—

Themyscira’s midnight sky looked nailed in place, stars hammered flat by an unseen carpenter.
Diana stepped onto the launch stone. No drums, no songs—only the hush of twelve elders breathing.
“History will skip this page,” Hippolyta said, belted voice low.
“Then we write it in the margin,” Diana answered, and kissed her mother’s forehead like any daughter leaving home.

The pod rose on a thread of blue fire too thin to wake the waves.
Inside, the seat molded to her spine; the harness bit her collarbones. She felt the island drop away and suddenly tasted copper—fear, ordinary as a nosebleed.
“Navigation alive?” she asked the dark.
A single green light blinked: yes.
“Good. Talk to me anyway.”
The pod stayed quiet. She talked regardless, voice steady, the way you keep a frightened horse calm by never admitting the storm.

Space smelled of hot iron and old snow.
She counted heartbeats—one, two—until the thrusters cut and silence ballooned. Weight left her body; her hair floated, brushing the ceiling like lazy seaweed.
Outside, the world became a slow wheel of black glass. She pressed her palm to the porthole. The glass was cold, the kind of cold that burns.
“Mother, I am already farther than any Amazon arrow.”
The confession hung, fogging the pane, then shrank to nothing.

Hours later— or days; the chronometer stuttered— a red planet swelled ahead.
Craters gaped like dried mouths.
A voice cracked through the static: “Unidentified craft, state lineage.”
Diana straightened. “Daughter of no house you know. I come under white flag.”
Silence answered, long enough for her to feel the straps again.
Then: “Land at the bone circle. Come unarmed.”
She glanced at the sword in the locker, then left it closed.
“Unarmed is a gamble,” she muttered, “but trust buys more than steel.”

The pod kissed dust, thrusters coughing pale flame.
She walked into wind that tasted of rusted coins.
Three figures waited—tall, jointed wrong, skin like polished obsidian. Their eyes flicked, independent, watching every angle.
“I seek the Daughters of the Reef,” Diana said. “They asked for help.”
The middle being tilted its head. “Help is a curved word. What bends with it?”
“Only my pride, if that serves.”
A laugh clicked in its throat. “Follow, curved-word woman.”

They led her through a maze of rib-bone arches.
Children peered from behind the pillars—silver eyes, ribs showing like ladder rungs. Hunger, unmistakable.
Diana’s stomach folded. She had brought no food; the mission profile forbade cargo.
“You starve,” she said to the guide.
“We calculate,” it replied. “Starvation is slower than war, faster than surrender.”
She touched her lasso, feeling the familiar braid. Truth burned against her hip, reminding her why she had come.

At the council hearth, stones glowed the color of old bruises.
An elder spoke without greeting. “Off-worlder, our enemy camps beyond the ridge. They drain the last water. We ask you to break their pumps.”
Diana frowned. “And after? The water returns only to you?”
“Yes.”
“Leaving them to thirst?”
“Justice is a narrow vessel,” the elder said. “It fills for us or for no one.”
She felt the sentence strike her chest like a practiced slap.
“I refuse,” she said quietly.
Murmurs rippled, sharp as glass shards.
The guide stepped closer. “You walk out untouched only if you leave your hide.”
She met its many eyes. “Try to take it.”

They moved—fast, scythe arms whistling.
She ducked, rolled, came up with the lasso whipping. Rope hissed, looped a wrist, yanked; the creature slammed dust.
Two more lunged. She caught one mid-air, used its weight to pivot, hurled it against stone. Bone cracked, hers or theirs—she couldn’t tell through the adrenaline drum.
A child screamed, not from pain but from seeing hope bleed.
The sound stopped Diana’s fist mid-swing.
She let the warrior rise, breathing hard.
“Enough,” she said, voice ragged. “I will not kill for your thirst.”
Dust floated between them like guilty incense.
The elder lifted a hand. “Then you die with us.”
“Maybe,” Diana answered, wiping blood from her lip, “but I’ll die trying a third way.”

Night draped the ridge.
She walked alone toward the enemy camp, moon a cracked coin overhead.
Halfway, she stopped, knelt, dug her fingers into the dry ground.
“Earth of a different mother,” she whispered, “help me.”
She loosened her gauntlet, let her own blood drip—small price for symbiosis.
The soil drank, darkening. She rose, eyes fixed on the silhouette of enemy machines.

Inside the camp, sentries argued in low clicks.
She moved shadow to shadow, breath measured.
At the pump station she found not weapons but pipes—thin, ancient, coughing brine.
She studied the valves, then cut her palm again, letting blood mix with brine.
The lasso glowed faintly, reacting to the oath in her heart: to share, not steal.
She rerouted the flow, splitting the vein so water would seep both sides of the ridge.
Alarms stayed silent; the pipes merely gurgled, accepting the new rhythm.

Dawn bled over the horizon.
She walked back between the camps, footprints filling slowly with seeping water.
First a child, then a warrior, then an elder bent to drink. No one raised a blade; thirst muted every war-song.
She stood in the middle, watching enemies kneel side by side, lasso coiled at her hip now dull with dust.
The guide approached, throat working as it swallowed.
“Curved-word woman, you carved the vessel wider.”
“Justice should slake many mouths,” she replied.
It lowered its head—not surrender, but acknowledgment.
She felt no triumph, only the hollow after-toss of a spent storm.

Hours later the pod lifted, water-stains still on her boots.
She did not look back; the story behind her already shrank, a pebble dropped in deep space.
Inside the cabin she strapped in, opened a channel.
“Mission complete,” she said to the empty stars.
No reply came; the Amazon code demanded silence.
She rubbed dried blood from her palm, wondering if the ridge would remember the taste of it.
The pod turned toward the tiny blue bead that was home.
She whispered to the dark, “Margin written,” and closed her eyes as thrust pressed her into the seat, carrying her back to the pages history would never number.

Wonder Woman ,, Grishvrinsha '' — The Iron Taste of the White Rift

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