Moonlight spilled across the surface of the Scamander River, scattering into silver shards that drifted downstream. The ferry point of Dardan's lands was unusually still that night—so still that one could hear the water lapping gently against the wooden posts, punctuated only by the occasional croak of a frog.
A few small boats were moored to the rickety dock, rocking lazily with the current. Beyond them, the silhouettes of shipyards and warehouses hid beneath the dark, and the faint scent of timber and hemp lingered in the air.
Amid that quiet stood a lone, slender figure on the riverbank. The night wind lifted her dark cloak, revealing a glimpse of deep auburn hair glinting like copper under the moon. Draped carelessly over one shoulder was a small piece of finely tanned sheepskin—a detail far too exquisite for an ordinary traveler.
But what truly caught the eye was the golden eagle perched upon her shoulder. Its keen gaze gleamed through the dark as if it could pierce every secret hidden in the night. From time to time it bent its head to preen, each motion graceful, almost tauntingly so.
The girl said nothing. She merely watched the river with a calm, unreadable expression. Behind her stood several cloaked attendants, silent and perfectly still, hands folded inside their sleeves. There was a subtle precision in their bearing that spoke of training—these were no mere servants.
A frog croaked nearby. The eagle turned its head, fixing it with a single cold glance. The sound stopped instantly, followed by a frantic splash. The girl's lips curved slightly, then returned to stillness.
Had anyone passed by, they would surely have wondered: what sort of lady waits alone at such a desolate dock, at such an hour?
The silence deepened until even the wooden posts seemed to groan under the weight of the night. Then, from the shadows, stepped a man who looked painfully ordinary—middle-aged, wearing coarse linen, shoes caked with mud, the picture of a shepherd or a tradesman returning home. But when he bowed, his movements were crisp, practiced—betraying a life far from simple.
"Your Highness," he said in a low, steady voice. "News from the estate. Young Master Aeneas has awakened. His injuries are healed—miraculously so. The physician believes divine grace may be involved."
At the words divine grace, one of the cloaked guards twitched, the ripple of movement vanishing as swiftly as it came.
The man continued, "His slaying of the wild boar has already spread through the valley. They say he dined with the lord and lady this evening, speaking easily, even declaring the boar will be offered to the goddess Aphrodite."
The girl listened without a flicker of emotion. Only her hands—hidden at her sides—tightened slowly, knuckles pale beneath the moonlight. The golden eagle tilted its head, eyeing the messenger as if judging whether he spoke truth.
After a pause, the man added, "There is one more thing… the servants whisper that since waking, the young master has spoken strangely. Sometimes he utters words no one understands. Some claim they might be divine revelations."
The guards exchanged a quick, silent glance.
Still, the girl gave no reply. Her fingers brushed the silk charm hidden beneath her cloak, tracing its familiar edge. Her face was tranquil, but her heartbeat thundered—far too loud for someone so composed.
When the final word left the man's lips, her shoulders sank, as though she had been holding her breath all along. A long exhale slipped past her lips, barely louder than the wind.
Her tense expression softened. The faintest smile appeared—gentle, luminous—as if the moonlight itself brightened in response. It was the kind of smile one wears when catching sight of a secret they've carried too long.
She reached up to stroke the eagle's feathers.
"He's safe… thank the gods," she whispered, her voice carrying a warmth too private for an audience.
The eagle blinked its fierce eyes and gave a low cry, like distant thunder softened by affection. The girl's lips curved again, the faintest tremor of long-buried tenderness glimmering there.
Her hands folded over her heart. Seven years, she told herself silently. Seven years of waiting, dreaming, hoping. Now, at last, she had returned. This time, it was her turn to stand by him, to protect him.
Her smile deepened—quiet, resolute, unshakable.
She remained in the dock's shadow, the river whispering at her feet. But her thoughts were already far away, carried upstream into the past—back to the night seven years ago.
The gates had fallen with a crash that split the air, and fire came roaring in—together with screams and the twisted faces of Hittite soldiers. Their torches licked the night like hungry beasts, their swords flashing as they cut through anything that moved.
Then came the merchants, their eyes gleaming with greed. To them, she was nothing more than cargo. She spent her nights caged like an animal, shivering beneath a threadbare blanket.
Even now, she could still recall the stench of the slave market—the rancid sweat, the damp straw mats, the press of too many bodies and too little mercy. Every gaze that raked across her felt like a hand appraising livestock.
And then—just as despair began to crush her chest—she saw those eyes.
A boy's eyes.
Aeneas.
Too young for the horrors around him, yet impossibly steady, impossibly clean. In those eyes lived both compassion and a courage far older than his years.
"Come with me."
He'd said it simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He reached out his hand and led her away, past the chaos, into the quiet safety of a villa.
Lord Anchises and Lady Aresya never asked too many questions. They must have guessed what their son had done—secretly purchasing a little slave girl—but when they met that stubborn, unwavering gaze of his, they let it be.
And so she stayed.
The young master's sincerity was gentle and steady, and it thawed her inch by inch. One evening, she finally spoke of her past. Not all of it. Not truthfully, perhaps—but enough. Enough to let him glimpse a corner of her world.
From that day on, he began to move like someone chasing a dream. He sought ships, recruited sailors, gathered supplies. He drew maps and muttered plans, his brow furrowed in solemn determination—as if he were preparing to set sail on some grand expedition.
Until the last day.
He took her hand and led her to the docks. "Promise me you'll see her safely home," he told the sailors, every word earnest and clear.
She couldn't stop the tears. They came in torrents, messy and unbidden. The young master fumbled awkwardly for a handkerchief, trying to wipe her face.
"Come on," he said, attempting a smile. "You're going home—you're supposed to smile! Wish I could take you there myself, but…"
He trailed off, unable to finish.
The memory dissolved.
She blinked, and the firelight of the past gave way to the chill of the present. The girl who had once trembled in a cage now stood tall beneath the stars, her gaze sharp and calm.
"Keep watch on the estate," she murmured to her guards. "Especially the young master, Aeneas. But remember—no one must know who we are."
"Yes, my lady," came the quiet reply.
The night swallowed their voices. She brushed her fingers against the amulet hidden under her cloak—just once—and said nothing more.
Her eyes, however, said plenty.
Tilting her head, she whispered to the golden eagle on her shoulder, "Thank you, Eye of Zeus. Without you, he might still be trapped down there."
The bird let out a low, throaty cry, wings shivering in the moonlight. It was no ordinary creature—golden eagles were nearly impossible to tame. Only a handful of mountain tribes could raise such loyal, deadly partners. This one could soar across ridges, track a wounded boy through valleys, and lead rescuers straight to him. Between the bird and its mistress, there seemed to be no need for words.
She drew out the small charm from her cloak. The pouch was decorated with a weaver's sigil from Phoenicia, but what truly marked it as extraordinary was the material—smooth, gleaming silk. In this land, such a fabric was unheard of. Some said it came from a fabled kingdom far to the east, rarer than gold, softer than moonlight.
Her thumb traced its edge. Her eyes lifted toward the shadowed hills. The Dardan estate lay hidden beyond them, the young master no doubt asleep by now.
Her heart was already there—crossing the forests, climbing the slopes, finding him again beneath the glow of his chamber's oil lamp.
She closed her eyes and pressed the charm to her chest.
"Rest well, Aeneas," she whispered. "We'll meet again soon… though not in a way you'd expect."
With that, she turned. Her cloak flared gracefully behind her, catching the silver of the moon. The guards fell in beside her without a sound, half a step behind.
The golden eagle launched into the sky, its vast wings slicing the air. A chill wind swept across the river, rippling the dark water as the bird vanished into the stars with a final, echoing cry.
By the time its voice faded, the girl was gone too—swallowed whole by the darkness along the riverbank.
Moonlight lay thin as silk over the slopes of Mount Ida, its pale shimmer tracing the ridges as if some sleeping giant had just turned in its rest. The wind swept down through oaks and cypresses, carrying with it the mingled scent of damp earth and river mist, and poured all that fragrance into the quiet heart of the Dardan Valley.
Above that shadowed basin stood the Dardan estate—straight-lined, stern, unyielding. The stone walls caught the light like silver and gleamed with the stubborn dignity of something that had seen too many winters to fear another. From the watch-tower one could glimpse the great city of Troy sprawled in the distance, its torch-lit battlements glowing like rows of wary eyes keeping their silent vigil.
Farther still, where the night deepened into a blue as dense as the sea, a white temple crowned the southern ridge—the sanctuary of Aphrodite. Its walls shimmered faintly, as though the moon itself had chosen to live there.
The whole valley seemed to slumber. Crickets sang in turns, a dog barked once, somewhere far off—and then silence returned, soft and deep. Only two windows in the manor still burned with light. Against the dark, those tiny flames looked defiant, a quiet announcement that this night had no intention of staying peaceful.
Inside, several olive-oil lamps flickered and spat. Their flames cast restless shapes of the geometric carvings along the walls, so that the patterns seemed to breathe. The air was thick with the scent of olive smoke and the faint, sweet tang of wine.
Anchises sat on the long bench, brows drawn together. His rough fingers traced the head of his walking stick, back and forth, as if trying to rub an answer out of the wood.
"That boy… those words he used—'sanitation,' 'paper,' 'blast furnace'—what do you make of them?"
The lamplight caught Aresya's profile, softening the pearls and violet silk ribbon at her hair. Her voice was low, thoughtful.
"His words are like mist," she said. "They drift in from somewhere beyond what we know. But I can feel it—there's no malice in him. If anything, there's… a kind of urgency." She paused. "Could it be the goddess speaking through him?"
Achates stood near the hearth, straight-backed, one hand resting lightly on the hilt at his side.
"Whatever it is," he said quietly but with iron in his tone, "the young master's eyes have changed. Since he woke, there's a sharpness in them—like a blade catching starlight. The boyish fire's still there, but it's been tempered."
For a while, no one spoke. The only sound was the low crackle of the lamps. Anchises kept rubbing the stick until at last he stilled his hand.
"The will of the gods is never easy to read," he said slowly. Then he looked up. "We'll watch and wait. Achates, double the guard. Aresya, offer prayers to the goddess. When the time comes—use everything the estate can offer to aid him."
Their gazes met, three pairs of eyes glimmering in the unsteady light. One by one, they nodded.
The flames leapt suddenly higher, bright enough to draw their shadows long across the floor—as if the night itself were whispering that change was already on its way.