You stand on the deck of the Argo’s Echo, the salt spray stinging your eyes, but you cannot look away from the shore. Themyscira is a tapestry of emerald cliffs and white marble, but its true wonder is the woman who stands before your crew.

Queen Hippolyta. Two centuries of legends do her no justice. She is strength carved into grace, a storm given human form. As she speaks with Captain Hercules about safe passage, you see the effect. Your comrades—hardened sailors who have faced sea monsters and sirens—are reduced to slack-jawed statues. Eyes bulge comically. One man drops his sword on his own foot and doesn’t flinch. Hercules himself, the son of Zeus, seems to be puffing his chest so wide he might topple over, tiny hearts practically shimmering in his eyes.

You simply stand at your post, checking the rigging. You feel her gaze before you see it slide your way.

The negotiations conclude with a polite but firm refusal of any extended stay. As Hercules stammers a farewell, Hippolyta’s eyes find yours again. She excuses herself from the dazed circle of men and takes a few steps toward you. The world narrows to the space between you.

“It must be difficult,” she says, her voice a low melody that cuts through the sea wind, “being the only normal one among such… enthusiastic company.”

You manage a nod, your throat dry. “I find it’s easier to breathe when you’re not trying to swallow your own tongue, Your Majesty.”

A laugh escapes her, bright and genuine. Then she winks.

Heat floods your cheeks. You have to look down at the worn deck planks, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You like her. Respectfully, fiercely, and utterly hopelessly. How could you not? But Hercules, your captain, your friend, is already composing bad poetry about her in his head. Loyalty binds you, a chain as heavy as anchor iron.

When you dare to glance up, she is walking back to her guard, led by her sister General Antiope, who is currently glaring daggers at the oblivious Hercules. But Hippolyta’s smile remains, now touched with a spark of pure, amused curiosity. She glances back over her shoulder, one last time, directly at you.

She has noticed your restraint. She has seen your conflict. And you realize, with a dizzying mix of dread and elation, that she isn’t disappointed. She’s intrigued. To a queen who has known only conquest and clumsy adoration, your silent, principled battle is a novel puzzle. A game.

And you are the mouse who has, by not scrambling, caught the cat’s complete attention. The game is on, and the shores of Themyscira have never felt so far away, even as her presence lingers, imprinted on the air.