeyed without hesitation, turning on his heel and sprinting away.
“Stop her!” he barked over his shoulder, his voice tinged with desperation as he waved at the Trojans. The soldiers, loyal more to his title than the man himself, hesitated for only a fraction of a second before charging toward the oncoming storm.
It was a futile effort.
Khillea’s sword met the first soldier with an explosion of heat and light, cleaving through his shield as though it were made of parchment. The man barely had time to scream before he crumpled, his body consumed by the flames that danced along her blade. Another soldier lunged at her, his spear aimed for her heart, but she sidestepped effortlessly, bringing her sword down in a blazing arc that split him from shoulder to hip. The stench of burning flesh filled the air as Khillea continued her relentless advance.
Paris ran, his lungs burning as he pushed his body to its limits. He could hear the screams of the Trojans men behind him, each one cut short by the ferocious warrior he had unleashed. Fear clawed at his chest, but he shoved it aside, focusing instead on survival.
“Coward,” Khillea snarled, her voice cutting through the chaos like a whip. “Is this you killed Patroclus? Running away and killing him from behind?”
Paris gritted his teeth, her words stoking the embers of his pride. He hated her. Hated her for making him feel weak. Hated her for turning his carefully constructed image of divinity into a pathetic farce.
“Stop her!” Paris spat again. “Delay her! Kill her if you can!”
The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, but their loyalty bound them to obedience. They formed a line, shields raised, spears leveled, their resolve wavering only slightly as Khillea’s fiery silhouette appeared at the mouth of the alley.
She didn’t hesitate.
Khillea’s first swing shattered the nearest shield, the force of the impact sending its wielder crashing into the wall of Trojans waiting behind. Her second strike carved through two more soldiers in a single motion, their bodies reduced to ash before they hit the ground. The remaining men broke ranks, panic overtaking discipline as they scrambled to escape the inferno that was Khillea.
Paris didn’t wait to see the outcome. He darted out. He needed an escape, a way to put distance between himself and the vengeful warrior.
But eventually Paris reached a wall of greeks warriors, spartans glaring at him.
“No… no, no, no…” he muttered, spinning around. His hand went to the hilt of his sword, a dark blade that seemed to pulse with an unnatural energy. He drew it, the weapon’s black magic swirling around him like a living thing. The place darkened, shadows stretching and writhing as though alive, responding to the blade’s malevolent aura.
Khillea quickly arrived, her movements unhurried. She stalked toward him like a lioness closing in on a wounded gazelle, her flaming sword casting eerie shadows across the ground. The heat emanating from her was oppressive, and Paris could feel sweat dripping down his face as she approached.
“You are no worthy of your title as prince.” Khillea said coldly.
Paris straightened, forcing confidence into his posture as he raised his sword. “Do you know who you’re dealing with, woman?!” he sneered. “I am Paris of Troy! A son of the gods! You are nothing but a mortal playing with fire!!!”
Khillea’s lips curled into a humorless smile. “And you,” she said, “are a coward hiding behind your divine parentage. Let’s see how much of a god you truly are.”
“AHHHH!!” With a roar, Paris lunged at her, his black blade cutting through the air with a sinister hiss. The dark magic surrounding it surged forward, tendrils of shadow lashing out like serpents. Khillea met his attack head-on, her flaming sword colliding with his in a burst of light and darkness. The impact sent a shockwave rippling through the field, cracks spiderwebbing across the ground.
Paris pressed the attack, swinging his sword in wide arcs that left trails of shadow in their wake. Khillea parried each strike with precision, her movements fluid and fast. Their blades clashed again and again, the opposing forces of fire and shadow battling for dominance. The air grew heavy with heat and darkness, the clash of their magic creating an oppressive, almost suffocating atmosphere.
“Is this all you have?” Khillea taunted, her voice cutting through the chaos. “You call yourself a god, yet you fight like a frightened child.”
Paris’s eyes blazed with fury. “You dare mock me?!!” he spat. “I will show you the power of a son of Troy!”
He channeled more of his dark magic into his blade, the shadows thickening and twisting into grotesque forms. They lunged at Khillea like living creatures, snapping and clawing at her with vicious intent. But she stood her ground, her fiery aura burning away the shadows before they could reach her. With a powerful swing of her sword, she unleashed a wave of flame that consumed the dark tendrils, forcing Paris to stumble back.
“Enough!” he shouted, desperation creeping into his voice. He charged at her again, his movements wild and reckless as he poured everything into his attack. Khillea met him with unrelenting force, her sword blazing brighter than ever as she struck. Their blades collided one final time, the impact sending a shockwave that shook the air around.
Paris’s sword shattered under the force of her strike, the black magic dissipating into nothingness. He staggered backward, his eyes wide with disbelief as he stared at the broken hilt in his hand. Khillea advanced on him, her expression cold and merciless.
“I will make you suffer and send you to the deepest hell.” Khillea said taking a step forward.
“No… no… No… No!!” Paris stumbled backward, his trembling hands releasing the grip on his sword. His wide eyes were filled with disbelief as his voice cracked under the weight of panic. “H-How!? This… this is impossible! I AM THE STRONGEST!”
Despite his words, the so-called Prince of Troy scrambled desperately across the dirt, clawing at the ground in a feeble attempt to escape. His once-proud demeanor had shattered entirely.
Khillea stood over him, her shadow casting a menacing shroud upon the fallen warrior. Her sharp gaze bore into him, searing with unrelenting rage. Her mind churned with disbelief. This man—this sniveling, groveling coward—was the one who had taken Patroclus from her? The thought churned her stomach, fueling her fury.
Unforgivable.
Her heart clenched at the memory of Patroclus, his smile, his steadfast presence, his promises. He was supposed to stay alive, to raise her daughter. Now, he was gone—stolen from her by this pitiful excuse of a warrior.
Khillea’s hand trembled, her knuckles white from the unrestrained grip on her sword. Anger radiated from her in waves as she lifted the blade high, her intent clear. This was no longer a duel but an execution—a reckoning.
“No! Stop! No!! You can’t do this to me!” Paris wailed, his voice cracking as he raised his arms in a pitiful gesture of surrender. “I was chosen by the gods! THE GODS!!”
But Khillea didn’t care. The weight of his pleas meant nothing to her. Her eyes, burning with a cold fury, remained fixed on him. Slowly, she lowered her sword, aiming for his heart.
Before the blow could land— BADOOOOM!
A thunderous explosion rang out, and the clash of steel sent shockwaves through the air. The sheer force of it sent dust spiraling around them in a chaotic frenzy. Khillea’s blade had been stopped, deflected by another.
Her gaze shot upward, locking onto the towering figure that had appeared before her.
He stood there like a statue of war itself. Blond hair shimmered under the dim light, framing a face weathered by battle and responsibility. His muscular form, scarred yet regal, exuded an air of divine strength. Unlike the coward at her feet, this man’s presence was commanding, princely. His stern eyes held a glint of determination that seemed unshakable.
Hector had arrived.
“Brother! BROTHER! PLEASE SAVE ME!!” Paris’s wretched cries shifted instantly into elation, a desperate grin spreading across his face as he struggled to his feet. He clung to the faint hope that his older brother, the champion of Troy, would shield him from death.
But Hector’s gaze wasn’t on Paris. It was fixed solely on Khillea.
“Finally, we meet, Achilles… or should I call you by your true name?” Hector’s voice was deep, calm, yet edged with the weight of both expectation and regret.
“Move,” Khillea ordered coldly, her voice sharp as a blade. She had no interest in engaging him—not yet. Her target was Paris, and nothing would stand in her way.
“I can’t.” Hector’s tone was firm, unwavering.
Her grip tightened on her weapon. “I will deal with you after I’ve killed Paris. Move.” Her words came out even colder, laced with the promise of violence. She stepped forward, attempting to push past him, but Hector stood his ground, unyielding.
“If you wish to take his life,” Hector said evenly, his gaze hardening as he raised his sword, “you will have to go through me first.”
Khillea’s jaw clenched, her teeth grinding audibly. The fire in her chest burned hotter, her patience wearing thin. This was not a fight she wanted, not now. Yet, Hector’s calm defiance only stoked the flames of her wrath further.
He regarded her with a tired, almost resigned smile. “Let us end this, Achilles.”