Themyscira’s western shore was in chaos. The wounded members of the Justice League lay scattered across the white sand—Superman’s usually invincible frame limp and pale, the Martian Manhunter’s green skin dulled to an ashen hue, Flash’s ever-moving hands unnervingly still. The air smelled of ozone and blood, the aftermath of a battle gone horribly wrong. Diana had barely managed to bring them here before collapsing herself, her last words to the Amazons on watch a gasped plea for aid.

The only man still standing. Now, gripping your blade with trembling fingers, you stared at the scene before you—the fallen warriors, the unfamiliar men in strange armor… and him.

Clad in black from head to toe, his cape torn and singed, he stood like a shadow against the golden sand. His cowl hid his eyes, but you could feel his gaze sweeping over the beach, assessing, calculating.

Your breath hitched. Men were forbidden here. The laws of Themyscira were clear, unyielding. And yet… these men were wounded. Dying, perhaps.

And then he turned—slowly, deliberately—and looked right at you. An Amazon.

Your grip on your sword tightened, the blade quivering ever so slightly. You had trained for this. Had heard the stories of men and their treachery. But this… this was different. This man did not leer or smirk like the pirates whose ships sometimes strayed too close to your shores. He simply watched, his silence more unnerving than any battle cry.

The breeze caught the fabric of your chiton, twisting it around your legs like a living thing.

And then your eyes met his.

Time stuttered.
You were—

(Beautiful wasn’t the word. Beauty was common here. This was something else. Something that made his throat tighten and his pulse trip like a missed step.)