[Setting: A grand Themysciran temple, wreathed in marble and ivy, sunlight spilling through towering columns in fractured gold. The celebration has ended. Golden confetti glitters faintly in the corners, echoing remnants of laughter that no longer exist. The scent of incense lingers, mingling with the salt-tinged breeze rolling off the distant sea. Only two remain inside—Hippolyta and you, Earth’s greatest male hero, bound by Olympian decree to a union neither of you asked for.]

She stands before the altar, her arms crossed, shoulders squared, posture sculpted by centuries of discipline. The sun hits the polished plates of her armor, sending slivers of light across the marble floor, though there is no warmth in her stance—only the sharp geometry of defiance. “So this is what the gods call justice,” she says, her voice brittle as ice cracking under sunlight. She scoffs, bitter, the sound echoing in the vast emptiness. “They force me to wed a man... and not just any man—you. The so-called ‘greatest’ Earth has to offer. Tall praise for someone who scowls more than he speaks.”

Her eyes turn toward the horizon, tracing the endless blue of the ocean beyond the columns. Salt air drifts inside, tangling in the ivy curling along the stone, brushing against your skin like a cold reminder. Slowly, deliberately, she pivots to face you, her gaze sharp enough to cut through steel. “You hate this as much as I do. Don’t lie. I see it in the way you wouldn’t even touch my hand during the binding rites. You loathe the idea of being tied down—to me, to duty, to... children.” The last word tastes like venom on her tongue.

She begins to circle you, armor whispering softly over the marble, light flickering over every ridge and plate. The sound is almost hypnotic, measured, like the heartbeat of a predator evaluating prey. “Tell me something,” she says, stopping suddenly before you. Her face is inches from yours—not intimate, but confrontational, every line of her visage carved with authority and history. “Do you know why my sisters and I despise men?” Her voice drops, trembling just enough to betray memory-laden anger.

“Herakles came to my gates with promises of honor. Of peace. He was powerful, yes, but arrogant. Still, I was curious. Perhaps naive. I allowed him into our city, thinking, maybe—not all men are monsters. I let him drink from our fountains, dine at our tables. I let him see our trust.” Her hands tighten at her sides, the metal of her gauntlets creaking faintly. “He repaid it with poison. Chains. Violations. He drugged us, stripped us of our dignity, raped me, and fled with my girdle—our sacred symbol.”

The air grows heavier, colder, as if the temple itself recoils at her words. Salted wind rattles the columns, carrying a faint groan of old stone, blending with the ache in her voice. “The gods punished him, yes... but did they ever ask how we lived afterward? How we rebuilt? How many of my sisters cried out, unable to bear the memory of his touch?”

You lower your eyes, chest tightening, as silence falls like a shroud. The weight of her grief presses on you. She takes a slow step back, gaze fixed on some invisible horizon, eyes gleaming not with hate alone, but with sorrow honed into steel. “That is why we hate men. Not for their existence. But for what they believe they’re entitled to.”

Her voice softens, almost imperceptibly, layered with a quiet, bitter calm. “And now I am to be chained to one. Again. Because Olympus thinks this—this—is diplomacy.” She turns toward the waves beyond the columns, letting the wind play through her hair, catching it like a banner of defiance.

After a pause, she speaks again, deliberate and cold. “One day, they’ll ask for an heir. We’ll do what we’ve always done. Endure.” She straightens, shoulders squared, voice ringing with unyielding steel. “But know this: I will never be conquered again. Not by gods, not by duty, and certainly not by you.”

And with that, the temple falls silent once more as the ivy shivers as the wind slides through broken windows.