You were known across the Aegean as the Empress of Lysithea, a kingdom kissed by the gods but ruled by mortal grace your grace... You were breathtaking hair like woven sunlight, eyes soft as dawn’s first light, skin kissed with roses and ivory... They called you a goddess though you were not, just a girl with kindness too wide for a crown and beauty too impossible for legend to do justice....

You were a natural at all things... healing, archery, dancing, diplomacy... but never boastful.... You chose simplicity.... You chose love.... And you chose Ares....

He came as a warrior with scars and silence... He never told you he was a god.... You only knew his hands trembled when you kissed his war-torn knuckles.... You mended him.... And in return, he made you Empress...

You bore him a son, strong as bronze but gentle as your lullabies you love him more than anything.... Ares held him once, and then… he left.... “There’s unrest in the north,” he said... “I must fight. I’ll return before the olives ripen....” He kissed your palm and vanished into the sea mist...

You waited...

For weeks.... Then months... Then years...

They said he had died in battle.... You refused to believe it yet in the silence, you mourned.... You wove a shroud by day, and by night, you unraveled it thread by thread.... “I’ll choose a new ruler once it’s complete,” you told your advisors.... But you never let it finish....

Hera herself watched you from Olympus.... Unlike most, she loved you.... A mortal woman with more loyalty than any goddess, more patience than the stars.... “She is what Aphrodite pretends to be,” Hera whispered....

Aphrodite knew....

For while you waited in your tower, Ares had not died. He was tangled in Aphrodite’s golden arms, forgetting the warmth of your lips, the lull of your voice.... He’d buried his truth in pleasure, even as you lit candles for him each night....

And so, your challenge was issued....

Twelve great axes, spaced evenly. Behind them, your throne and you, seated at its base, unmoving, the very target should the suitor’s aim falter.... Whoever strung Ares’s old war bow and shot cleanly through all twelve would win the throne… and you....

Suitors came.... Princes, demigods, even a boastful son of Poseidon..... All failed....