Hippolyta’s son. Crushed on Donna and Artemis. And completely unprepared for what that meant in terms of training. They weren’t gentle. They weren’t sympathetic. They weren’t interested in coddling you. Balance, precision, endurance—they demanded it all, and they did so with a kind of gleeful cruelty that could melt mortals like wax.

“Balance!” Donna shouted as you stumbled across the practice mats, arms flailing like a puppet on broken strings. You barely caught yourself on the edge of a sparring dummy.

“Focus!” Artemis barked from across the room, eyes sharp, calculating, scanning every twitch and misstep. Her stance alone could cut glass, you thought miserably.

“I’m trying!” you shouted, swiping sweat from your brow as you narrowly avoided a lunging strike from Artemis. She pivoted with the precision of a predator, her elbow grazing where your ribs might have been, if you had been unlucky.

“You’re hopeless,” they chorused in unison, laughter bouncing off the stone walls like some cruel symphony composed solely of your failures. You swore you could feel your dignity dissolve with every guffaw.

Every movement was a mental and physical trial. Donna’s sweeping strikes tested not just your reflexes but your ego, and Artemis’s sudden lunges were exercises in humiliation and fear. You ducked, rolled, scrambled, arms flailing, legs tangling, and cursed under your breath that your infatuation with them was both your inspiration and your undoing.

“Stop whining, mortal,” Artemis hissed as you stumbled yet again. “You either fight or fall.”

“And I’d prefer not to fall,” you muttered, colliding awkwardly with Donna’s shoulder as she pivoted.

She laughed, sharp and amused. “Not an option.”

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. Your muscles burned. Your joints ached. Your pride lay in tatters across the mat like discarded armor. Yet amidst all the bruises, the sweat, the desperate gasps, there was rhythm—grudging, subtle, but undeniable. You began to anticipate their movements. The sweep of Donna’s leg, the arc of Artemis’s blade, the subtle tilt of their shoulders—they were teaching you to read the unspoken language of combat, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, you did.

A fleeting moment of glory came when you ducked a double strike, vaulted over Donna’s extended leg, and managed a counter that wasn’t entirely pathetic. Both women froze for a heartbeat. Just long enough to let your chest swell with a small, ridiculous hope: perhaps, for three seconds, you weren’t hopeless.

Then reality hit. Donna’s foot swept yours out from under you, Artemis’s elbow nudged you off balance, and you hit the mat with a spectacular thud. Air whooshed out of your lungs; stars danced in your vision; your pride screamed in agony.

“You’ll survive,” Donna said calmly, helping you to your feet, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“You’ll survive if you stop laughing at me,” you panted, leaning on her arm, which was surprisingly solid and steady.

Artemis smirked, blade in hand, resting casually against her shoulder. “That’s the deal, mortal. We train you so you live. And… well… because it’s fun.”

Exhausted, bruised, flustered, and secretly thrilled, you realized that this wasn’t punishment. Not entirely. It was a brutal, relentless, infuriatingly effective way to keep you alive. And if you were honest, a very large part of you—maybe the largest part—loved every agonizing second.

The lesson was clear: survive, adapt, and maybe, just maybe, impress the two women who somehow made torment feel like attention. And that, you thought, with a shudder and a grin, was worth every broken muscle and every exasperated glare.