Night settled over the Dardan estate like a heavy cloak, stitched with the hum of crickets and the occasional bark of a distant dog. Inside Aeneas's room, an oil lamp flickered against the plastered walls, throwing long, spindly shadows of his bow and wooden sword. The bronze shield hung in dignified silence—an unspoken reminder of what a warrior ought to be.
At the moment, however, Aeneas looked nothing like one.
He had rolled up his sleeves, gripped a bronze stylus like a dagger, and was glaring at the wax tablet before him. The lamp's glow threw his shadow huge and theatrical across the wall.
"Sanitation," he muttered under his breath. "Yes—hygiene is the first productive force!" His tone carried the earnest fire of someone who had clearly been born in a more modern century. "It's not swords that kill people here—it's bad hygiene…"
The stylus scratched across the wax, carving out a series of crooked lines. "Toilet revolution!" he announced, sketching a pit that looked so shabby even he winced. "Tomorrow I'll convince Father to dig one downwind of the courtyard—throw in some lime… and if we compost the waste, that's fertilizer too. Two birds, one stone."
He pushed that tablet aside and grabbed a fresh one. "Water filtration," he murmured. "Sand, linen, charcoal—good enough." Then he stopped, staring at his crude drawing with a doubtful frown. "Well, it's not Evian, but cutting parasite infections by half? I'll take that as a major victory."
The lamp gave a sudden pop. He sighed at his "masterpiece," then slumped forward, elbows on the desk. "Honestly," he muttered, "drawing this nonsense is worse than writer's block." He tapped the stylus against the table and groaned. "Oh, laptop… how I miss you."
On the wall, his shadow mirrored the gesture—shoulders sagging like a student despairing over homework.
The lamplight wavered, filling the room with a faint scent of burnt oil. His weapons hung in the background like silent spectators, watching their young master's campaign for civilization unfold.
Suddenly, his eyes lit up. "Fermentation!" he exclaimed in a fierce whisper. "Bread yeast, yogurt, cheese—yes! Better food, better morale, better logistics. Perfect!"
The stylus snapped with a tiny crack. Aeneas froze, then burst into a grin, unbothered. "Paper," he said, scribbling a few large circles in excitement. "We need paper! Papyrus is overpriced and fragile—knowledge shouldn't be a luxury good! Bark, rags, plant fibers—something's gotta work!"
He was nearly sprawled over the desk now, hands trembling with the thrill of invention. "And once we have paper, what then? I can't keep carving with bronze! That's insane." He looked up at the ceiling, despairing. "No iron industry yet, so steel pens are a dream… but quills and ink, maybe. One step at a time."
The light danced in his eyes as his excitement slowly cooled into calculation. The stylus hovered midair.
"Wait… none of this comes cheap. What's our financial situation, anyway?" He tapped the table, thinking hard. "Tomorrow, I'll tour the estate—see what we're working with."
At last he tossed the broken stylus aside, laced his hands behind his head, and stretched until his back cracked. His wrists ached from all the carving, but his grin lingered.
On the desk lay his crooked diagrams and half-formed inventions—a true ancient business plan. Aeneas stared at it, pride and pressure warring in his eyes.
"Difficulty: hell level," he muttered. "Reward… rewriting history, maybe." He slid the wax tablet to the center of the desk, as solemn as sealing a pact with the gods.
Then he pushed open the window. It creaked in protest, and the sudden gust nearly snuffed out the flame. He leaned against the frame, letting the cool night air wash over him.
Far away, the city of Troy glimmered faintly, its torches flickering along the walls like blinking eyes. Aeneas rolled his own.
"Majestic, huh?" he muttered. "Give it a few years and a wooden horse'll send you straight to the ICU. How long till then? Ten years? Five? Tomorrow?"
A shiver ran down his spine.
"Paris…" His lip twitched. "That charming prince—pretty sure most of this mess is on him. Where is he now, anyway? Drinking in Sparta? Or maybe stuck at sea?" he muttered under his breath.
The thought of Helen made him tilt his head back toward the sky. "So this is the face that sank a thousand ships, huh?"
His brow furrowed, but his gaze sharpened, cutting through the fog of irritation. "The problem isn't just Paris… even without the whole wooden-horse stunt, if Priam's the one guarding the city, Troy's finished."
He drew a slow breath, fingers tapping the window frame. "Tomorrow, I've got to check every inch of this estate's defenses. If it's not enough—recruit militia, reinforce the walls… dig another trench. You can never have too many trenches."
Then it hit him how far his thoughts had run. He blew out a breath and lifted his head again. Moonlight spilled coldly across the sill, like silent supervision. The fatigue on his face softened, replaced by a quiet, iron resolve.
"All right then," he whispered, as though wagering against an invisible rival. "If I'm stuck in this era, I'll fight like someone who belongs in it."
He turned down the lamp wick. The flame shrank, shuddering on the desk. Leaning back in his chair, he drummed his fingers, the names of legends flickering through his mind—Achilles, Hector, Ajax the Great…
"Those guys are monsters," he muttered, narrowing his eyes. "Physical stats like that—total cheat codes! I'd better keep training, or Achilles'll one-hit me before I even open my mouth. All the clever ideas in the world won't save me then."
Outside, the politics of Troy were murkier than the night itself. The name Priam whispered in the dark beyond his window, trailed by a dozen ambitious sons, each one a story waiting to turn dangerous.
Aeneas picked up another wax tablet and, in brisk English letters, wrote: Alliances & Resources.
He gave a crooked smile. Passion and book knowledge weren't enough; survival here was a long-distance race through politics—one that demanded patience, cunning, and the occasional act of humility.
"Priam… Paris… Hector… all of them matter to a lesser prince like me," he murmured. "Earn their trust, gather resources—but never stand tall enough to scare them off." He paused. "Keep a low profile?"
The phrase sounded ridiculous in the flickering lamplight—a modern catchphrase dropped three thousand years too early. Still, he knew the truth: trust didn't come from fancy words, but from quiet, practical goodwill.
He pictured himself at a banquet, smiling easily, handing bread to a servant; or speaking up just once, to offer a clever fix for some supply issue. Small gestures, tiny investments in trust.
The fire sparked back inside him. Aeneas almost leapt to his feet. His young body thrummed with defiance—the thrill of turning history into a living strategy game, where the stakes were pride, survival, and the shape of tomorrow.
"This is way better than writing a novel," he laughed softly. "A real, immersive, historical RPG—time to score that happy ending!" His voice bounced off the walls.
On the wax tablet, he scrawled: Priorities — Physical training + Combat skills + Military tech, and doodled a little smiley face beside it—half joke, half vow.
Finally, he shut the window, letting the night pour into the room like cool ink.
He flopped onto his bed, rolled over once, and thought before the darkness claimed him: Stay calm. Play it smart. Then—make your move.
The lamp went out. Only the sound of his steady breathing lingered.
Just before sleep took him, an image flickered unbidden across his mind—a young girl's face. Chestnut curls clung to her neck, her eyes hollow yet glimmering faintly with hope. She seemed to look through time itself, straight into his room… or perhaps at no one at all.
Aeneas frowned, pressing his palm to his forehead. A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes; the world before him was shrouded in fog, and his reaching fingers met only damp air and dust.
Whose memory is this? he wondered. Allen's? Aeneas's? And that girl... who is she?
His voice broke the silence, oddly sharp against the stillness. He strained to recall—her clothes, the background, anything—but the fragments slipped away before he could hold them.
The pain spiked. He groaned softly. "Great. Brain's crashing again."
Maybe it was a forgotten childhood scene from Aeneas's life. Maybe the side effect of crossing worlds. Either way, he shrugged it off with that modern sort of lazy fatalism.
"Probably just some passing slave girl. Whatever." He gave a crooked grin, rolled over, and drifted into sleep—tucking the image of the red-haired girl into a pocket of his dreams, for later.
Moonlight unfurled across the surface of the Scamander River like a carpet of silver. A Phoenician merchant ship rocked gently, its oars whispering to the dark. Behind them, the lights of the Dardan Valley shrank into pinpoints, while the city of Troy lingered on the horizon—a faint mark on a sailor's map.
At the prow stood a girl, her long chestnut-red hair fluttering in the wind. The wild tangles of childhood were gone now. Her features were soft but sure, her beauty quiet yet impossible to miss.
The moon cast a tender shadow at the curve of her mouth, a mingling of strength and warmth that made her seem both tempered and kind.
Her fingers moved over a silken amulet—slow, practiced. The edges were worn smooth by years of touch. Inside, a single swan feather lay hidden, still pure white. Every few moments, she brushed the fabric again, checking that the feather remained—as if she were holding hands with her past.
"Seven years…" she murmured. "I've come back—and I'll bring what you need."
Her eyes swept past the silvered river toward the receding banks, as though searching for a familiar outline—or a long-delayed smile. "Aeneas… do you still remember the girl you once gave hope to? Whether you do or not, I'll repay that kindness. I swear it."
There was no pride in her tone, only a calm certainty. Her final words lifted slightly, a vow whispered to herself: this was more than gratitude—perhaps something else, unnamed.
Beside her, a golden eagle perched upon a cargo crate, its wings folded, its head held high. Its eyes burned like embers. Eye of Zeus—grander than any messenger hawk, a silent guardian watching river and shore alike.
Each time it turned, its sharp gaze flickered across her hands—the amulet, the ring. The ring gleamed faintly under the moon: gold interlaced with silver, carved with intricate precision, as though it hid a story yet untold.
She traced its edge and smiled—a secret smile, not of triumph but of anticipation. There was melancholy there, and a playful defiance too, as if she were teasing fate itself. Think you've written my path already? Not so fast.
Her gaze drifted once more toward the distant hillside estate, vanishing into shadow.
The ropes creaked softly on deck; now and then, the hull kissed the water with a muted thud. The golden eagle rustled its feathers, alert. She clutched the amulet to her chest, holding it close—not just as cargo, but as a piece of herself, of someone, of then.
In the moonlight, her silhouette stretched long across the deck—still, serene, and resolute. After a moment, she tucked the charm away and turned toward the cabin.