Lyssipe was the first to reach her.
"Agape! Can you hear me? Are you all right?"
She fell to her knees, cradling the young Amazon as though her touch alone might tether her to the waking world. Her hands cupped Agape's cheeks, thumbs brushing against fevered skin, her eyes scanning frantically for life.
"Agape?" she whispered again, her voice trembling.
For a breathless span, there was only a vacant, glassy stare.
Then, as though wrenched from some nightmare, Agape's eyes widened. Recognition flickered—fragile, distant, but real. Her lips parted, voice rasping from a parched throat:
"…Sister."
Relief swept through the chamber like a tide.
"Yes—yes, it's me," Lyssipe said, her lips quivering with joy. "You're safe now. Tell me, are you well?"
Agape blinked, her gaze wandering the room in confusion.
"I… I think so. But why am I here? What happened?"
Her eyes drifted beyond Lyssipe, beyond Hippolyta and Antiope—until they fell upon the crouched figure in the corner. Atrius. Silent, withdrawn, his immense frame folded into shadow, as though the chamber itself was too small to contain him.
Their gazes met.
Agape froze. Her pupils blew wide, her chest seized. Then—like a dam collapsing—terror consumed her.
"No… no… n-no…!"
Her lips trembled, her body shook violently, shallow gasps breaking into frantic hyperventilation.
"What is it? What's wrong?" Hippolyta demanded, her voice cutting through the panic. But Agape heard nothing. Her eyes remained fixed on Atrius, as if to look away would mean death.
She tore herself free of Lyssipe's embrace, stumbling back until she pressed against the bedframe, curling in on herself like prey cornered.
"Calm yourself," Atrius said, stepping forward, palms open, his voice deep but measured. "What you saw was not me."
But his words, though meant to soothe, only cut deeper.
The scream tore from her throat, echoing off the stone walls like the wail of the damned—raw, jagged, enough to make the others flinch. In blind desperation, Agape seized Lyssipe's arm and wrenched her close, yanking the sword from her scabbard. Steel hissed as she raised it, the blade shaking in bloodless hands.
"Stay back! Stay away!" she begged, hysteria shattering every syllable.
Lyssipe stumbled clear, hands raised in alarm. Hippolyta and Antiope fell instinctively into guarded stances, confusion carved across their faces. Yet both edged away from Atrius—driven by an ancient instinct that marked him as predator.
Hippolyta's sword rasped free, though her eyes faltered with unease. "What is happening here?" Her voice trembled. She turned her gaze on Atrius, suspicion hardening into a queen's command.
Atrius's brow arched, offense flickering in his crimson gaze.
"You sought my aid, and I delivered. Were I your enemy, none of you would stand now." His tone was calm, but every word carried the weight of truth, a reminder of power vast enough to unmake them all.
The Amazons faltered.
Antiope stepped forward, sharp and resolute. "Hippolyta—sheath your blade. Do not be so hasty."
Atrius's eyes lingered last on Agape, trembling and bloodshot, her heart racing too fast for mortal flesh. His lips thinned. Then—without a word—his form folded out of existence. His presence, his shadow, his terrible pressure vanished.
The air lightened. The women gasped, realizing they had been holding their breath.
Agape collapsed, clutching the sword in shaking hands. Her sobs broke in ragged gasps, rocking as though her body itself could not contain the terror.
"You were reckless," Antiope hissed at Hippolyta. "To raise steel against him so blindly—had he wished, we would already be dead."
"It was instinct," Hippolyta muttered, her voice cracking with guilt.
"Instinct?" Antiope's fury sharpened. "He came only because you called him, and yet you treat him as foe at the first shadow of fear."
"I am queen—" Hippolyta began.
"You are my sister first," Antiope cut her off, her voice a blade.
The chamber stilled in heavy silence. At last Hippolyta's shoulders sagged, her blade lowering back into its scabbard.
"All the gods are silent," she murmured, her eyes falling upon Agape's broken form. "And still I thought I might find favor in him…" Her words faltered into the air, hollow and unsure.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The dungeon was an ancient thing, hewn from black stone scarred with age. Its air reeked of mildew, sweat, and old blood. Pillars carved in the likeness of grim goddesses loomed, their faces weathered but stern, as if judging eternally. The yard was cracked with weeds, though well-worn paths betrayed the endless tread of Amazon boots and shackled feet.
Iron gates groaned like dying beasts when moved. Guards patrolled with practiced rhythm, bronze catching sunlight, spears clutched tight. Prisoners—men broken by toil—huddled in silence. Shackles clinked at their ankles, their eyes hollow, their bodies striped by whips. They were trophies, reminders of conquest—kept for labor, punishment, or darker uses unspoken.
At the gates, sentinels stood rigid, spears crossed. Security had doubled since the chaos days before.
Then, without warning, the air shivered.
Heatless distortion rippled, and from it emerged a colossal figure. His presence smothered the light, his shadow falling like the wing of death.
Atrius had come.
The yard erupted in panic. Chains rattled as men scrambled into corners, eyes wide with animal fear. He stood amidst them—vast, white hair whipping in the breeze, red eyes burning with otherworldly fire. In one hand he held a man aloft, as though he were weightless, studying him like an insect pinned for dissection. The prisoner whimpered, clawing helplessly at Atrius's wrist.
Then—just as suddenly—Atrius set him down with strange gentleness, gaze sweeping the others. Their terror did not puzzle him. He had expected corruption—warp-taint, some remnant of the orgiastic madness days before. Instead, there was nothing. Only scarred flesh, broken men. The one he held bore a crude scar across his belly, marked by hand or madness. A symbol—but meaningless, at least to him. Still, a clue.
"Lord… what is it you seek with these prisoners?"
The voice came firm. Three Amazons approached, armor clattering. Spears lowered, but not yet lifted. Their leader, dark-skinned beneath her helm, met his gaze without flinching.
Atrius looked down, his voice like the weight of oceans. "Forgive my intrusion. I seek only to learn what befell you days ago."
The amazons stiffened, ready to strike if need arose. Their courage was futile, yet admirable.
"Do you come at the queen's will?" the leader asked.
Atrius's eyes flickered gold for an instant—psychic reach brushing her thoughts. He hated using it, for every such act risked Chaos's whisper. Even a whisper of his psychic reach threatened to tear their mortal minds apart—and worse, invite the lurking whispers of Chaos back into his own. Even now, scars of the Webway lingered in him. Yet it was necessary.
"No," he said. "I come of my own will. Those who matter to this are confined. I would like to speak with them."
"My apologies, lord," she replied tightly, though her chin lifted with dignity. "None may enter without the queen's command. We lack such authority."
Atrius's gaze lingered. For them, the silence stretched like eternity. Then, at last, he inclined his head.
"I understand."
And in an instant, he was gone.
The guards exhaled as though surfacing from water. Sweat beaded the leader's brow as she pulled her helm free. "Quickly," she ordered. "Report this to the queen."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A great plain stretched outward, wild and overgrown. Weeds swayed over scars of old earthworks. Shallow mounds dotted the landgraves where Amazons, men, and beasts alike had been cast. The ground seemed restless, as though it remembered.
Atrius walked alone, a solitary titan. Each step heavy, his crimson eyes burned beneath his pale mane, his thoughts heavy with fragments. This was where clarity had first returned to him. Beyond that—shards, broken glass. He remembered the three greater daemons, He remembered pain. Then—darkness.
The Warp had cast him here. Of that, he was certain. Yet how—or why—was beyond him.
He had waited, expecting pursuit. But none came.
Now he had seen through Agape's eyes. A horror so vile it could only be the touch of Chaos.
There was no doubt left.
Chaos had touched Themyscira.