Astynome had always been raised by a loving and gentle father. Her earliest memories were of his kindness, for her mother had passed away when she was too young to remember her face clearly. Her father’s presence was constant, a source of strength, even though he harbored a secret about Astynome’s true lineage—a secret that could have shattered another man’s heart. Yet, Chryses, her father, embraced it without hesitation. Astynome was beautiful beyond compare, with a sharp mind and a spirit that reflected her mother’s unwavering devotion to the god Apollo.
Since childhood, Astynome had faithfully followed in her mother’s footsteps, offering prayers and sacrifices to Apollo every single day. Her devotion was absolute, woven into the fabric of her life. But only Chryses, or rather, the man who had adopted her and raised her as his own, knew the truth. Astynome was not just any child—she was Apollo’s daughter, born of the god’s divine union with her mortal mother. This revelation could have cast a shadow over their lives, but Chryses had never allowed it to change the way he saw her. To him, she was his beloved daughter, the last precious link to the woman he had lost. That she was sired by the god of light himself was inconsequential to Chryses; his love for Astynome was unconditional and also his love for his woman despite her devotion toward Apollo having reached dangerous heights.
Under his care, and perhaps guided by her divine heritage, Astynome flourished. She rose swiftly through the ranks to become the High Priestess of Apollo’s temple in Lyrnessus. Her beauty, wisdom, and the few fleeting but powerful visions she received from her divine father earned her respect and reverence. These rare divinations were gifts from Apollo, glimpses of the future that guided not only her but also the people who looked to her for counsel. In her heart, Astynome felt gratitude for these gifts, believing they had helped her grow as both a woman and a leader.
Yet, recently, something had changed.
The visions had stopped. Where once there was light and clarity, there was now only darkness, a veil obscuring her once-clear path. No matter how deeply she prayed, how fervently she sought Apollo’s guidance, the divine touch that had once filled her with certainty had disappeared. And then, like an ill omen, Troy attacked.
Astynome tried to hold on to her faith. She trusted in Apollo, in the god who had given her life, power, and wisdom. But the darkness that now clouded her mind filled her with unease. It wasn’t the fear of war or death that shook her, but the terrible silence from the god she had always revered. The timing was too cruel, too precise. Was she abandoned by her divine father? The thought lingered at the edges of her mind, a whisper of doubt that refused to leave.
No. She dismissed the idea quickly. She reminded herself that all humans, whether born of gods or mortals, had their fates woven from the moment of their birth. The three sisters, the Moirai, goddesses of Fate, spun each thread of life, determining the exact moment of every person’s death. Even being the daughter of Apollo did not free her from their intricate design. Not even the gods could interfere with the destiny shaped by the Fates.
Astynome accepted this truth. She had no power to change what had been written, and neither did Apollo. If this was her fate, then so be it. When the Greek armies descended upon Lyrnessus, when Agamemnon, the King of Kings, captured her, she did not resist. There was no running, no struggle. She did not attempt to escape or fight back, for in her heart she had already surrendered—not to Agamemnon, but to destiny.
Astynome knew all too well what awaited her as a captive of the Greeks. It was an unspoken truth, whispered across battlefields and murmured in the shadows of war camps—women captured by the Greeks were not just spoils of war, they were prizes to satisfy the conquerors’ most primal desires. It didn’t matter whether the captor was a lowly soldier or a king; the fate of a woman like Astynome was the same. She had heard the stories, seen the fear in the eyes of other women, and understood the brutality that lay ahead. And now, she found herself in the clutches of Agamemnon, the King of Kings, the man who led the Greek forces against Troy.
Perhaps to him, she was not just a mere prize. Perhaps, in her face, he saw echoes of his own daughter, the one he had sacrificed to appease the wrath of Artemis all those years ago. A twisted reminder of the blood he had spilled for victory. But that small glimmer of recognition didn’t offer her any comfort. She was a reward to him, something to be claimed, possessed, and defiled.
Despite the weight of her situation, Astynome remained composed. She did not flinch, did not tremble, and did not fight. Her body, though bound with tight ropes, sat rigid and still in the corner of Agamemnon’s grand tent. Her eyes were steady, void of the panic that might have overtaken another in her position. She had heard Agamemnon’s words—his cruel promise that he would break her that night, that her screams would echo throughout the Greek camp. Yet his threats did not move her. If this was her fate, if this was what the Fates had woven into the fabric of her life, then she would face it without fear.
And yet, despite her acceptance, there was a small, irrational flicker of hope buried deep within her heart—a tiny ember that refused to be extinguished. Astynome knew it was foolish. It was absurd to hope for deliverance, to believe anyone could wrest her from the grip of Agamemnon. He was no ordinary man; he was the leader of the entire Greek army, the king who commanded thousands of soldiers, whose very name instilled fear. Even Achilles, the greatest of the Greeks, would not dare to challenge him over the fate of a single woman.
But that sliver of hope persisted. Was it fear that gave birth to this hope? A desperate instinct clinging to the possibility of escape? Or was it something deeper, some faint whisper of divinity, reminding her that she was not like other women—that her blood carried a divine spark? Astynome couldn’t say. All she knew was that, despite everything, she felt as though this was not the day she would die.
So she waited.
The minutes stretched on, thick with tension, as she sat in silence. If Agamemnon entered the tent, it would mean the end. Her life as she knew it would be shattered, and there would be no going back. But if, by some miracle, if through the smallest flicker of luck in a world where hope was crushed under the boots of soldiers—if someone else came through that flap of the tent, then perhaps that was her true destiny.
°°°°°°
“It seems we are finally going to take on Troy,” Odysseus murmured, his voice low but filled with a keen edge of anticipation. He walked with measured steps beside Agamemnon, their towering figures casting long shadows under the fading light. These two kings, both legends in their own right, commanded the Greek armies with unmatched authority. Their presence alone sent ripples of awe through the ranks of soldiers as they passed, exuding an aura of strength and destiny.
“We are,” Agamemnon replied, his voice gruff, yet unshakably confident. There was no hesitation in his words, no room for doubt. Troy would fall, and with it, the glory he had long craved would be his. The seeds of this war had been sown when his brother Menelaus came pleading for aid, desperate to recover his stolen wife, Helen. But Agamemnon had not been moved by the plight of his brother, nor the love of Helen. No, his ambitions lay elsewhere. He had always been drawn to Troy, not for the woman but for its wealth, its power, its unparalleled strength.
Troy was no ordinary city. Its defenses were legendary, its warriors fierce and resolute. Even as the King of Kings, Agamemnon had hesitated. For all his might, Troy seemed an unconquerable fortress. But then, in the quiet of the night, Athena herself had come to him in a dream. The Goddess of War promised him victory, her divine favor. And if that had not been enough, Queen Hera, the ruler of Olympus herself, had thrown her weight behind him, blessing his campaign with her unwavering support.
That was all Agamemnon needed. With the goddess of wisdom and battle on his side, and the queen of the gods herself at his back, how could he ever fail? The victory was assured before a single sword was drawn.
“We should break camp at first light,” Odysseus suggested. “The soldiers are ready, and I’ve already sent word to the Heroes of the Empire’s Light.”
Agamemnon snorted dismissively. “Who cares about those brats? Just don’t wake me too early.” A dark grin curled his lips as his thoughts turned to the reward waiting for him. The anticipation twisted his smile into something almost predatory. “I have… other matters to attend to tonight,” he added, his voice laced with cruel satisfaction.
Odysseus, ever observant, saw the gleam in Agamemnon’s eyes and immediately understood. The King of Mycenae was thinking about Astynome, the beautiful priestess of Apollo who now awaited him. Agamemnon had gloated about her, a virgin priestess—such a rare prize. To defile one so pure, especially one dedicated to the god of light, was a triumph all its own for a man like Agamemnon.
Though Odysseus was known for his cunning, his heart was not entirely made of stone. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity for Astynome, and for all the women who had been reduced to mere spoils of war. But he knew well enough that there was nothing to be done. War was an ancient machine, grinding down men and women alike. Men died on the battlefield, and women were taken, their fates sealed by their captors. It had always been this way.
“You should take someone for yourself,” Agamemnon suggested, the casualness of his tone making the offer all the more chilling. “I’ll grant you any woman in the camp. Consider it a reward.”
Odysseus shook his head, a faint smile playing on his lips, though it did little to hide the discomfort behind his eyes. “I have no need. My heart belongs to my dear Penelope, waiting for me in Ithaca.”
Agamemnon let out a deep, amused chuckle. “Such loyalty. But to each his own.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Enjoy your night, then. I will certainly enjoy mine.” His mind was already on Astynome, and the thought of breaking her—of hearing her cries—filled him with impatience. He was eager to claim her, to see her submit to his will.
But just as he was about to turn away, a soldier came rushing toward them, breathless and frantic.
“King Agamemnon!” the soldier shouted, skidding to a halt before the two kings.
Agamemnon’s brow furrowed in irritation. “What is it?” he demanded, his tone sharp and impatient.
The soldier swallowed hard before speaking. “It’s… it’s the old man, my lord. The father of the woman you captured. He has come to the camp.”
