Astynome had always been raised by a loving and gentle father. Her earliest memories were of his kindness, for her mother had passed away when she was too young to remember her face clearly. Her father's presence was constant, a source of strength, even though he harbored a secret about Astynome's true lineage—a secret that could have shattered another man's heart. Yet, Chryses, her father, embraced it without hesitation. Astynome was beautiful beyond compare, with a sharp mind and a spirit that reflected her mother's unwavering devotion to the god Apollo.
Since childhood, Astynome had faithfully followed in her mother's footsteps, offering prayers and sacrifices to Apollo every single day. Her devotion was absolute, woven into the fabric of her life. But only Chryses, or rather, the man who had adopted her and raised her as his own, knew the truth. Astynome was not just any child—she was Apollo's daughter, born of the god's divine union with her mortal mother. This revelation could have cast a shadow over their lives, but Chryses had never allowed it to change the way he saw her. To him, she was his beloved daughter, the last precious link to the woman he had lost. That she was sired by the god of light himself was inconsequential to Chryses; his love for Astynome was unconditional and also his love for his woman despite her devotion toward Apollo having reached dangerous heights.
Under his care, and perhaps guided by her divine heritage, Astynome flourished. She rose swiftly through the ranks to become the High Priestess of Apollo's temple in Lyrnessus. Her beauty, wisdom, and the few fleeting but powerful visions she received from her divine father earned her respect and reverence. These rare divinations were gifts from Apollo, glimpses of the future that guided not only her but also the people who looked to her for counsel. In her heart, Astynome felt gratitude for these gifts, believing they had helped her grow as both a woman and a leader.
Yet, recently, something had changed.
The visions had stopped. Where once there was light and clarity, there was now only darkness, a veil obscuring her once-clear path. No matter how deeply she prayed, how fervently she sought Apollo's guidance, the divine touch that had once filled her with certainty had disappeared. And then, like an ill omen, Troy attacked.
Astynome tried to hold on to her faith. She trusted in Apollo, in the god who had given her life, power, and wisdom. But the darkness that now clouded her mind filled her with unease. It wasn't the fear of war or death that shook her, but the terrible silence from the god she had always revered. The timing was too cruel, too precise. Was she abandoned by her divine father? The thought lingered at the edges of her mind, a whisper of doubt that refused to leave.
No. She dismissed the idea quickly. She reminded herself that all humans, whether born of gods or mortals, had their fates woven from the moment of their birth. The three sisters, the Moirai, goddesses of Fate, spun each thread of life, determining the exact moment of every person's death. Even being the daughter of Apollo did not free her from their intricate design. Not even the gods could interfere with the destiny shaped by the Fates.
Astynome accepted this truth. She had no power to change what had been written, and neither did Apollo. If this was her fate, then so be it. When the Greek armies descended upon Lyrnessus, when Agamemnon, the King of Kings, captured her, she did not resist. There was no running, no struggle. She did not attempt to escape or fight back, for in her heart she had already surrendered—not to Agamemnon, but to destiny.
Astynome knew all too well what awaited her as a captive of the Greeks. It was an unspoken truth, whispered across battlefields and murmured in the shadows of war camps—women captured by the Greeks were not just spoils of war, they were prizes to satisfy the conquerors' most primal desires. It didn't matter whether the captor was a lowly soldier or a king; the fate of a woman like Astynome was the same. She had heard the stories, seen the fear in the eyes of other women, and understood the brutality that lay ahead. And now, she found herself in the clutches of Agamemnon, the King of Kings, the man who led the Greek forces against Troy.
Perhaps to him, she was not just a mere prize. Perhaps, in her face, he saw echoes of his own daughter, the one he had sacrificed to appease the wrath of Artemis all those years ago. A twisted reminder of the blood he had spilled for victory. But that small glimmer of recognition didn't offer her any comfort. She was a reward to him, something to be claimed, possessed, and defiled.
Agamemnon snorted dismissively. "Who cares about those brats? Just don't wake me too early." A dark grin curled his lips as his thoughts turned to the reward waiting for him. The anticipation twisted his smile into something almost predatory. "I have... other matters to attend to tonight," he added, his voice laced with cruel satisfaction.
Odysseus, ever observant, saw the gleam in Agamemnon's eyes and immediately understood. The King of Mycenae was thinking about Astynome, the beautiful priestess of Apollo who now awaited him. Agamemnon had gloated about her, a virgin priestess—such a rare prize. To defile one so pure, especially one dedicated to the god of light, was a triumph all its own for a man like Agamemnon.
Though Odysseus was known for his cunning, his heart was not entirely made of stone. He couldn't help but feel a pang of pity for Astynome, and for all the women who had been reduced to mere spoils of war. But he knew well enough that there was nothing to be done. War was an ancient machine, grinding down men and women alike. Men died on the battlefield, and women were taken, their fates sealed by their captors. It had always been this way.
"You should take someone for yourself," Agamemnon suggested, the casualness of his tone making the offer all the more chilling. "I'll grant you any woman in the camp. Consider it a reward."
Odysseus shook his head, a faint smile playing on his lips, though it did little to hide the discomfort behind his eyes. "I have no need. My heart belongs to my dear Penelope, waiting for me in Ithaca."
Agamemnon let out a deep, amused chuckle. "Such loyalty. But to each his own." He waved his hand dismissively. "Enjoy your night, then. I will certainly enjoy mine." His mind was already on Astynome, and the thought of breaking her—of hearing her cries—filled him with impatience. He was eager to claim her, to see her submit to his will.
But just as he was about to turn away, a soldier came rushing toward them, breathless and frantic.
"King Agamemnon!" the soldier shouted, skidding to a halt before the two kings.
Agamemnon's brow furrowed in irritation. "What is it?" he demanded, his tone sharp and impatient.
The soldier swallowed hard before speaking. "It's... it's the old man, my lord. The father of the woman you captured. He has come to the camp."