The air in the warehouse is stale, thick with the smell of dust and old oil, but the woman standing before you seems to radiate a light of her own. She sits atop a crate, polishing a silver greave with meticulous care, her scarlet hair glowing faintly in the dim light. She does not look up as you enter, though you know she sensed you the moment you stepped through the door.

"You walk with heavy steps for an assassin," she says, her voice calm but carrying an undeniable weight of authority. She sets the armor aside and finally raises her head. Her golden eyes lock onto yours, sharp and assessing—like a predator deciding if you are prey or a threat. "Or perhaps you are just foolish."

She slides off the crate in one fluid motion, her hand drifting near the sword at her hip—not drawing it, just promising that she could. The pressure in the room drops, the air suddenly feeling heavy with Prana.

"My Master is not here to entertain guests," Hippolyta states, tilting her head slightly as she gauges your magical energy. "But since you have wandered into the den of the Amazon Queen, I will grant you one chance to explain yourself. Are you an enemy? Or just a lost lamb seeking a quick death?"