The battlefield, once alive with the cacophony of war, now lay silent, shrouded in a thick veil of loss. The death of Patroclus had struck a blow so devastating that even the air seemed to carry the weight of despair. Odysseus, ever the pragmatic strategist, had immediately ordered the retreat of the Greek forces for the day, disregarding Agamemnon’s vehement protests. To continue fighting after such a catastrophic loss would be reckless, a folly driven by the hubris of one man’s unyielding desire to raze Troy to the ground.

    Agamemnon’s obsession with victory had become a reckless flame, consuming logic and reason. His unrelenting push for battle had reached an absurd extreme, but Odysseus was not one to be swayed by arrogance. He recognized the need to preserve what little morale the Greeks had left. Today had been disastrous—a day of unparalleled tragedy. Chiron, the wise and noble centaur; Menelaus, King of Sparta; and Patroclus, beloved companion of Achilles—all had fallen. Their deaths, cruel and senseless, had occurred within mere hours of each other.

    The losses were too great to bear. To push forward now would be suicide, an act of madness born of desperation. Odysseus’s command to retreat was not just a tactical decision but a necessary one. The Greek army, battered and broken, withdrew from the field under the shadow of grief. Their spirits had been shattered; their courage drained to the dregs. Yet, for the first time in the long years of this brutal war, Odysseus’s thoughts were not consumed by the plight of the Greek forces.

    No, his mind was elsewhere—on something far more urgent.

    Patroclus was dead.

    And Achilles didn’t know yet.

    When Patroclus had announced his decision to take part in the battle, leading the Myrmidons into the fray, Odysseus had suspected that Achilles was unaware of the plan—or, at the very least, did not approve of it. Achilles, fiercely protective of Patroclus, would never have allowed his dearest companion to enter the battlefield alone. Yet Odysseus had not stopped him. He had welcomed the help, eager for the strength and valor of the Myrmidons to bolster their dwindling ranks. Now, that decision weighed heavily on him.

    Grief churned in his chest, a bitter storm of guilt and sorrow. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had sent Patroclus to his death. The memory of the young warrior’s kindness, his unwavering sense of justice, lingered painfully in Odysseus’s mind. In many ways, Patroclus had reminded him of Heracles—a rare soul who carried both strength and compassion in equal measure. And now he was gone.

    As if that wasn’t enough, Chiron—the wise and noble mentor who had guided so many of Greece’s greatest heroes—had also perished. It was almost too much to bear.@@@@

    The Greek encampment, once a hive of activity, now felt like a mausoleum. Inside Agamemnon’s grand tent, the once-crowded war council sat nearly empty. The heavy air was suffused with silence, broken only by the faint crackling of torches. Agamemnon slouched on his gilded throne, his face a mask of fury and denial, while Nestor stood somberly behind him, his age-worn face etched with sorrow. Odysseus was the only other figure present. The absence of the other leaders was a grim testament to the day’s bloodshed.

    The Heroes of the Empire of Light, who had once stood as allies in this war, were no longer present either. Their leader, Liphiel, had been slain by Heiron, and with her death, their resolve had crumbled. They had slowly begun to distance themselves from the conflict, their loyalty to the cause waning with each passing hour. Odysseus had noticed their quiet retreat—the subtle packing of belongings, the whispered conversations by the harbor. They were waiting, it seemed, for a ship to carry them back to their distant homeland the LIGHT EMPIRE, far from the cursed plains of Troy.

    In the end, they stood alone, their hopes for reinforcements dwindling into distant fantasies. The weight of their isolation pressed down like a leaden sky, but despite this grim reality, Agamemnon exuded an unshakable confidence. Odysseus could see it in the king’s narrowed gaze and the faint smirk tugging at his lips. And Odysseus knew why.

    Patroclus was dead.

    That fact carried more weight than any battalion of warriors. It was not just a loss but a summons, a harbinger of something fierce and unstoppable.

    "Lord Odysseus!"

    The cry interrupted his thoughts. A soldier burst into the tent, his face alight with a grin so wide it seemed to banish the tension in the air.

    "Achilles has returned!"

    Odysseus froze, his eyes widening as the words sank in. Without hesitation, he pushed past the soldier and rushed out of the tent, his heart pounding in his chest. The dry, dust-filled air outside hit his face, but he barely noticed it. His mind raced faster than his legs as he made his way toward the Myrmidon encampment.

    But beneath his hurried stride, Odysseus’s face was grave. His thoughts churned, grappling for the right words. What could he possibly say? How could he explain what had happened in Achilles’s absence? Every sentence he constructed crumbled under the weight of what it had to carry.

    The walk to the Myrmidons’ camp felt both too long and too short. Before he knew it, he stood before them. The sight was somber—an air of mourning hung over the gathered warriors. The Myrmidons, proud and fierce as they were, avoided meeting his gaze. Their heads were bowed, their bodies tense with unspoken grief.

    "No, she can’t."

    Khillea turned sharply, her golden eyes narrowing as she spotted Agamemnon approaching, his imposing figure framed against the camp’s dim torches. The air seemed to grow heavier as his words hung between them.

    "What did you just say?" Khillea’s tone was sharp, her gaze piercing as it locked onto Agamemnon.

    But Agamemnon did not flinch. Behind him, a group of soldiers emerged, carrying something on a makeshift wooden bier. A heavy cloth covered the shape beneath, its outline unmistakably human. The soldiers moved with quiet solemnity, their faces grim and pale.

    Khillea’s brows furrowed. Her heart quickened, though she refused to acknowledge the dark thought that whispered in the back of her mind.

    Agamemnon strode forward and gestured toward the bier. "See for yourself," he said, his voice steady but cold. Reaching down, he grasped the edge of the cloth and pulled it back in one swift motion.

    Khillea froze.

    Beneath the cloth lay Patroclus, his face pale and still. His chest no longer rose and fell with breath. The golden armor he wore—her armor—was tarnished and mangled, blackened by what could only be burns from a cursed weapon. The once-pristine metal was shattered at the chest, where Paris’s cowardly arrow had struck.

    Silence descended like a shroud over the camp.

    Khillea’s gold eyes widened, ever so slightly, before narrowing again. She did not speak, nor did she move. Her gaze remained locked on Patroclus’s lifeless face. Her expression was unreadable, frozen in an icy calm that defied the storm building within her.

    "He’s dead," Agamemnon said bluntly, as if the finality of the words could pierce the surreal haze that gripped the scene. "The Trojans killed him. Cowardly, from behind. Hector and Paris were the culprits."

    The words reverberated in the air, but Khillea did not react. She did not even blink. Her focus remained fixed on the body of her closest companion, the man who had shared her tent, her victories, and her dreams.

    Odysseus stood nearby, his throat tightening as he observed Khillea’s expression—or rather, the absence of one. He had seen her in countless battles, her face twisted in rage, defiance, or triumph. But this... this silence, this stillness, was more unnerving than anything he had witnessed before.

    "Achill—" Odysseus began, stepping closer. He wanted to say something, anything to comfort her. But before the words could escape his lips, Khillea turned abruptly.

    Without a word, she walked away, her steps measured, her posture rigid.

    The Myrmidons parted to let her pass, their heads bowed, their gazes averted. The silence deepened, save for the faint crackle of the campfires.

    Odysseus started to follow her, but he stopped when he caught a glimpse of her face.

    Khillea’s expression—though fleeting, hidden beneath the dim light—was like a crack in the fac?ade of a mighty temple. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her jaw clenched so tightly it trembled. And her eyes...

    Her golden eyes blazed with a fury so cold it could freeze the world. It was an expression that promised retribution, one that made even the most battle-hardened Myrmidons shudder.

    Odysseus swallowed hard, his heart heavy with dread. He did not need to follow her to know what was coming next.