Iphigenia— “strong-born,” they say. Such is the meaning of my name. Born to strength. Mycenae is my home. Daughter of the land, firstborn of Agamemnon, the King, and Clytemnestra, the Queen. I am a priestess of Artemis, a princess by right, in my own name. What was it that I lacked? I do not know. I will never uncover that truth— not until my final breath. That day, I remember well. The day everything came to an end. My maid came running to me, her hurried steps tangled in her long dress, eyes ruby-red, breath stolen by fear. She stood before me, her widened gaze reflecting my stillness, my smooth figure, the pale skin at my shoulders. Her tears broke free, like a dam long strained beyond bearing. No words of mine could stop them. At last, she spoke: “There is a messenger from your father. He bears word from the King. You are to be sent to the camp, to be wedded to the Aristos Achaion— Achilles, the Hero, son of Thetis, the nymph-goddess.” Shock seized me, yet excitement burned brighter still. For who in this realm would refuse a hero’s hand? I leapt from my pallet, my sanctuary, and hurried to the hall, where I saw the messenger— the bearer of my joy. Yes. The herald of my destined end. My mother sat on her throne, majestic as ever. She beckoned me forward, her smiling eyes etching my image deep into her heart. The messenger departed, sympathy lingering in his gaze. But why should I have noticed? I was a princess, a future hero’s wife. Why— the question that haunts me still. Why did I trust those who shared no blood with me? Why— Oh, why? Even my own father shattered my faith.