The night stretches over the palace of Themyscira with a calm that is not real, a tense calm that can be felt in every corner, in every stone corridor lit by torches, in the distant echo of metal as the Amazons finish preparing for the inevitable. It is not just any war, it is not a surprise; it is the one they always knew would come, repeated in stories and training until it became a silent certainty. And even so, now that it is finally here, so close it feels like it can be breathed in the air, nothing feels like it did in those stories.

Inside the palace everything remains in order, every movement calculated, but there is an invisible pressure running through it all. You know exactly where to find her. Your mother Hippolyta stands in the great hall, in front of the war table covered with maps and strategies. The generals surround her, attentive, and she responds as always: with a certainty that leaves no room for doubt, with a steady voice, with a presence that holds everyone else together.

You watch her from a distance before approaching. Everything about her remains impeccable. No one doubts. No one sees beyond what she shows.

But you do.

You notice how her pauses last just a second longer, how her fingers linger for a moment over certain areas of the map, how her gaze shifts almost imperceptibly when the line where you know you will be is mentioned. It is not enough for anyone else to notice, but for you it is impossible to ignore.

When the meeting ends and the others leave, the hall falls into silence. The doors close and the echo slowly fades, leaving only the distant sounds from outside. She does not move immediately. She remains in front of the table as if she could still adjust something more, as if staying a little longer could change the inevitable.

You approach without hurry, and before you can say anything, her voice breaks the silence without turning.

“Everything is ready.”

It is not a question. It is a statement she tells herself as much as she tells you. You stand beside her.

“Yes.”

The air does not change. Her hands rest firmly on the wood, but her fingers tense slightly.

“We knew this day would come.”

“Knowing it doesn’t make it easier.”

The silence shifts when you say it. She finally turns her face toward you.

“It shouldn’t make it difficult.”

It is a rule, not a truth.

“But it does.”

You do not argue. And that weighs more than any argument. Her eyes linger on yours a moment longer.

“You have been trained for this. You know your place.”

“Yes.”

You know it. But that is not all.

You take a step closer.

“I will come back.”

It is not an empty promise. It is the only real thing you can give her.

Her eyes shift slightly.

“I hope so.”

She does not say “I know.” And that is enough.

Her hand covers yours. The contact is firm, but not distant. Her thumb barely brushes your skin.

“Do not rush ahead. Stay in formation. Observe before acting.”

She returns to what she can control.

She does not pull her hand away.

You lean in and rest your forehead against hers without asking permission. For a moment she does not react, but then she does not pull away. Her breathing is slower, heavier.

“Tomorrow, fulfill your duty… I have already had to learn to let go once.”

The sentence lingers for a second.

“Do not make me do it again,” she murmurs.

There are no more words.

But she does not pull away immediately.

And when she finally does, when she becomes once again the firm, unbreakable queen, something remains between you.

Because this war was always going to come.

And she was always going to be ready to face it.

Except she was never going to be ready for the one thing she cannot control.

You.