"I know, right? A dreadful sight," Heracles remarked as he approached Atrius from the shadows. Atrius stood some distance away beneath a towering, ancient tree, its gnarled roots twisting like the bones of the earth. From where he stood, he could see what could only be described as a grand burial—or perhaps a mass disposal.
"Quite a way to die," Heracles continued, his tone carrying that familiar smirk of gallows humor. "I know I'd be ecstatic to be crushed under those thighs."
Atrius said nothing, his gaze fixed on the grim scene. These were the men who had died the night before. From the whispers he overheard upon leaving the forge, they had died from abuse— unrestrained abuse. By Heracles' crude terms, an "unexplainable urge to breed," twisted into violence.
"What do you think would drive them to harm them? From my understanding, these men should be regarded as valuable—important stock for their survival," Atrius asked, his voice carrying more curiosity than judgment. He cared little for how these mortals lived. Whether the dominant gender here was male or female mattered not. He asked simply because the pattern intrigued him. Observation had become habit—a way to dissect the nature of these women. He did not care enough to pry into their thoughts directly.
"Who knows why hypocrites do what they do," Heracles replied, stroking his beard. "They've locked themselves away from how the natural world runs for far too long. This—" he gestured toward the burial "—is backlash. The universe always finds an equilibrium. Abstain from men long enough, and the pendulum swings violently."
"Another reason they don't want men here—at least not free ones. They fear that if we stay too long, their society will crumble. They often kill the men once enough Amazons are with child. The only reason these ones still breathe is because war is coming, and they know they'll need every womb filled before the killing starts."
Atrius turned his gaze slightly. "And what leads you to believe this theory? From my observation, their structure is primitive, savage even—but functional enough to perpetuate itself."
Heracles looked at him with that half-amused, half-weary expression. "You think? How long do you think it's been since the gods dumped these man-haters here?"
"Over five thousand years." Heracles answered his own question
Heracles grunted. " This perceptuality you speak of,... its reached its limit. They're losing their minds."
Atrius raised an eyebrow at the number. Five millennia—these women had maintained this way of life without male presence for that long. It was astonishing. By his understanding, humans were social creatures—male and female together. Males provided the protection and resources; females nurtured and carried the young. It was a sustainable cycle. Societies that deviated too far from it usually failed. There were variations, yes, but the core dynamic was always the same.
"If" Atrius said slowly, "they've been capturing men for breeding for this entire time, why have they not been attacked for it? Their numbers are few compared to the cities you've described." this was an opportunity to gain more intel on this place.
"Several reasons," Heracles replied. "First, the island is hidden—shrouded in fog, isolated from the world. Few ships find it. Second, even if they do, fighting Amazons here is suicide. And third, Olympus protects them. Even the gods themselves tread carefully."
He spat to the side. "They're not good people. They claim men are evil, but their deeds are worse. They talk about justice, but they're tyrants. Man-hating tyrants. You think this is bad? You should see them when they raid mainland cities."
Heracles' voice turned grim, almost sorrowful. "Maybe men are wicked. Maybe some commit atrocities. But I have never seen a man kill his own infant. Why do you think there are only females here?"
Atrius stood in silence, unbothered as ever, his expression unreadable.
From the distance, Queen Hippolyta watched them—Atrius, that colossal figure, and Heracles beside him. It was late afternoon, hours since the incident was reported to her. From what little evidence they had, it appeared some kind of bewitchment had seized her people. They had violently defiled the men, branded them with numbers and sigils no Amazon recognized, leaving them mutilated beyond recognition.
This was not the Amazon way—or at least not the way they liked to believe they upheld.
The oracles had been consulted, the gods petitioned—but silence was all they received. The gods never admitted ignorance. That left her with no choice but to bury the dead and imprison the responsible warriors, if only temporarily. War was coming. There was no time to linger over mysteries.
The burial site was secluded, a forgotten patch of land. These men were not worthy to lie among fallen Amazons. Their bodies would feed the soil instead.
Hippolyta's gaze shifted again toward Atrius. She knew this scene would only confirm his low opinion of her people. To him, they were savages. And the truth was—savage or not—this was a bad look for her plans.
She needed him. Not just as protection from Poseidon, but as a deterrent to any enemy. She knew what was coming—something that could make even the Olympians uneasy. The Amazons could not fight such a foe. The gods, they would use her warriors as cannon fodder and nothing more.
Atrius was different. He didn't know their gods. He spoke of a "Master of Mankind," and served him with absolute loyalty. That alone was enough to unsettle her. If he was an otherworlder, perhaps there were other gods beyond Olympus. If he was from a hidden realm, he might wield powers none here had seen.
Heracles' stories only deepened the mystery—Atrius tearing reality open with his bare hands to travel, walking through abysses without fear. His presence radiated danger, primal and oppressive. He had cast Athena out of a mortal host without so much as a gesture. The Fates themselves had told Aretha he could destroy the island single-handedly.
And yet—he remained patient, uninterested in dominance.
She looked again toward where he had stood moments ago. He and Heracles were gone—vanished, as if they had never been there.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the palace, Agape lay unconscious in bed, the air thick with the scent of herbs and strange incense. Lyssipe sat beside her, deep in thought.
Agape—one of the queen's most disciplined warriors—had been found among the perpetrators. It made no sense. She was too strong-willed to have been swept up in some madness of lust. Yet when they found her this morning, she lay among the rest, unresponsive.
Unlike the others, she would not wake. Pain did nothing to stir her. All Lyssipe could do was wait. If she did not wake by nightfall, the oracles would have to petition the gods for aid.
Lyssipe had a better option in mind, but only the queen could summon him—and for some reason, Hippolyta wanted Atrius nowhere near this.
A faint moan broke the silence. Lyssipe's head snapped toward the bed. Agape stirred restlessly, her breathing shallow and uneven.
"Ahnn… hmmm…"
Lyssipe's brow furrowed. She placed a hand on Agape's forehead—normal temperature, though her cheeks were flushed.
Then she noticed something else. Agape's thighs rubbed together, restless. The movement made Lyssipe's expression darken. She knew what that meant, and it wasn't good.