Nathan stood in the endless expanse of white—a place devoid of time and space, where silence was both a comfort and a torment. From this strange, ethereal realm, he could see the war raging far below, as though peering through an invisible veil that separated life from death. His gaze swept across the battlefield, taking in the chaos, the bloodshed, and the unrelenting cries of men and gods alike.

    But Nathan was powerless.

    He clenched his fists, the weight of his mortality settling heavily upon him. The realization was suffocating—he was dead. His presence here was a cruel limbo, a reminder that his fight was over while the world he had fought so hard to protect continued to spiral into turmoil without him.

    Yet, amidst the bitterness of his situation, there was a sliver of solace. He noticed that Medea, Scylla, and Charybdis had not succumbed to the madness that had once loomed so close to them. Their composure, though unexpected, was a small mercy in a storm of despair.

    "Aphrodite must have spoken to them," Nathan murmured, his white hair catching the faint, non-existent light of this place. His thoughts spiraled. What had she said to calm them? And more importantly, why were they still in Tenebria?With him gone, shouldn''t they have abandoned the city, fleeing to find their own paths now that their bond to him had been severed by death?

    He shook his head, banishing the questions that had no answers. Turning his focus back to the battlefield below, his piercing gaze landed on Paris.

    The Trojan prince stood tall amidst the carnage, his movements now imbued with a strength and confidence that had not been there before. His blows struck with precision, his aura radiating a dark power that unsettled even the most stalwart warriors around him.

    "What happened to him?" Nathan asked, his voice cutting through the void. He turned to the woman standing beside him, her black hair cascading down her back like a river of shadows. She seemed to belong here, her presence as timeless and enigmatic as the place itself.

    "A corrupt God found him," the woman replied, her tone light yet laced with an undercurrent of something ancient and knowing.

    "A corrupt God?" Nathan''s silver eyebrows knitted together in confusion. He tilted his head toward her, waiting for an explanation.

    But the woman only smiled, the corners of her lips curving upward in a way that felt both comforting and unnerving. "What do you think of him?"

    Nathan frowned, his gaze narrowing as he returned his attention to Paris. "Nothing. Without him, none of this would have happened."

    "Is that so?" Her voice softened, adopting a strangely sweet quality. "But without this war, you wouldn''t have met them—Astynome, Kassandra, Atalanta, Penthesilea, and Helen..."

    Nathan''s jaw tightened at her words, but he couldn''t deny the truth of them. "Yes," he admitted finally, his voice quiet but steady.

    The warriors who had been locked in battle moments before ceased their fighting, their weapons lowering as they backed away. They dared not stand too close to the clash of titans. Even seasoned soldiers, hardened by years of bloodshed, found their breaths caught in their throats as they looked on. All at once, the chaotic battlefield fell silent, the attention of every man and woman drawn to this singular duel.

    For this fight would decide everything. The victor of this clash would determine the fate of the Trojan War. Greeks or Trojans—one side would leave this battlefield triumphant, while the other would face ruin.

    Even the gods themselves turned their gazes toward the battlefield, their celestial forms watching the mortal struggle with bated breath. In Olympus, Zeus sat calmly upon his throne, his piercing eyes fixed on the scene below. Beside him stood Hermes, his expression unreadable, while others whispered amongst themselves. Yet one figure stood apart, tense with unease.

    Hera, arms crossed, clenched her fists so tightly her knuckles turned white. Though she wore the mask of a calm goddess, inside, she was restless. Still, she trusted Khillea—trusted her strength, her will, her destiny.

    Athena, too, watched, though she felt no apprehension. Her confidence in Khillea was absolute. For Athena, there was no doubt, no uncertainty. Hector''s defeat was inevitable. The goddess of wisdom merely wondered when the final blow would fall and how glorious it would be.

    On the other side, the gods who had sworn themselves to Troy wore grim expressions. Apollo, Aphrodite, Artemis, and Ares stood in somber silence, their divine forms unmoving. They had placed their faith in Hector, their chosen champion. Yet, bound by the ancient laws, they could not intervene. Whatever unfolded on that battlefield was beyond their reach. The gods would have to witness the result, powerless to change it.

    High above the battle, on the walls of Troy, the tension was unbearable. Andromache stood clutching her infant son, her arms trembling as she gazed at her husband below. Her heart was heavy with a foreboding she could not ignore. Every instinct screamed at her to run to him, to pull him back to safety. Yet, all she could do was watch.

    Beside her, King Priam and Queen Hecuba whispered prayers under their breath, their aged hands trembling as they clasped together. They begged the gods for their son''s safety, for his strength to prevail against the fierce warrior who now bore down on him.

    And yet, no prayers could soothe the despair in the heart of Kassandra. Standing atop the wall, her nails dug deep into the stone as she leaned forward, her fiery eyes locked on the battle below. Her shoulders shook with suppressed emotion. She had seen this moment long ago, the vision haunting her dreams.

    This fight had always been inevitable.

    Hector was destined to die. His fate had been sealed long before this day, and no force in heaven or earth could change it. She had tried to convince herself that the vision might be wrong, that her brother might escape death. The woman in golden armor from her nightmares had not appeared for so long that hope had flickered in her heart.

    But now, she stood before them—the warrior who bore the wrath of Achilles.

    Khillea.

    The sight of her sent a chill down Kassandra''s spine, her prophetic heart screaming that it was too late. The battle had already been decided.

    And yet, even knowing this, she could not turn away. None of them could.