Penthesilea whipped her head around, her fierce gaze locking onto the huntress. "Do you seek death, Atalanta? I don't care if you're favored by Artemis herself." Her eyes burned with defiance, her lips curling into a mocking smile.
Atalanta met her glare evenly, her voice steady. "It's simply advice. I've crossed paths with Achilles before. He's no ordinary man, and I doubt even Hector would stand a chance against him." Her words were laced with a rare note of caution, a warning to a fellow commander despite their fierce rivalry.
Penthesilea laughed, undeterred. "I'll kill him, and you can watch me do it, Atalanta," she taunted, undaunted by the warning.
Atalanta said nothing further, her expression unreadable as she shifted her gaze back to the battlefield. It was, after all, just advice, a word of caution from one commander to another. She knew Achilles' strength was unlike any other. Perhaps even with the combined efforts of Hector, Aeneas, Sarpedon, and Penthesilea, they could barely hope to match him. But she understood the value of each of Troy's great leaders and warriors. Losing Penthesilea to Achilles would be a devastating blow to the Trojans, and that was a cost Atalanta couldn't bear to see paid.
In her heart, Atalanta fought for more than just Troy's victory. She fought for Artemis, for the goddess's honor, and for the preservation of what Troy represented. That was why she positioned herself at the rear, eyes constantly scanning the field, ready to provide cover for the commanders. Her keen gaze traced the movements of each critical leader—Hector, Aeneas, Sarpedon, and even Paris, each one engaged in their own brutal battles, rallying their soldiers across different fronts.
Her eyes lingered on Paris for a moment. She had underestimated him, she realized. Though slender and seemingly preoccupied, he wielded his bow with precision and strength that surprised her. But she also saw the personal drive behind his movements, a desperation that left him vulnerable. Paris was motivated not by victory for Troy, but by the fear of losing Helen, the woman he loved. It was both his strength and his weakness, and Atalanta worried it might cloud his judgment when he needed clarity the most.
Yet, amidst the chaos, two others caught Atalanta's sharp eye. They weren't commanders, nor were they of Trojan blood—they were mercenaries, hired swords in the service of Troy.
One of them was a stunning woman with sea-blue hair, a beauty that could rival Atalanta's own. Her movements were graceful yet fierce as she fought beside Aeneas, her blade flashing in deadly arcs to protect him from advancing Greek soldiers. Atalanta recalled her name—Charys. She was skilled, powerful, and there was something almost magnetic in her presence, a calm yet ferocious intensity. It puzzled Atalanta, however, that Charys wasn't fighting alongside her usual partner, Heiron, who was also on the battlefield.
But here, among the Trojans—Hector, Aeneas, and even the outsiders like Heiron and Charybdis—she felt something she never anticipated: a genuine bond. It wasn't just the camaraderie of warriors who fought side by side; it was something more, something she hadn't felt even during her journeys with the Argonauts, Jason, Heracles, and Orpheus. Back then, she had been a warrior among warriors, nothing more. They respected each other's skill, but there had been no warmth, no connection like what she felt now with these people from a foreign land.
When she thought about potentially facing her former Greek allies in battle, she was surprised by her own indifference. The thought of encountering Jason, Heracles, or Orpheus stirred nothing in her heart. It was simply a matter of duty, but for the Trojans? She found herself genuinely caring about their fate. They weren't fighting for glory or conquest; they fought for their city, their families, their way of life. And despite the simpler path of casting Helen out to appease the Greeks, they chose to shield her within Troy's walls, standing firm on principle and loyalty. They were, in every way, honorable and good.
For the first time in her life, Atalanta felt sure she was on the right side of a conflict. It brought her an unexpected sense of joy, and perhaps, a hope she hadn't dared to nurture—that maybe, this time, everything would end well. After all, Artemis herself was watching over them, surely guiding her steps on this path.
Atalanta turned her gaze to the distant, towering walls of Troy. Her sharp sight, blessed by Artemis, discerned a lone figure sitting atop the battlements, watching over the battlefield with a serene, steady gaze. It was Artemis, her goddess, her protector, calmly observing the bloody dance of war below.
But if Nathan, known here as Heiron, were to look up, he would see not only Artemis but two other divine figures beside her. Aphrodite stood close, her smile soft and bittersweet, eyes fixed lovingly on her son, Aeneas. Next to her, a tall, muscular man with flaming red hair and an eager, fierce grin surveyed the chaos—Ares, god of war, taking in the spectacle of battle with pride and excitement.
.net
Across the battlefield, two other goddesses stood in silent vigil over the Greek forces. Athena, the wise and composed goddess of strategy, watched with a calm, unblinking focus. But beside her, Hera fidgeted, a scowl darkening her face as she observed the growing momentum of Troy's defenders. Her gaze kept falling back to Hector, Troy's unbreakable spirit, as he cut through the Greeks like a force of nature.
Hector was stealing the light, and Hera, ever resentful, could barely contain her displeasure.