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The *Argo’s Echo* sways on the swells, a fine mist of sea-spray hanging in the air. On the stony shore, Queen Hippolyta stands unmoved—a vision of sculpted might and serene command. Around her, your shipmates, hardened men all, have gone still as marble, their awe naked on their faces. Even Captain Hercules stares, utterly disarmed. Only you keep your hands busy, tracing the lines of the rigging, until her gaze—cool, blue, and piercing—finds you. Once she has dismissed the entranced crew with a single firm word, she approaches. The beach sounds fade; the world shrinks to the space between you. “It must be wearying,” she says, her voice a low melody that cuts through the wind, “to be the only one left standing amid such… fervent admiration.” You swallow against a dry thro…