The boy was given the name Eron.
The instant Hippolyta pronounced the name before the altar of the gods, the skies darkened. Thunder rumbled over Themyscira, followed by a sudden storm that made the palm trees bow to the wind. It was not destruction—it was celebration.
Zeus had answered.
From a very early age, eron showed that he was no ordinary child. At just five months old, he was already standing on his own legs and babbling individual words, surprising even the most experienced Amazons. Diana, for her part, had begun to walk and talk at eight months—something already extraordinary. But Eron always seemed to be one step ahead.
His small body possessed an uncommon strength, his muscles defined beyond what was natural for a baby. His blue eyes—intense like the sky before a storm—were always alert, always curious, absorbing the world around him.
Diana never strayed far from him. From the beginning, she showed an unwavering attachment to her brother. Where Eron went, she followed. Where he fell, it was she who helped him up.
At two years of age came the first training sessions—rigorous by any human standard, but common among the Amazons.
Under the firm guidance of his aunt Antiope, Eron learned the fundamentals of the sword and the bow. His strikes were clumsy at first, but there was power in them—a raw force that needed only discipline.
The theoretical studies were left to Penthesilea. History, strategy, philosophy, and the weight of a leader's decisions. Penthesilea, also a demigoddess, saw something familiar in her nephew—the burden of carrying divine blood in one's veins.
The years passed like the wind over the island's cliffs.
By the age of seven, Eron had already mastered techniques that many warriors took decades to perfect. His speed was impressive. His endurance was tireless. And when anger surfaced, distant thunder seemed to echo on the horizon.
But not everything about him was strength.
Eron had learned early on to use another kind of skill: charisma.
He knew his aunts found it difficult to deny him anything when he appeared with that mischievous smile. Tight hugs, affectionate kisses on the cheek, and sincere compliments—he took advantage of their goodwill with an almost strategic ability.
"Little manipulator," Antiope would mutter, trying to maintain her severe posture while lifting him in her arms.
Diana always laughed whenever that happened.
Despite the blood of Zeus, despite the strength and the signs from the heavens, Heron was still a child. A child raised among legendary warriors, learning to balance power and heart.
And, although he did not yet know it, destiny was already watching his every step.