𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 ᵉᵖⁱᶜ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜᵃˡ

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

Chapter 24. SHATTERED STRATERGIES

❝How unexpected [are] the attacks of destiny!❞

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

The Trojan camp stirred with purpose in the fragile light before dawn—the horizon beginning to bleed faint streaks of gold and pink into the dark sky. Heavy with anticipation and the rustle of armor, the occasional sound of a sharpening blade and low murmur of soldiers' voices preparing for battle filled the air.

High atop a makeshift watchtower on the outskirts of the camp stood Aeneas with a group of Trojan generals.

Unanimously chosen as the head strategist of Troy’s forces, the son of Aphrodite stood at the forefront of the war table. His eyes were distant, focused on the outline of the Greek camp now barely visible as the soft hues of morning threatened to reveal all.

Standing beside him were the best minds and warriors of Troy: Polydamas, a sharp-eyed man with a knack for measured counsel; Agenor, whose spear-hand was as reliable as his cautious nature; and Deiphobus, Hector’s brother, his face still bearing traces of grief but with a determined set to his jaw.

Below them the Trojans assembled in their ranks. A veritable sea of soldiers stretched out across the plains, their movements methodical as they prepared to march.

At the army's back flanks the archers took position under Paris’ command with their bows strung and arrows already nocked. The young Prince’s face was unreadable as he stood alongside his unit, his golden armor a sharp contrast to the somber colors of his men.

The gathering atop the tower shifted as Polydamas spoke cautiously. “The Greeks have grown complacent,” he gestures toward the camp. “They have not pressed forward since Hector fell. Now is the time to crush their spirits and drive them to their ships.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the group.

Deiphobus, his voice edged with grief and anger, added, “With the Amazons’ arrival last night we have the advantage. Queen Penthesilea and her warriors alone will tip the scales in our favor.”

Aeneas’ expression, however, remained unchanged as his gaze swept over the outlying Greek camp. He could see the flicker of fires, the faint outline of movement in the distance.

Something about it gnawed at him.

“The Greeks…” Aeneas said suddenly through the quiet conversation. "Doesn’t feel like them to sit and wait”

The generals turned to him, some frowning in confusion.

“What do you mean?” Polydamas asked skeptically.

Aeneas shook his head as his hand rested on the hilt of his sword. “It’s too quiet. Something feels...off.”

"Off?" Agenor repeated, his tone incredulous. "We have the advantage today Aeneas! The Gods themselves seem to favor us. What could possibly feel wrong?"

Before anyone could respond the air was split by a ferocious war cry.

It was a sound so primal and thunderous it seemed to reach within the depths of their chests. Heads snapped toward the horizon.

There, in the faint light of dawn, a chariot burst from the Greek lines, its wheels slicing through the earth like the harbinger of death itself. Atop it stood a figure wreathed in blood-red light, his golden armor forged by Hephaestus blazed like a second Sun.

Achilles.

Xanthos and Balius pulled the vehicle, the immortal horses' manes whipping in the wind as they barreled across the plains. The chariot gleamed with divine craftsmanship and Achilles himself looked like a God of War incarnate.

The Trojan ranks faltered as he charged into their midst, his spear glinting in the early light. The front lines broke in a desperate attempt to shield themselves...but it was too late.

Achilles moved like a whirlwind, his spear plunging into the chest of one soldier before arcing back to sever the head of another.

The Trojans could only stared in horror.

Then, as if to punctuate the despair, a rain of arrows descended from the Greek side, striking down dozens of Trojans in the front lines. Greek soldiers suddenly poured forth from the camp, their battle cries ringing through the air as they surged toward the Trojans.

They thundered across the plains, bulldozing through the disorganized ranks as Achilles continued his rampage, his chariot leaving a trail of destruction in its wake.

On the watchtower the generals were in chaos.

Polydamas cursed loudly with a slam of his fist against the wooden railing. Deiphobus’ face was pale as he stared at the unfolding carnage below.

“It’s a counter to the surprise attack,” Aeneas muttered, his voice low but trembling with fury. “The Greeks...they've outmaneuvered us.”

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The sounds of war were faint here, little more than a dull roar carried on the wind like an ominous storm rumbling in the sky as the Ithacan troops marched in orderly rows in the rear, banners fluttering in the growing breeze above.

The sun had begun to climb higher across the battlefield, though it hadn’t yet touched the hearts of those who awaited the fight. Soldiers moved with quiet determination; some adjusting helmets, some murmuring prayers to Gods who might or might not listen.

Among them you stood alongside Penelope. She scanned the troops with the keen precision of a hawk, the armor she wore light enough to allow her swift movements but sturdy enough to offer protection—she looked every bit the Queen of Ithaca.

Penelope’s gaze softened as she turned to you. “Go ahead. There’s no need for one of Ithaca’s best to linger at the back. They need you at the front.” Her voice carried a rare mix of warmth and steel, the kind that reminded you why Odysseus trusted her to rule in his absence.

You met her gaze and offer a firm nod. “They’ll see us through this,” you spare a glance toward Eurylochus and Polites while saying this, the two readying themselves for the clash ahead.

Polites caught your eye and nodded, his grip tightening on the spear in his hand while Eurylochus gives a grim but thin smile as he puts on his helmet.

With nothing more needing to be said, you turned and strode toward Pedasus. The horse, mortal though he was, stood out even among the finest steeds of the Greek artillery. His sleek coat glistened in the sunlight and his restless energy mirrored your own.

You mounted in a single smooth motion, gripping the reins tightly as you adjusted your axe strapped to your back.

“Be swift,” Penelope called after you.

Pedasus needed no further urging. With a quick nudge the horse shot forward, weaving through the lines of soldiers already beginning to move.

The rush of air against your face was exhilarating, though you kept your focus razor-sharp, scanning the landscape as you rode. The ground trembled faintly beneath Pedasus, the distant echoes of the battle growing louder with each stride. Pedasus moved with the speed and grace of a creature born for war, his hooves striking the ground in a steady rhythm that matched the pounding of your heart.

Within minutes you reached the heart of the battlefield. The chaos unfolded before you like a waking nightmare: bodies clashing, shields splintering....the air thick with the metallic tang of blood.

From atop Pedasus you could see everything. Trojan soldiers swarmed like ants, their bronze armor glinting as they surged forward.

Raising your axe you charged into the fray, cutting down the first Trojan to cross your path. The axe cleaved through his neck cleanly, the force of the blow nearly toppling him backward.

You didn’t pause to watch him fall. Another came at you and you turned Pedasus sharply, swinging the axe in a deadly arc.

Blood sprayed as another body crumpled and the Greek soldiers around you rallied with every opening you created—pressing forward with renewed vigor.

It was then that your eyes found Achilles.

The leader of the Myrmidons was unmistakable even among the chaos. His golden armor gleamed like a beacon and his movements were fluid, precise, and devastating.

Bodies littered the ground around him, a testament to his unmatched skill. He had dismounted from his chariot at this point; the reins of his immortal horses Xanthos and Balius left trailing as they pawed the earth impatiently.

Achilles stood on foot now, locked in battle with an opponent unlike any other.

Penthesilea.

The Amazon Queen was a vision of raw power, her every strike a deadly dance that forced even Achilles onto the defensive. Her crimson curls spilled from beneath her helmet and her green eyes burned with fierce determination.

She moved like a storm—relentless and unyielding—her curved blade moving through the air with a ferocity that matched the God she was descended from causing Achilles to stumble back as blood seeped from a gash across his shoulder, evidence of Penthesilea’s skill.

Your breath hitched as you watched her force Achilles to the ground, the great Prince of Phthia staggering beneath the weight of her strikes, his armor dented and bloodied.

It seemed she would strike the fatal blow, her sword raised high as she prepared to bring it down upon him.

Without hesitation you urged Pedasus forward. The horse obeyed without question. His hooves pounded against the earth as he closed the distance between you and the duel.

In one fluid motion you leap off Pedasus mid-gallop, your body twisting as you land a powerful kick against Penthesilea’s side with enough force to send her sprawling.

Achilles rolls away just as her sword struck empty air, the blade sinking into the dirt where he had just been.

The impact of you hitting the hard ground knocks the wind from your lungs but you forced yourself to move. Gasping for air, you reached for your axe, only to find it out of reach.

Achilles’ voice cut through the chaos. “____!”

You barely had time to register his warning before Penthesilea was upon you. Her boot slammed into your chest forcing you back down.

The breath you’d just regained fled again as pain radiated through your ribs. Her sword hovered at your throat, the sharp edge biting into your skin as her green eyes glared down at you through the slit of her helmet.

“Well....isn’t this a familiar sight?” she purred, her voice dripping with mockery. “Twice now I’ve had you at my mercy. Tell me little Greek, do you enjoy being beneath me?”

You glare up at her, your hands twitching as you try to think of a way out. Around you the battle rages but no Trojan soldier dares approach. They recognize her authority and keep their distance, choosing to instead focus on the advancing enemies.

Penthesilea leans closer causing her helmet to cast a shadow over her face. “This is your last chance,” she whispers. “Join me...or fa—”

She was interrupted by the sudden sickening sound of steel meeting flesh.

Blood sprayed across your face as Penthesilea’s body went rigid, her mocking words dying on her lips.

Her headless body slumped forward to its knees before finally collapsing beside you as her severed head rolled to a stop a few feet away to stare up blankly into the morning sky.

The blood felt warm against your skin, and for a moment, everything around you fell away—the noise of battle, the clash of weapons, the war cries of Greeks and Trojans alike. All you could do was stare at the Amazonian Queen’s corpse lying mere inches from where you sat.

With trembling hands you scrambled to push yourself upright, your chest heaving as you tried to process what had just happened.

At this point the tide of battle had shifted dramatically. Many Greek soldiers had surged forward, their relentless push finally driving the Trojans back. You found yourself momentarily surrounded by your comrades as they pressed on and continued to roar around you.

Standing over her body is Achilles with your double-headed axe gripped tightly in his hands. The blade drips with the fallen Demigod's blood, his expression is a mixture of fury and grim satisfaction.

He spat toward her lifeless form, his voice low and venomous as he muttered, “That’s for hurting me. You may have drawn my blood, but I’ll be damned if I let you take her from me.”

Achilles’ green eyes flicked down to you as he extend a hand, his fingers smeared with blood and dirt but steady as they reached for yours. “Come,” his voice was softer but still commanding.

You hesitated for a moment before gripping his hand and allowing him to pull you up with ease. But no sooner had you stood, your legs gave out and you sank back to the ground.

Achilles frowned as his brows knitted together in confusion. He crouches beside you, concern flickering in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head trying to steady your thoughts. Finally, you manage to choke out, “That...that was Penthesilea. Queen of the Amazons.”

Achilles’ brows lifted in mild surprise. “For real? As in Ares’ daughter?”

You nod shakily, your wide eyes still locked on the body. Your hand trembled as you pointed to her lifeless hand which still gripped the curved sword she had so casually held at your neck only moments ago.

Achilles followed your gaze, his lips pressing into a thin line. After a beat he walks over to her head to nudge it with his foot and dislodge the helmet.

A cascade of blood-red curls spilled out as her face was revealed. Even in death her features remain striking, her expression eerily serene. She looked more like a sleeping Goddess than a slain warrior.

Achilles froze, his eyes growing wide with surpirse as he studied her closely. “Well I’ll be...”

You could only stare in disbelief as he dropped to his knees beside her head, his expression almost reverent.

“She’s beautiful,” he mutters mournfully. He suddenly groans, throwing his hands up in mock anguish. “Why did you let me kill her?!”

You sputtered completely taken aback. “Wha—?!”

Achilles whirls to you, his tone playfully accusatory, “She could've been a lover for us both!”

Your jaw dropped, your face heating as you sputtered even more, “I—well you’re the one who killed her!”

Achilles waves off your protest with a dismissive hand and dramatically sighs. “What a tragedy! A waste!” he shakes his head as though genuinely mourning the loss of potential. “Strong. Fiery....Perfect for us. But now she’s dead.”

You rolled your eyes, finally managing to push yourself to your feet. “I don’t think that would’ve been the case,” you remark dryly.

Achilles glanced up at you. “And why not?”

You crossed your arms, your lips quirking into a small smirk. “Because she only wanted me.”

This sobered him up.

“What are you talking about?”

“She offered to make me her Queen,” you said, your tone casual as you gestured to Penthesilea’s lifeless form. “Said we could rule the Amazons together.”

Achilles' lips curled at that, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You didn’t mention that when you spoke about her warning of the Trojan's surprise attack.”

You hum, glancing down at the body. “Wonder why...”

Achilles' shoulders slump as he stared at her head one last time. “Maybe it’s for the best,” he muttered, rising to his feet before grabbing your hand.

The two of you stood in silence as the noise of battle gradually crept back into awareness. Achilles’ grip on your hand remained firm, grounding you as you both turned to face the fray once more.

“Come on,” his voice was firmer now. “We’ve still got a war to win.”

You nod, gripping your axe tightly as you followed him back into the chaos.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️ BONUS  ⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The heavy gates of Troy groaned as they creaked open revealing the first returning soldiers of the doomed campaign. The city seemed to hold its breath as the survivors trudged through the entrance. Their armor was caked with blood and dirt, their heads slumped under the weight of exhaustion and grief as the faint cries of the wounded pierced the stillness.

The once-proud warriors of Troy now carried the wounded and lifeless on their shoulders, their movements slow and somber under the burning orange hue of the setting sun.

From their windows and doorways the people of Troy watched in silence. Faces drawn with worry peeked out from behind wooden shutters while others stepped cautiously into the streets.

Among the first to enter the city were Aeneas and Paris—their figures unmistakable even in the dimming light.

Aeneas walked with a grim determination. His bronze armor bore the scars of battle with streaks of blood that wasn’t all his own. The golden plume of his helmet drooped from dirt and sweat.

Paris followed beside him, his expression a mask of cold detachment. There was no sign of his usual charm or vanity; his fine features were set in stone, his lips pressed into a thin line. The Prince’s bow was slung across his back now dull and splattered with gore.

Whispers floated through the crowd like restless ghosts and grew louder as the procession moved on.

“Look at them...stone-faced as statues.”
“Did they win? Did they lose?”
“Why do they bring so many dead?”

At the center of the gathering crowd stood King Priam.

The old King leaned heavily on his staff, his once-proud frame hunched with age and the weight of years spent watching his city endure endless war. His aged face, lined with countless sorrows, betrayed a glimmer of hope as his eyes scanned the returning soldiers. Yet as he met the grim expressions of his son and second cousin that hope dimmed. 

When Aeneas and Paris reached him the rest of the procession seemed to part; soldiers and generals stepping aside and focusing on other task as the royals began to converse.

“Aeneas....Paris.” Priam’s voice was steady, though the depth of his worry was unmistakable. “What news do you bring?”

Aeneas bowed his head respectfully. “The battle was…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening. “The Greeks must have anticipated our plan. Even with the Amazons at our side we were overwhelmed. Almost like they were waiting...like they knew.”

Paris stepped forward, his tone sharper and clipped with frustration. “Achilles. He was there. He cut through our forces like a scythe through wheat.” His voice faltered and his gaze flickered away for a moment. “He killed Penthesilea.”

Priam’s face darkened at the mention of Achilles. His lips pressed together and a shadow seemed to pass over his features. The King’s voice dropped to a low growl. “Achilles has cost us much—too much. If he is not stopped...soon the Greeks will break Troy.”

Paris’ hand clenched into a fist at his side. “He won’t,” the Prince said coldly, his tone resolute. “I will see to it myself.”

There was a flicker of something dangerous in Paris’ eyes, a fire that had been absent since Hector’s death. Before Priam or Aeneas could respond Paris turned on his heel. His cape swirls around him as he began to address the nearest soldiers.

“Prepare an altar!” he barked. “We will offer a prayer to Apollo tonight. Gather what we need and make it swift!”

The soldiers saluted and moved to obey, their armor clinking as they dispersed. The crowd watched in silence as Paris strode toward the temple grounds in determination.

Priam’s gaze lingered on his youngest son while Aeneas stood beside him in silence.

As the citizens of Troy watched the preparations for the ceremony begin, their whispers continued, their words now mingling with cautious hope and a lingering sense of dread as one single question seemed to linger on their minds:

How much more...longer could they endure?