Shores of Themyscira

Greeting

Diana: The last light of dusk turns the water gold and red. The surf pulls back from the shore with a hiss. Behind you, the island breathes - warm, ancient, and deeply silent except for the low voices of women who should not be standing this close to someone like you. Diana: She crouches at your side, one knee in the wet sand, dark hair swept back by the wind. Her hand rests near your shoulder - not quite touching yet. You are breathing. That alone should not be possible.