THEMYSCIRA – PRISON QUARTERS
"You can't be serious. She left without me?" Heracles barked incredulously, his voice echoing down the stone corridor as he was escorted deeper into the prison wing. Unlike the arcane dungeon where he'd once been bound in enchanted chains, this place stank of sweat, rusted iron, and despair. Heavy steel doors lined the corridor—each one a silent monument to the Amazonian policy on prisoners of war.
The warriors flanking him remained unmoved by his protests. One of them rolled her eyes at his indignation. Not long ago, this same demigod had begged not to leave Themyscira—now he whined about being left behind.
"This is why you don't put your trust in women," Heracles muttered bitterly. "Hey, where are you taking me? Aren't you worried I'll escape? These chains won't hold me. Just send me back to my 'private suite.'"
No answer.
He flinched slightly as groans and gasps echoed from behind some of the thick steel doors. His eyes darted around—uneasy, but trying to mask it with bravado. His imagination filled in the details: dimly lit cells, piles of broken pride, and Amazonian warriors "harvesting" what they deemed useful from their captives.
Sigh.
He finally fell silent. There was nothing he could do here. With Olympus demanding his return, it was only a matter of time. That's likely why they'd moved him here—not for punishment, but convenience. Hermes would likely be the one to retrieve him.
They stopped at the farthest cell. The Amazons ushered him in. He ducked beneath the low arch, his towering form clearly ill-fitted for such a crude space. The chains binding him clinked heavily against the stone floor.
"Show me the shackles," one of the guards ordered, her voice sharp unkind.
Heracles frowned but extended his arms.
With a metallic click, she released the locks. The shackles clattered to the ground, cracking the stone beneath them from the sheer weight.
He stared at her, baffled.
"You're… sure about this?"
The Amazon nodded once.
"A gesture of goodwill from the Queen. We face a great enemy ahead—it is wise to let go of old grudges… temporarily."
"Then why here?" Heracles asked, scanning the grim cell.
"You're not worthy of our hospitality." Her tone was cold now. "Feel free to try escaping or harming one of us. Olympus will hear of your treachery."
She slammed the gate shut—but didn't lock it. With that, they turned and walked away.
"Mad women," Heracles grumbled as he sat down on the cold stone, leaning back against the cracked wall. He barely noticed the filth. He'd been in worse.
Groans and muffled moans continued from other cells—rhythmic, primal, disturbing.
He shut his eyes.
It had been days since he last ate or slept. A demigod still needed rest to function at full strength, and the Amazons knew that. Sleep deprivation had dulled his edge. Slowly, despite the discomfort, exhaustion overtook him.
Until—
"ARGHHH—PLEASE! MERCY!"
A scream shattered his drifting thoughts.
Heracles groaned in frustration, rubbing his temples.
"Could you keep it down?! Some of us are trying to sleep! I don't care how good it is, you lucky bastard—just be quiet!"
His voice echoed through the prison, drowning—if only for a moment—the helpless cries of the man on the other side of the wall. But the moans only grew louder, more voices joining in.
Heracles rolled over on the hard floor.
"I hate this place."
The chains beside him rattled as he shifted for a more tolerable position.
'Why are they so enthusiastic all of a sudden? Normally they'd kill them after 'use.' Now they call more to join. Strange...'
He closed his eyes again, forcing his mind to go blank.
"Whatever." he muttered.
THEMYSCIRA – TEMPLE BALCONY
"I told you it was a bad idea."
Antiope's fingers moved with care across Hippolyta's shoulders, easing the tension knotted beneath the queen's skin.
Hippolyta didn't speak. Her gaze remained locked on the reflective surface of the sacred pool before them, where the moonlight shimmered like silver oil. The breeze whispered across the water, cooling her fevered mind, but it could not dispel the memory—the image of Athena, struggling, her body trembling in the air before Atrius.
What did he do to her?
A mistake. A grave misstep. One born from pride and curiosity.
"I disrespected him." Hippolyta finally said, her voice distant. "I tried to probe him... like a goddess would a man. But he is not a man. And he knew it."
"Yes," Antiope agreed gently. "And still he didn't kill her. That's... something."
Hippolyta nodded slowly.
"What do I do now?" she asked, not as a queen—but as a woman who had trespassed too far.
"You apologize," Antiope said, her voice calm and firm. "We need to buy time. Athena's state is unknown. Aretha hasn't spoken a word since returning. She only mutters nonsense and stares at nothing. Whatever he did, it didn't kill her—but it broke something."
She stood and walked toward the pool. Her fingers undid her garment, letting it fall to the polished stone beneath her. She stepped into the cool water—her form statuesque, carved from war and discipline, feminine yet formidable.
"He has power over the mind, perhaps the spirit too. Whatever it is, it's better that it serves us than Olympus."
She submerged herself with a soft splash.
"We must gain his favor. Bind him to our people. Even if he is male—especially because he is male. A god of such strength could free us from the yoke of divine interference once and for all."
Her words rippled through the quiet