𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 ᵉᵖⁱᶜ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜᵃˡ

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

Chapter 11. UNYIELDING FLAME

❝Strength isn’t found in who claims you; it’s forged in the audacity to stand unshaken, even in the shadow of Gods❞
˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

The tension that had once hung heavy had finally dissipated.

Now there was no more grumbling about a woman being Second-in-Command, no side-eyes casted when you gave orders. The crew had learned that strength wasn’t dictated by gender.

It was dictated by skill, by resolve—and you had both in abundance.

The rhythmic creak of the ship and the slap of waves against the hull created a soothing backdrop. You stood with Penelope and Eurylochus near the helm, a large map spread across a makeshift table between you as Penelope’s finger traced the route ahead.

“Halfway there,” she murmured. “Twelve ships, six hundred men…All accounted for, all on course.”

Eurylochus nodded, though his ever-present skepticism lingered in his furrowed brows. “Let’s hope it stays that way. We’ve come too far to lose ground now.”

Penelope glanced up at him. “It will stay that way,” she said firmly.

You leaned back against the railing with crossed arms as you surveyed the fleet behind you. The Ithacan banners fluttered proudly from the masts of the ships, a testament to the discipline and unity that had been hard-won.

It was then that a sudden yell broke through the steady pulses of the sea.

“Land ahead!”

All three of you snapped your heads toward the bird’s nest. Polites was perched high above with one hand gripping the mast as he pointed frantically toward the horizon. His glasses glinted in the sunlight, his face alight with urgency.

“Aulis!” he called down. “And…many ships. Too many.”

The three of you exchanged a glance before following his pointing finger.

Squinting against the sunlight, you could just make out the faint shapes on the horizon. Ships—hundreds of them—were clustered near one another as the mainland loomed beyond.

Something was wrong.

Penelope’s jaw tightened as she turned back to the crew. “Change course,” she ordered. “We’re going to investigate.”

Eurylochus steps forward in protest. “Captain with all due respect we are wasting time. Our mission is Troy, not this detour.”

Penelope’s gaze snapped to him, her calm exterior giving way to a sharp edge. “And with all due respect Eurylochus,” she said coldly, “I am the Captain. A position you are not nor Second-in-Command. Or have you forgotten that?”

Eurylochus’s face darkened. His jaw clenched as his eyes flickered briefly to you, but you simply raised a brow.

After a tense moment, he finally bowed his head in reluctant submission. “As you command, Captain.”

“Good,” Penelope nodded. She turned back to the crew, her voice ringing out over the deck. “Set sail for Aulis!”

The men moved swiftly, adjusting the sails and steering the fleet toward the mainland. The static between Penelope and Eurylochus hung in the air for a second longer before he turned and began barking orders to the crew, his frustration evident in his sharp tone.

You leaned closer to Penelope so that your voice is low enough for only her to hear. “Remind me to spar with him again when we’re back in Ithaca.”

A faint smile tugged at her lips. “If he survives this campaign, be my guest.”

You chuckled softly, but your gaze returned to the horizon, the unease in your chest growing as the ships drew closer to Aulis.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The closer your fleet drew to Aulis the stranger the scene became. Ships clustered near the mainland bobbed idly in the water, their sails limp despite the steady breeze that filled your own.

From the docks came a chaos of energy—figures scurrying like ants, shouting voices carrying faintly over the waves.

When your ships docked a small delegation of men immediately approached. Their fine robes marked them as officials of Agamemnon’s court, their expressions a mix of panic and frustration.

Among them you recognized Talthybius, Agamemnon’s herald and ever-loyal mouthpiece, followed closely by Calchas the Seer and Eurybates, an Ithacan herald who had long served alongside Odysseus but now stood apart from your party.

The moment your group disembarked, the officials made a beeline—not to Penelope or you—but to Eurylochus and Polites.

“Talthybius.” Eurylochus gave a curt nod, his tone neutral.

“Eurylochus you have arrived at a precarious time.” Talthybius’ words came in a rush, his usual composed demeanor frayed by the obvious tension in the air. “We are in dire need of assistance!”

Eurybates stepped forward. “King Agamemnon has insulted Artemis!” he exclaimed, his hands gesturing animatedly. “The Goddess has cursed our fleet—there is no wind to carry the ships. We’re trapped here!”

Calchas nodded gravely, his eyes shadowed by worry. “Artemis is not to be trifled with. Her wrath is clear. To appease her King Agamemnon has—”

“—decided to sacrifice his daughter Iphigenia.” Eurybates interrupted, his tone heavy with resignation.

The words struck like a blow.

You felt a chill crawl up your spine as you glanced at Penelope. Her expression remained composed, but the slight tightening of her jaw betrayed her true feelings.

Eurylochus’ expression didn’t shift, his features remaining as impassive as ever. “How unfortunate,” he said dryly.

The starkness of his reply seemed to stun the group. Eurybates sputtered indignantly, “Unfortunate? Is that all you have to say?”

Eurylochus’ brow furrowed slightly as though the question were a waste of his time. “What would you have me say?” he asked coolly. “I am not leading this fleet nor am I responsible for the whims of your King.”

Talthybius’ sharp gaze narrowed. “If you’re not leading, then who is?”

Eurylochus and Polites exchanged a look before they both turned and pointed in unison—toward you and Penelope.

The silence that followed was almost comical.

Talthybius’ sharp gaze darted between the two of you, his mouth opening and closing as though trying to make sense of the information. Calchas frowned deeply, his expression unreadable, while Eurybates stared openly with a slack jaw.

Finally, Talthybius’ eyes dropped pointedly to your chest, his brows furrowing further as though confirming what he was seeing.

Your lips twitched into a sly smirk. Raising your hands to your breasts, you cup them in mock emphasis, “Why yes they’re real. Is that a problem?”

The audacity of your actions left them sputtering, their faces flushing crimson as they stammered incoherent responses. Even Calchas looked momentarily thrown, adjusting his ceremonial robes in a rare show of discomfort.

Before the situation could spiral further, Penelope stepped forward, cutting through the awkward tension with her commanding presence. “Take us to Agamemnon,” she orders firmly.

The officials hesitated, protests dying on their lips upon noticing the cloak draped over her shoulders—the unmistakable red of Odysseus—and the infamous Ithacan sword Aionios hanging at her hip.

Without another word, they turned and gestured for you to follow.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

Unease grew in your chest with every step as you followed the officials through the camp. The air was thick with tension, the murmurs of soldiers and courtiers alike punctuating the heavy silence.

Upon reaching the gathering place a tableau on the hilltop came into view. And at the heart of the encampment stood a beautifully adorned altar.

Its surface was meticulously adorned with intricate carvings of laurels and olive branches as brightly colored ribbons of white, silver, and green fluttered in the breeze, their vibrancy a cruel juxtaposition to the grim reality they framed.

At the altar's centerpiece lay what you assume to be Iphigenia—a girl no older than thirteen.

She was bound tightly with ceremonial ribbons on her wrists, ankles, and torso, tying her to the stone. A blindfold was tied neatly around her head, but the streaks of tears on her cheeks betrayed her terror as she struggled against her bonds.

Above her stood Agamemnon, his towering figure dressed in robes of pure white edged in deep crimson.

The heavy fabric billowed slightly in the breeze as he raised a ceremonial dagger high above his head causing the blade to gleam ominously in the sunlight. His other hand rested firmly on Iphigenia’s trembling forehead, forcing her head back in preparation for the fatal strike.

Even as a fresh round of sobs escaped the young girl's lips, Agamemnon’s face was a mask of stoic determination.

The King’s voice echoed across the clearing as he spoke the final words of the prayer. His deep, resonant tone carried with it a mix of desperation and resolve.

“Great Artemis,” he intoned, “accept this pure offering as atonement for my transgressions. Let this child’s blood cleanse my offense and restore your favor to our fleet. With your blessing, we shall sail to Troy and achieve glory in your name!”

Just as the dagger begins to descen—

“Stop!”

The single, commanding word cut through the air like a blade.

Agamemnon froze, the dagger halting mere inches above Iphigenia’s throat. His head snapped toward the voice as irritation shadowed across his face. The crowd of officials and generals gathered below turned as one, their murmurs of confusion rising.

You felt Penelope step forward beside you, her posture as firm as the breeze toying with her cloak. The group of Ithacan soldiers accompanying you bristled but stood their ground, their eyes flicking between Penelope and the scene before them.

“Who dares interrupt the will of the Gods?!” Agamemnon demanded, his voice dripping with annoyance.

“I am Penelope of Ithaca,” she declared. “Leader of Ithaca’s forces, here to aid in the war against Troy.”

Agamemnon’s lips curled into a sneer as his gaze raked over her, taking in the unmistakable red cloak and sword at her hip—Aionios.

“Odysseus,” he spits the name as though it were venom. “The fool has sent his wife to lead in his stead? Has he truly fallen so far?”

The murmurs grew louder, the crowd beginning to voice their opinions.

“This is absurd!” Menelaus, Agamemnon’s brother, yells in a mix of incredulity and scorn. “Eurylochus is the obvious choice. Odysseus’ cousin and husband to his sister. Proven bloodline and experience. What more proof do we need?”

“Not to mention he has the experience in battle.” chimed in Nestor, the elder general known for his wisdom. “Battles that are no place for a woman, no matter how noble her intentions may be.”

“To follow one into war there must be proof, merit.” Diomedes adds, his tone gruff and final as it cuts through the noise. The chorus of dissent grew louder, each voice chipping away at Penelope’s presence.

Agamemnon raised his hand, silencing the assembly with a single gesture. He turned back to Penelope with an expression of barely restrained smugness.

“And this,” he said, “is why women have no place in war. The battle against Troy has not yet begun and already you are ruled by emotion. Do you weep for this girl Penelope? Is that why you came?”

“I mean, how could one not be emotional,” you challenged, your voice sharp and dare say musing, “when watching a father prepare to slaughter his own flesh and blood for his own mistakes?”

All eyes turned to you. Even Iphigenia whimpered at your words.

Agamemnon’s face twisted with rage, his knuckles whitening around the hilt of the dagger.

“What I am doing is necessary,” he spat. “It is justified! You know nothing of my responsibilities, my choices! You have no right to speak of what I do for my children or how I may feel. I adore my daughter—”

“Clearly you do not.”

Penelope’s voice cut through his tirade. She steps in front of you, effectively blocking his view on you and bringing it back on her. “Adoration does not look like a dagger to the throat Agamemnon. If you truly adored her you would have found another way. Sacrificing her on this altar proves nothing but your cowardice.”

Gasps rippled through the camp from the audacity of her words. Agamemnon’s face darkened further, his patience clearly wearing thin.

“WHO ALLOWED THIS FARCE?!” he roared, his voice trembling with fury. “WHAT MADNESS PERMITTED A WOMAN—A WOMAN—TO LEAD A WAR? TO GAINED THE AUDACITY TO EVEN DARE SPEAK TO ME THIS WAY?!”

Before anyone could answer a deafening crack of thunder shattered the air.  All heads turned upward as a fiery red streak cut through the clear blue sky, trailing smoke and embers in its wake.

The object hurtled downward with terrifying speed, its trailing flames licking hungrily at the air as it struck the ground directly in front of the altar with explosive force.

Men all around staggered back as tremors rippled through the hillside all while they attempt to shield their faces from the scorching heat. 

The fireball burned brilliantly for a moment longer before it began to cool and recede, its blinding glow dimming to reveal a figure at its center.

Ares.

He stood tall and unyielding—a force of raw power and chaos that seemed to radiate from every inch of his being as he towered over the mortals, his presence dwarfing even the most imposing of men.

He wore no helmet this time, his blood-red unruly hair falling down his broad shoulders. Scars etched across his skin, a testament to countless fights, but they only served to enhance his devastatingly rugged handsomeness.

His molten-gold eyes burned with an intensity that made it impossible to meet his gaze for long, yet they demanded attention.

In his right hand, he held his spear—the blade glowing faintly as though it still carried the heat of the flames. His muscular frame was wrapped golden armor that held an otherworldly shimmer and a semi-tattered cloak that billowed behind him, its edges charred as if it had survived a burning.

Ares’ gaze swept over the crowd, his expression unreadable until his eyes landed on Agamemnon. Slowly, a wolfish grin stretched across his lips, revealing sharp almost predatory teeth.

“It is I,” his deep voice resonated like the rumble of distant thunder, “who gave her the audacity to believe she could lead....” He took a single step forward, the ground beneath his feet seeming to shudder in response.

Agamemnon stumbled back, his face pale, the dagger slipping from his trembling hand to clatter uselessly against the altar.

Ares tilted his head slightly, his grin widening as he crouched and lowered himself to Agamemnon’s level. “And what of it Son of Atreus?” he sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. “Do you dare take issue with me?”

The King of Mycenae fell to the ground and tried to scramble backward but found himself rooted in place. His lips moved soundlessly, sweat beading on his brow.

Finally, a broken whimper escaped him, but no coherent words followed.

Gasps and murmurs grew louder across the gathered soldiers and officials. Many fell to their knees, their faces pale as they averted their gazes.

The sheer divine presence of Ares—the raw, chaotic energy he exuded—was enough to leave them trembling.

Polites, standing beside you, looked as though he might faint. Even Eurylochus, usually stoic and unflinching, had gone rigid, his jaw clenched as he struggled to maintain his composure.

But Penelope?

The Spartan born stepped forward, her face a mask of composure. “Ares,” she said, her voice cutting cleanly through the growing murmurs. “Why have you come here?”

Her words had an electrifying effect. The talking ceased instantly.

All eyes turned to Penelope, wide with shock. Polites muttered something under his breath while Eurylochus’ eyes darted toward her as though she’d lost her mind.

Ares turned toward her, his grin softening into something almost approving. His molten eyes flicked over her form, taking in her unshaken posture.

“Penelope,” he said, his tone almost fond as he addressed her. “My student.”

Disbelief washes over the Achaeans at the Immortal's words.

The God of War straightened, his spear tapping lightly against the ground. “I am here as a favor to Artemis,” he explained casually. “To ensure the innocent will not be slain for the mistakes of the foolish.”

As he spoke, he moved toward the altar. His massive hands worked with surprising gentleness as he began to break apart the ribbons and ropes binding Iphigenia like paper.

Mind reeling with the unknown, curiosity got the better of you. “What will happen to her now?”

Ares’ head turned sharply in your direction and for a moment the world seemed to still. His wolfish grin returned, more playful this time, and his glowing eyes narrowed as they locked onto yours.

“Ah,” his tone thick with amusement as a satisfied rumble echoed from his chest. “The Unclaimed One.”

You blinked, momentarily thrown by the title. Before you could respond, Ares shrugged carelessly. “Who knows? Perhaps she will serve Artemis as a priestess....perhaps her fate lies elsewhere. Who can say?”

As he spoke, he removed the blindfold from Iphigenia’s tear-streaked face. The young girl blinked rapidly, her wide eyes darting around in confusion before tilting up to meet Ares' gaze.

She froze as her lips parted in awe, the fear she had seeming to fade and be replaced by a quiet reverence.

Agamemnon, still trembling on the ground, finally found his voice. “A-ares,” he stammered, “How—why—you fight for Troy alongside Aphrodite and Apollo! How can your student fight against those you support?”

Ares’ grin vanished and was taken over by a look of disgust. He turned toward the King, his disdain twisting with irritation.

“I fight for no one,” he said coldly. “I am loyal only to chaos and bloodshed. My presence in Troy is at Aphrodite’s whim—nothing more. Do not mistake me for an ally of Troy—or of you.”

With that he turned back to Iphigenia. He lifted her easily into his arms, holding her with one while his other hand gripped his weapon.

“And one more thing,” Ares said, his voice dropping to a deadly calm as his molten eyes bore into Agamemnon’s. “Artemis may have forgiven you and allowed your fleet to sail, but speak foul of my student and her Second-in-Command's capabilities and I will have your head.”

The threat hung heavy in the air leaving no room for doubt.

His gaze flicked to you and Penelope briefly, giving a firm nod of approval. Then, he looked down at the girl in his arms, his expression softening. “Let’s go little one,” he murmured gruffly.

With a sharp final motion, he slammed the butt of his spear into the ground causing crimson flames to erupt around him and Iphigenia. The fiery column shot skyward in a brilliant blaze before quickly vanishing into the heavens.

For a long moment, the crowd stood in stunned, the weight of what they had witnessed pressing down on them like a physical force.

“Well...”  Every eye turned to you and Penelope. A lazy smile curls at your lips, your tone almost flippant. “Shall we start embarking toward Troy?”