THEMYSCIRA
PALACE
Morning
In the seclusion of her private quarters, Queen Hyppolita sat upon the silken folds of her great bed, the sheets half-tangled around her bare thighs. The morning sun poured in through open lattice windows, casting long streaks of amber across the polished floor. The scent of lavender and sea-salt lingered in the air, a quiet perfume of serenity and discipline.
She sat, half-draped in her sleeping shift, staring blankly ahead—her gaze unfocused, her thoughts deep, buried beneath years of rule, centuries of expectation. Her breasts rose and fell with slow breaths. In that moment, she was not queen—just a woman alone with her thoughts.
K! K!
A firm knock echoed against the heavy wooden door, snapping her from reverie. A flicker of annoyance passed across her regal face, but it vanished just as quickly.
"Come in," she said coolly.
The door creaked open. Antiope entered with a purposeful stride, her battle-toned frame wrapped in a dark bronze tunic, the hem parted high on one thigh. Her presence was a contrast of sternness and allure, like all things Amazon.
"You're up early," Hyppolita said, narrowing her eyes slightly. "What's the matter?"
Antiope smirked, her tone laced with dry sarcasm. "Greetings to you too, sister. Ever the warm-hearted one."
She sat beside her queen without ceremony, the bed sinking slightly beneath her weight.
"No one accompanied you last night?" she asked, raising a brow, eyes trailing briefly over Hyppolita's bare shoulder.
On Themyscira, sharing a bed with the queen was not scandal—it was prestige. An ancient rite of closeness, of loyalty. For the Amazons, physical affection was not weakness, it was binding.
"I have duties," Hyppolita replied, standing from the bed. Her shift fell to mid-thigh, sheer against the light. She crossed the room toward a ceramic jug resting in a carved niche. She retrieved a cool earthen cup, opened the vessel, and filled it with spring water, drinking deeply.
"The pleasures of flesh soften the will," she said between sips. "Too much indulgence leads to ruin."
Antiope frowned, arms folded beneath her breasts. "They're not just for pleasure. They're your shield. You forget the court is your first line of defense. If there were an attempt on your life, it would come from the shadows, from within. The bed is more than comfort—it is strategy."
Hyppolita looked at her sideways, unimpressed. "You think I am so weak I'd be slain in my sleep?"
Antiope rose now, stepping closer. "No, I think you are queen. And queens do not walk alone. You isolate yourself. Lyssipe is not enough. You must bed more of your inner circle—draw them close. Win their loyalty not just with orders, but with your touch. That's how mother did it. You should too."
Hyppolita made her way to a dresser, hand-carved from black cedar by masterful artisans. Its surface was etched with ancient Themysciran symbols. She sat before it, retrieving a wooden comb. The mirror reflected a goddess—half-mortal. Her hair fell like a veil of darkness, her skin dusky and smooth.
"Our mother," Hyppolita said as she ran the comb through her hair, "was not a demi-goddess. She could not hear a whisper from across the courtyard or shatter granite with her fists. I am not her. Nor will I rule like her."
"It has been thousands of years," Antiope replied, voice softening, "yet still you resist what must be done. The young ones, they're hungry—girls like Agape. They crave your favor. Ambition burns in them, and not just in the old blood either. The court is shifting."
"In a kingdom ruled by women," Hyppolita said, "a queen who withholds affection rules coldly. But one who spreads her legs for loyalty is no better than a man."
Antiope said nothing at first. She simply walked toward the fruit table and plucked a ripe fig. "It's not lust that keeps the court together. It's gravity. You are the sun, sister. Let them orbit you."
Hyppolita paused mid-stroke of her comb. Her gaze in the mirror hardened.
"…Speaking of indulgence," Antiope continued, biting into the fruit, "word from the dungeons. Our prisoners… were used last night. There was an orgy. A violent one. More than a dozen men died."
The comb stopped.
"…Who authorized this?" Hyppolita asked, voice low and sharp, her expression darkening.
Antiope chewed slowly. "That's the strange part. No one. According to the witnesses—if they can be believed—it just happened. They say it was spontaneous. No leader. No plan. Just… sudden lust."
Hyppolita's eyes narrowed.
This was not custom. The men were not loved, only kept. Breeding stock, to be handled dispassionately. If there was intimacy to be had, it was with sisters—sacred and sensual, a rite of bonding. What happened last night was not only undisciplined—it was foreign.
"There will be fewer men for the seed harvest now…" she said coldly. "Have Lyssipe investigate. Detain the ones involved. Find the truth."
"I already did," Antiope said, licking fig juice from her thumb. "That's why I came to you. You may want to see the bodies yourself. And… detaining them all may be a problem."
Hyppolita turned in the mirror, her eyes meeting Antiope's. "Why?"
"Our dungeons… simply can't hold them."
"…How many?"
Antiope grimaced.
DUNGEON YARD
Later that morning
"By Dionysus' hairy balls—six hundred and sixty-six?! Really?"!!!
Heracles stood arms folded, eyes wide, before the smoldering remains of a bonfire. The chaos sprawled before him: Amazons shackled, heads bowed in exhaustion, their bodies still slick with sweat and dirt and the scent of sex. Some lay bare-breasted in chains, others draped in nothing but shame. Dozens of male corpses were being hauled to a tent nearby.
In front of it stood Lyssipe, her expression stormy, flanked by commanders in bronze and leather, speaking in low voices.
"I swear on the Styx," cried one panicked Amazon, "I don't remember! I don't remember anything!"
Heracles scoffed. "Sure. A blackout sex-frenzy massacre. That's original." He leaned in toward the accused Amazon with a smirk. "And I'm supposed to be the beast?"
The captured warriors hissed at him in contempt.
"What are you even doing here, Heracles?" Lyssipe snapped, glaring daggers. "You're not permitted here."
"I'm no longer your prisoner," he said smugly. "I go where I please."
Lyssipe's hand fell to the hilt of her blade.
Heracles didn't flinch.
The tension thickened.
"Enough."
The sound of hooves against stone broke the moment. Hyppolita had arrived, dismounting in one fluid motion, her cloak trailing behind her. Her presence was unmistakable—authority wrapped in curves and steel. Antiope walked at her side.
"Why are you here?" she asked Heracles, her voice a blade sheathed in disdain.
"I completed my task," he said, "but he wanted privacy. Said I could do as I pleased."
"I told you to stay close to him," she said sharply.
"No—you sent me to spy. He caught on."
Hyppolita's jaw tensed. She looked away, ashamed.
Heracles grinned. "Don't worry. Your secret's safe."
Hyppolita moved past him, surveying the chaos, then turned to Lyssipe.
"…Where is Agape?"
A pause.
Heracles gave a scoff and pointed behind the tent.
"There."
Hyppolita's gaze followed.
Her breath caught.
Amid the collapsed, sprawled forms of Amazon warriors lay Agape—bare, bruised, unconscious. Her body glistened with sweat and something more depraved. Her hair was tangled, her lips parted as if mid-sigh.
The queen's heart sank into her gut.
Something was very wrong.