THEMYSCIRA
The midday sun burned in a pale blue sky, casting long, jagged shadows over the dense jungle canopy of Themyscira. The air was thick with humidity and the stench of sweat, blood, and churned earth. Screams echoed through the narrow valleys, mingling with the clash of steel and the whistle of arrows.
The Amazons had struck first—an ambush swift and merciless. From the dense undergrowth and shadowed cliffs, they had surged forth, bronze armor gleaming dully beneath coats of blood and dust. Their spears flashed like fangs, and their shields, etched with the emblems of Artemis and Athena, shone momentarily before being spattered with gore.
But the Athenians had not broken.
They had expected this.
Ranks of mortal soldiers—clad in iron plate and plumed helmets, their round shields emblazoned with the owl of their city—rallied quickly. With gritted teeth and hoarse war cries, they pushed back.
Yet this land was not theirs.
The Amazons had walked its jungle paths and mountain passes for centuries. They knew its every root, every slope, every rock capable of tripping an unwary foot. They struck like wraiths—fast, coordinated, merciless.
Even so, the battle was turning
A great figure moved across the battlefield like a tempest. Towering, broad-shouldered, and clad in lion-hide and battered bronze, he swung a colossal wooden club
Heracles.
With each swing, Amazons were flung like broken dolls—limbs bent at unnatural angles, bones shattering beneath the force. He roared as he fought, Blood clung to his face, streaking his beard, and his eyes blazed with primal rage.
Far behind, where the hillside sloped into flattened plains scorched by prior skirmishes, massive Athenian siege engines stood ready. The wood of the catapults groaned under tension. Soldiers replaced the fallen slaves who had once manned them, their faces pale beneath their helms, many clutching blood-slicked swords stolen from the dead.
At the head of their ranks stood Achilleous—his bronze cuirass darkened by soot, sword sheathed for now. He stood calm, but his eyes shimmered with barely restrained fury. His lips, set in a hard line, trembled ever so slightly. Beneath his armor, his fists clenched and unclenched—anger, grief, and guilt warring inside him.
He raised a hand slowly toward the battlefield.
"Fire," he said coldly.
The catapults bucked as they unleashed their payloads—massive flaming boulders howling through the sky like falling stars.
The Battlefield
Screams of warning rose too late.
Amazons and Athenians alike looked skyward, just in time to see the flaming stones descending.
"FALL BACK! FIND COVER!" came the frantic cries of Athenian officers.
But it was too late.
The boulders struck with devastating force—crushing bodies, shattering the earth. A column of Amazon warriors was reduced to paste beneath a single flaming mass. Limbs flew. Shields splintered. Earth exploded in fiery showers.
The jungle floor was turned into a charnel pit—blood, viscera, and scorched flesh spread in all directions. Smoke coiled into the sky, choking the screams and turning day into dusk.
Above it all, hundreds of mounted Amazons watched from a rocky ridge. Their steeds—tall, lean warhorses bred for speed and endurance—snorted and stamped the ground, sensing the carnage below.
The Amazon leader sat at the fore, her posture rigid, eyes narrowed beneath a golden circlet. Her armor was darker than her sisters', blackened steel traced with crimson sigils, a tattered crimson cloak draped over one shoulder. She stared across the battlefield—not at the soldiers, but at the wilds beyond, as if awaiting a sign.
Then, it came.
KHUUUUUUUUUU!
A war horn bellowed from the jungle depths.
She turned, lifting her spear high. "Sisters... it is time."
The cavalry surged forward. The thunder of hooves against soil roared like an avalanche.
On the plains, Athenian forces—bloodied, scattered, breathless—pushed after the retreating Amazons. Victory was in their eyes, false and fleeting.
Then the earth trembled.
Dust rose in sheets as hooves pounded the soil from every direction. The Athenians turned in horror to see a wave of mounted warriors sweeping toward them, their crimson plumes trailing like banners of vengeance.
The Amazons who had been retreating suddenly turned, shields locking, spears bristling. The trap snapped shut.
The Athenian ranks buckled.
Horseback Amazons crashed into their flanks, hacking and thrusting with short, hooked blades. Men were pulled from their feet and trampled. Blood fountained. Screams rose and died in gurgles.
Back at the siege engines, terror gripped the Athenian soldiers. Before them stood Heracles, bloodied and seething.
He grabbed Achilleous by his armor and lifted him into the air effortlessly, holding him eye to eye.
"What was that about, Achilleous?!" he growled, his voice like a landslide.
Veins bulged across his neck. His bronze skin glistened with blood and sweat. His nose flared like a maddened bull.
The general stammered, legs kicking.
"You're so lost in vengeance you're willing to murder your own men to kill a few Amazons? You're not stupid enough to think that was their main force, are you?"
Achilleous, eyes shadowed, responded his voice hoarse "You don't understand. The king is dead. The people demand blood. And if it takes every soldier here to bring these warriors to heel—then so be it."
With a roar, Heracles flung the general to the ground.
"You know nothing," he snarled, turning away.
"Do what you want. But don't get in my way."
He picked up his club with a heavy thud, then began striding toward the heart of the slaughter.
Achilleous watched him go, expression unreadable. A young soldier helped him to his feet. He dusted his armor silently and turned his gaze to the battlefield, where fire, blood, and war waged on without pause.
His breath hitched.
The catapults were too far to defend. And with the Amazon cavalry closing in, they would be destroyed in mere moments.