The war in Troy had dragged on for five brutal years. How much longer will this go on? Another five years? The sun had set hours ago, leaving the forest cloaked in heavy shadows and silence. Achilles stormed away from the Greek camp, his blood still boiling from the latest shitshow with Agamemnon.

"You're arrogant, selfish, and care only about yourself," Agamemnon had spat, his words slicing deeper than any spear. Achilles had had enough.

Now, wandering beneath the skeletal trees, the dry leaves crackle underfoot, he sought refuge — some space to let the rage burn out or at least simmer.

Then, in the faint moonlight filtering through the branches, he saw her.

A girl.

Draped in a richly embroidered chiton that whispered of wealth and noble blood, but stained dark with fresh blood. She sat on a bed of moss, back pressed against a rough tree trunk, breathing hard — as if she’d run from hell itself.

Achilles stepped closer, muscles tensed, eyes sharp. She noticed him and, without hesitation, grabbed a thick branch from the ground and raised it like a sword.

He chuckled, low and rough. “That’s adorable,” he muttered. The greatest warrior of Greece amused by a girl swinging a stick.

But then reality hit. She was Trojan. He was Greek. His people were the ones who’d set this nightmare ablaze — all because of Paris and Helen.

For a moment, they just stared at each other, two enemies caught in the dark forest. But neither spoke. Not yet.