THEMYSCIRA
It had been several days since the war. The clamor of clashing bronze and the thunder of hooves had faded into memory, replaced now by a calm stillness that stretched across the verdant lands of Themyscira. With new intelligence confirming the Athenians had ceased their invasion, the Amazons resumed the rhythm of their daily lives—martial duels echoed across sunlit training fields, song and prayer rose like incense in the temples, and hands once bloodied now sculpted marble, painted murals, or plucked at lyres with practiced ease.
But beneath the surface of restored normalcy, there remained scars—and prisoners.
Men captured in battle were dealt with by Amazonian law, their fate neither merciful nor cruel, but practical: used for labor and, if chosen, for breeding. It was a fate many deemed worse than death. Among these captives labored Heracles himself—once a lion of Olympus, now a beast in chains.
Stripped of his lion-skin pelt, his divine musculature marred by lash marks and bruises, Heracles bore granite blocks across the terrain. The sun hung high and merciless above, gleaming off his bronzed skin damp with sweat. Enchanted manacles bit into his wrists and ankles, their golden glyphs pulsing faintly with Olympian script. Even in bondage, he radiated power, each step sending dull thuds through the earth as he dropped another boulder atop the growing pile.
'I don't understand these women...' he thought bitterly, nostrils flaring as he adjusted the stone on his shoulder. 'I came to die... but here I am, hauling pebbles for a city of man-haters.'
A flicker of disdain danced in his storm-dark eyes as he glanced toward the other prisoners—men, once proud, now broken. They wheezed with every breath, their limbs trembling as they labored in silence. Their gazes were hollow, fixed on the dust at their feet.
"Already drained, eh? Lucky bastards," he muttered, rolling his eyes with a sneer.
Behind him, a pair of Amazon guards watched like hawks, spears leveled, their fingers tense around their shafts. The sun cast Heracles' towering shadow across them, a colossus reminding them of the thin line between control and chaos.
Heracles turned, baring his teeth in a grin that was more mockery than mirth.
"You do know I can't hurt you, right?" he said, his voice deep, gravelly—like thunder trapped behind mountains. "If I wanted to leave, I would've done it long ago. These chains won't hold forever."
He leaned toward them, his breath hot with exertion. "So why the fear?"
Before the guards could respond, a voice cut through the heat-heavy air.
"That is exactly why we need you off this island."
Heracles turned slowly. Approaching with the sure step of command was Lyssipe, her armor polished to a sheen, her helm tucked under her arm. The sunlight caught her dark hair, framing her face like a crown of shadow and gold.
"Oh, look who it is..." Heracles chuckled, squinting. "The back-smasher herself. That club to the head was splendid. Shame your strength didn't quite finish the job."
There was a glint in his eye—half amusement, half challenge.
"So, what brings you to my humble...uh, whatever this is. It's hardly a chore."
Lyssipe's gaze remained stony. "I believe the word you're looking for is humiliation."
Heracles feigned a wince, then shrugged.
"Ah, yes... That." He flashed a grin. "So, does Hippolyta miss me already? I always suspected she carried a torch for me."
She ignored him.
"Tighten his bonds. His father wants him returned."
Heracles froze. The chains around his limbs constricted with a metallic hiss, forcing him down onto one knee. He growled in pain, the grin vanishing as his jaw clenched.
"Wait—what? No, no, no! You can't get rid of me that easily! I demand to speak to Hippolyta!"
Lyssipe said nothing. She turned and walked away, her steps deliberate and heavy with authority.
A guard approached, holding a glowing stone etched with divine sigils—Olympian binding magic.
"Obey. Follow quickly, Heracles," the guard commanded coldly.
Heracles staggered upright, breath shallow, face twisted in a scowl.
"Someone's feeling brave," he muttered under his breath, following them toward the palace.
THE PALACE OF THE QUEEN
The throne room was carved of marble, vast and echoing, its walls etched with depictions of Amazonian victories, divine pacts, and oaths older than time. Braziers burned with sacred oils, casting warm orange light that danced across Hypolita's bronze breastplate as she sat high upon her throne, regal and unmoving.
Before her knelt Heracles, arms bound, the chains now tethered to the floor itself. His head was bowed, hair falling over his bruised face.
"Now, explain to me again—clearly—why you do not wish to leave," Hippolyta said, her voice ringing like steel drawn from a scabbard.
Heracles raised his head slowly.
"Can't I say I like it here?"
"No." The voice came from Agape, standing at the queen's right, her expression deadpan and humorless.
Hypolita's eyes narrowed.
"You are no longer needed here. The Athenians have retreated. Your presence is a burden I do not intend to carry any longer."
Her tone was cool; the firelight caught in her eyes like embers.
"Zeus has called for you. Do you not wish to return to Olympus?"
Heracles spat to the side.
"To fight in their war? No thanks. I've done my labors. They always find more. I'd rather die than return to that eternal servitude."
"So, you are aware of the coming war," Lyssipe noted, arms folded, eyes sharp. "As we suspected."
Hippolyta leaned forward, her brows furrowed.
"You came here and begged for death ... because you didn't want to serve Olympus anymore?"
Heracles' lips parted, but no words came. Finally, he let out a long, ragged sigh.
"You wouldn't understand." His voice was hollow. "But yes. If I had died by your hand, it would have been an honorable end. A warrior's death. Not like this... this eternity of wandering."
He paused. His head dropped again, hiding the storm behind his eyes.
"I've lived lifetimes. Riches, fame, glory—none of it means anything now. I've lost everything—my children, my wife, my justice. Living without vengeance, without meaning... it's a torment worse than Tartarus."
A silence fell across the hall, heavy and thick like the stillness before a storm.
Hypolita's voice rose, sharp and accusing:
"So you used me. You believed I would be so blinded by my hatred that I'd kill you. That my judgment would be clouded enough to rid you of your misery, regardless of the cost?"
Heracles nodded, unflinching.
"Indeed. One strike, two outcomes. Your enemies would rejoice, Olympus would be furious... and I would finally be at peace."
His laugh came low and bitter.
"Their war is already lost. Their power wanes. They'll soon be nothing but myths in pocket worlds—trapped, forgotten. And if you don't stand with them? Their fall will come even sooner."
Lyssipe's voice cut in.
"And what makes you so certain Olympus will turn on us?"
Heracles grinned, eyes gleaming with dark delight.
"Oh, they won't. Not openly. But with two demigods dead by Amazon hands? They'll watch. Always watching. On the battlefield, after the battle, in moments of peace—they'll never forget. And they never forgive."
He closed his eyes, tilting his head to the side with a smirk.
"By then, I'll be in Elysium. With my beloved. With my children. While you? You'll sleep with one eye open, waiting for the blade you won't see coming."
The hall echoed with the sound of his laughter—rich, bitter, and empty.