𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 ᵉᵖⁱᶜ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜᵃˡ

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

Chapter 25. THE PRICE OF VENGENCE

❝Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.❞

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

The battlefield was chaos.

Screams of pain and fury mingled with the clang of steel and the dull thuds of bodies hitting the blood-soaked earth. You weaved through it all; your double-headed war axe dripping crimson as you cut down any Trojan unfortunate enough to cross your path.

The sun was high and brutal as it casted its glare over the field of battered shields and armor. Dust hung thick in the air, mingling with the coppery tang of blood.

Recent victories over the brutal slaying of Penthesilea emboldened the Greeks with unrelenting determination—so much it had driven the Trojans back inside their city walls by sunset.

Fueled by the scent of imminent triumph they had even decided to camp close to Troy, fires flickering defiantly against the horizon.

The faint sight of Greek banners swaying in the distance had loomed over the walls of Troy like a forewarning. The proximity itself was an deliberate intimidation tactic that spoke volumes: the war was nearing its conclusion.

Yet, to everyone’s shock, the Trojans had rallied.

You could hardly believe it when you and the other Greeks, standing atop the ridge at dawn, spotted their banners rising from the city gates. The Trojans were assembling, a determined force spilling from the safety of their walls to meet you in battle once more.

It defied reason.

Were they suicidal? Desperate? Or was this some last act of defiance, a refusal to die caged like animals? Whatever their reason they fought with a ferocity that rivaled even the Myrmidons.

But so did you.

Swinging your axe in a silver arc it splits a Trojan soldier’s breastplate causing a spray of blood that flecked your cheeks. Bodies crumpled in your wake as you pressed forward, paving the way for the Greek forces advancing behind you.

Penelope had granted you permission to join the frontlines once more. She had heard of you on the front lines yesterday—your ability to hold ground and inspire those around you: “Prove yesterday wasn’t luck.”

Through the maelstrom of violence you could see Achilles ahead flashing like a beacon.

He was a whirlwind of death; his spear flashing like a bolt of lightning as he cut down any Trojan in his path. His savagery was unmatched, his movements fluid and deadly as the corpses of his enemies piled at his feet.

The air turned syrupy.

Your next breath stuck in your throat as the battlefield froze—a spear halted mid-thrust, a drop of blood suspended in air, Achilles’ sword glinting motionless above a crumpled foe.

Protect him...

Confusion gripped you at the ethereal voice filling your head, your movements halting as though you’d been pulled underwater.

“Thetis?” you breathed, your gaze darting around, though her presence was nowhere to be seen.

Protect him... Thetis urges again. His heel. Let no blade touch it. No arrow. No stone.

A vision flickered behind your eyes: Achilles falling, an arrow lodging in his ankle, Paris holding a bow as the Apollo’s sigil hovers above him.

Stop. It.

Time snapped back.

You lunged before your lungs finished emptying. With gritted teeth you drove your axe into the chest of a Trojan soldier lunging toward you, your focus sharper than ever.

Achilles. You had to reach him.

You surged forward, hacking your way through the enemy ranks, Thetis’ words echoed in your mind as your eyes darted constantly to Achilles who was still pushing ahead, oblivious to the growing danger around him.

It was then that you noticed something—an unsettling pattern. Many of the Trojans seemed to aim their strikes toward Achilles’s lower body, their spears and swords targeting his legs and ankles.

Each attack was intercepted either by Achilles himself or by the swift intervention of his immortal horses Xanthos and Balius. It was clear that these weren’t random strikes.

They were deliberate....calculated.

A cold sweat broke out on your brow. Thetis was right.

Rage burned in your chest as you let out a feral war cry, your voice tearing through the chaos of battle. With renewed determination you trampled down anyone who dared approach.

Blood coated your face and armor as you carved a path through the fray, your axe cleaving through flesh and bone with brutal precision the closer you neared.

Achilles was a blur of golden hair and blood-streaks as he moved effortlessly. A Trojan lunged at his flank, spear aimed low—too low—and you were already moving, your axe severing the man’s wrist before he could strike. 

Achilles turned at the sound, his piercing eyes meeting yours. A grin spread across his face, wolfish and unshaken by the chaos around him.

“There you are my wife!” he quips with mock affection. “Fighting so fiercely by my side. Should we celebrate with a feast after this? Or would a kiss suffice?”

Despite the fear thrumming in your veins you couldn’t help but huff in exasperation. “Just keep your focus,” you snapped as you swung at another approaching Trojan.

Achilles smiles, his sword flashing as he struck down an enemy soldier.

“Careful,” he murmured, suddenly too close, his breath warm against your ear as he parried a stray javelin. “People will think you actually like me.”

You didn’t grace him with a reply; your heart clenching at the ease he displayed in the face of such peril.

For a fleeting moment the two of you fought side by side seamlessly as you cut through the enemy ranks. You could feel the weight of Thetis’ warning pressing down on you,

Tightening your grip on your axe, you resolved that you couldn’t let your guard falter—not even for a second.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

Achilles’ laughter was still in your ears. Blood streaked his jaw, his eyes alight with the madness of a man who’d never tasted fear.

The Greeks had pushed the Trojans so far back that the walls of Troy not far behind them.

Your attention on him shatters when a shadow loomed over him. From the corner of your eye you saw the figure approaching—tall, commanding, and unmistakably regal.

The man moved with the authority of a King and the strength of a warrior. His armor glinted gold under the sun, his ebony skin shimmered with sweat from the heat of battle. In his hand he held a spear that gleamed wickedly.

“Achilles!”

He turned just in time to block the strike aimed at his head.

Their weapons clashed, the force of the impact sending shockwaves through the air. “Memnon,” Achilles growled as his grin dropped with a look of fierce determination.

The King of Ethiopia.

Even you had heard tales of Memnon—the son of Eos Goddess of the dawn and Tithonus a mortal Prince. Known as one of the Trojans’ greatest champions, Memnon was said to rival Achilles in both strength and skill.

His arrival on the battlefield meant only one thing: Troy was throwing everything it had left into this war.

Deciding it was best to leave Achilles to handle the fight you shifted your focus back to the surrounding Trojans. If Memnon occupied Achilles then it was up to you to ensure no Trojan soldiers could exploit his distraction.

You cut through the enemies with precision, your axe a blur of silver and gold as you fought your way through the throng. The clash of weapons and the roar of battle faded into the background as you stole glances at Achilles and Memnon’s duel.

Their battle was ferocious, both of them moving with speed and power that was nearly inhuman. Spears clashed, shields splintered, and dust rose around them like a storm.

The duel seemed to last an eternity; each warrior matching the other blow for blow in deadly and calculated strikes. Unfortunately for the Trojans, the son of Peleus was a Demigod whose very being was honed for war.

With a final devastating strike he drove his spear into Memnon’s chest.

The Ethiopian King staggered, his face a mask of shock as he collapsed to the ground, his blood pooling around him like a dark tide.

Achilles stood over him as he stared down at the fallen warrior. He then raised his spear, letting out a roar of victory that sent chills through friend and foe alike.

Your triumph was short-lived.

As the Trojans reeled from the loss of their champion your eyes darted across the battlefield. That was when you spotted him.

Paris.

The Trojan Prince stood not far from the battle’s edge, his infamous bow in hand with an arrow already notched and drawn. The golden string glinted under the sun as he took aim, his sharp gaze on Achilles.

But it wasn’t just Paris that made your blood run cold.

On the lone tower of Troy’s walls a faint shimmer caught your eye. At first you thought it was a trick of the light, but as you squinted the outline of a figure became clear—taller than mortal limits, a God-like being wreathed in aura like molten gold that pulsed with divine energy.

Though no features were discernible you didn’t need to see them to know.

“Apollo...” you whispered as your heart dropped.

The arrow loosed.

You were moving before it cleared the bow.

Your axe moved on instinct, swinging upward in a desperate arc resulting in the weapon to shatter upon impact. Splinters rained down as you caught the returning arrowhead and whirled to bury it in a Trojan’s ribs.

There was no time to breathe. Paris was already preparing another shot.

You clenched your teeth and moved closer. “Achilles!”

Achilles didn't hear you. Of course not. He was knee-deep in slaughter, singing some bawdy tavern song as he fought.

“Achilles fall back—”

A sudden, unnatural force slammed into you from the side.

You went down hard, teeth rattling as your axe flew from your grip and landed several feet away. Your head whipped around to see it was a Greek soldier—one of Diomedes’ men—who had tackled and pinned you down.

But something was wrong. His eyes glowed with a sheen of gold, his strength far beyond the average man.

 “Mortal meddler.” A otherworldly voice, full of warmth yet somehow spoken coldly slithered from his throat. “Did you think to rob me of this triumph? To steal the glory of his death?”

“Apollo,” you hissed as you struggled in his grip.

The possessed soldier simply grinned. “You think to defy fate?” His voice was laced with divine mockery, his fingers closing on your windpipe. “His thread is cut. Yours will follow.”

You thrashed, clawing at the soldier’s face, but Apollo’s grip held. Achilles’ golden helm bobbed in your periphery, drifting farther away. Paris notched another arrow.

'No. No. NO!!' Your scream tore raw—“Achilles!”—but the battlefield swallowed it whole. The possessed soldier laughed, gold ichor dripping from his nostrils.

Adrenaline surged through your veins; your eyes spot the axe lying just out of reach. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to get to it. To do something...anything.

And then you felt it.

A strange vibration bloomed in your chest, spreading outward like a pulse of energy. It traveled down your arm and into your hand which were outstretched toward the axe. Your axe shuddered.

The sensation was unfamiliar—raw, wild, and unrelenting.

Then....silence.

The roar of clashing armies vanished. No screams. No ringing. Just the beating of your heart and the vibration now humming in your teeth. Your vision tunneled; the axe, the arrow, Achilles fighting, his heel exposed.

Your fingers twitched. The vibration sharpened to a scream. Breath hitched, a single word slipped from your lips, unbidden and unconscious:

 “Epíklēsis.”

The axe leaped.

It erupted from the ground in a spray of dirt, hurtling toward your palm as if reeled by the Gods themselves. Cracking into your grip the force shuddered up your arm as you swung blindly with a roar.

The blade bit deep. The soldier’s head toppled, his golden eyes dimming as Apollo’s presence snapped away like a severed cord. 

Your mind raced, struggling to comprehend what had just happened. Thetis never mentioned this.

But there was no time to dwell on it. Shaking the thought away, you scrambled to your feet as the sounds around rushed back, ignoring the axe's strange warmth.

Your eyes locked onto Achilles. He was still fighting, his spear striking down enemy after enemy with brutal efficiency.

Paris released the arrow.

You ran forward with every ounce of strength you had. The battlefield blurred around you as you pushed through the bodies, slashing and shoving, your mind screaming one desperate command: Get to him.

But you weren’t fast enough.

It struck.

The arrow buried itself in Achilles’s heel.

Your breath hitched as the world seemed to freeze. Achilles staggered, his spear and shield slipping from his hands as pain contorted his face.

“ACHILLES!” you released a heartbreaking scream.

His head turned (seeking you instinctively) and your gazes locked. He smiled. Not a smirk, but something softer....truer.

Then he fell.

You don’t remember crossing the distance. Only the bodies—so many bodies—hewn apart by your axe. By the time you reached him his skin was already cooling.

The Prince of Phthia, Leader of the Myrmidons lay motionless—his golden hair splayed across the dirt, his chest unnervingly still. No wound but that damned arrow embedded in his tendon, the fletching stained with Apollo’s sigil.

You drop to your knees beside him before dragging him onto your lap, fingers pressed to his throat as if you could bring a pulse back.

But it was too late. He was gone.

A scream tore from your throat, a sound that echoed across the battlefield.

Achilles, the greatest of the Greeks, was dead.