The tension did not linger long. The warrior-sisters regained their composure swiftly, donning a stoic resolve.
Queen Hippolyta turned to Antiope, her breath shallow and uneven.
Without a word, she strode to the war map laid upon the central table. Agape watched her solemnly; her eyes gleamed with a fire not yet dimmed by fear. Lysippa seemed lost in contemplation, her gaze distant, while the two kneeling warriors remained respectfully silent.
"Prepare for battle, sisters," Hippolyta intoned, her voice like tempered steel. "Vengeance has arrived at our very gates."
At her command, the kneeling pair sprang to their feet and swiftly exited the war tent.
Outside, the clamor of preparation rose like a growing storm. Amazonian warriors moved with purpose, fastening armor, sharpening blades, and adjusting the straps of their shields. Swords glinted in the sun, and spears bristled like a living forest of steel.
They marched westward, to the edge of the encampment, where the land dipped into a vast depression. There, rows upon rows of warhorses awaited, their manes dancing in the wind, their hooves stamping the earth with anticipation.
"Mount your steeds, sisters! May the swiftness of Hermes guide our charge!" cried a commander, her voice ringing with authority as she vaulted onto her horse. She pointed toward the distant hills, then spurred her mount forward at a gallop.
The others followed, falling into formation with practiced grace, their discipline evident in the flawless synchrony of their movements. They rode into the undulating terrain, no doubt to lie in wait—to strike with the fury of a tempest when the moment was right.
Those who remained behind formed battalions on foot, splitting into companies of hundreds, their ranks bristling with resolve.
"We shall lure them here," Hippolyta declared, standing at the tent's entrance with her captains. Her fingers traced the map spread open in her hands, eyes fixed upon a red 'X' scrawled upon its surface. It marked the chosen place of ambush. With Heracles leading the vanguard of the Athenian forces, they could not meet their foe with mere strength alone. Instead, they would bleed them with terrain and time—grinding down their numbers until retreat became their only mercy… or death their only release.
"What of Heracles?" Agape asked as she tightened the belt of her leather war-skirt. "He is no god, yet his strength is fabled throughout the lands." "I am not ignorant of his might," Hippolyta replied darkly, her gaze like stormclouds before lightning. "I faced him once—when I bore the girdle gifted by Ares himself. Even then, I was bested." She turned away, her voice lowering with venomous memory. "He is strong, yes, but he is still of mortal blood. And thus, he can bleed. He can fall." She raised her hand and whistled sharply. _*Whistle*_ A great steed emerged from the shadows beyond the tent, its coat a gleaming black, its eyes wild with battlelust. It strode to her with regal bearing, nostrils flaring. Hippolyta approached and stroked its mane with a tenderness rarely seen in a warrior.
_*Grunt*_
The beast released a contented sound, nuzzling her arm in response. "We stand ready, my queen," said Lysippa, approaching with her own steed in tow. Agape followed close behind, flanked by an entourage of Amazonian guards, all clad in armor that shone with the fire of the setting sun.
Meanwhile, on the distant shore, the Athenian host advanced inland. They cut a path through the jungle, deliberately avoiding the known roads of the Amazons—fearful of ambush. Truth be told, they had expected the warrior women to confront them on the beaches, as was their custom. The Amazons rarely allowed men to set foot on their sacred island without swift reprisal.
Yet this time, there was no immediate resistance. The defenders were waiting—but where, none could say.
Not that it mattered.
For at the heart of their legion strode a titan of men—Olympus' own wrath incarnate—the demi-god of strength, Heracles.
He towered above the soldiers like a statue brought to life, a giant whose very presence seemed to command the earth. His frame was wrought from unyielding sinew, his skin the hue of burnished bronze. His hair curled with wild defiance, orange-tinged locks cascading across a rugged face that bore the marks of countless battles.
His chest, arms, and legs were thick with hair, and his body radiated power. As he walked, the jungle winds tousled his mane, his grip firm upon the great club that rested upon his shoulder like a child's toy.
Behind him came the rumble of war machines—massive constructs of bronze and wood, the tools of destruction used to raze cities and crush nations. Slaves dragged these monstrous engines forward, their backs bent under impossible weight, their groans of effort barely heard over the din. Their eyes bulged, lips dry with thirst, yet they dared not falter—for the lash of the overseer was swift, and mercy scarce.
Ahead, Heracles conversed with a soldier whose face bore the weathering of many campaigns. A thick beard framed his jaw, adding menace to an already severe countenance.
"Shall we wait for their strike?" the soldier asked, his tone calm, though few would dare speak so directly to the son of Zeus. "Or may I suggest we smoke them out? This terrain favors them… but your divine strength could shift the balance."
Heracles looked down at the man without halting his stride.
"You propose I reshape the land to rob them of their advantage, rather than meet them in open war?" he asked, voice deep as a mountain's echo.
"Indeed. Strategy demands we deny them the tools of ambush. Leave them no sanctuary."
Heracles' expression darkened. "Do you grasp the size of this land? My strength is vast, yet not without limits. I am no god-king. To raze this jungle would take days—even for me."
"But—"
"Silence," Heracles snapped, his voice thunder. "I was not sent to destroy this island. This is not annihilation—it is punishment. Your king defied Olympus. I come not for vengeance on his behalf."
He paused, his gaze fixed forward as the path widened. "I care not for the son of Poseidon. He was dishonorable. Unworthy. Yet I have my own reasons for being here. A debt unpaid. A wound that festers."
"I fight for Olympus," he growled. "Not for your fallen monarch. Remember that, Achilleous."
The soldier faltered at the name, his steps slowing for but a moment. He quickly recovered, jaw clenched as his eyes fixed on Heracles' broad back.
A shadow passed over his face.