The sun eased its way up from the edge of the Aegean, like a goldsmith in no hurry, laying the first strip of gilding along the horizon.
The ridges of Mount Ida stretched awake under the warmth, and the Dardan Valley estate yawned like an old man easing his joints. The little pond in the courtyard was first to protest the dawn—geese and ducks quacking their indignation—while pigeons burst from the eaves, circling once before scattering toward the fields. From the distant pens came the low grumble of cattle and the bleating of sheep, and the shepherd's dogs barked as if to declare the day officially begun.
Servants stirred into motion: women carrying baskets toward the ovens as the smell of flatbread drifted lazily through the air; an old servant stacking fresh-cut olive wood, coaxing a ribbon of smoke from the ash pile that wound itself into the morning mist, whispering a quiet promise that today would be steady.
By the storehouse, young men pushed carts heaped with olives while another hauled clay jars of grain, their movements smooth and practiced, almost rhythmic. Out in the fields came the crisp tink-tink of sickles striking wooden handles; water chuckled down the stone troughs of the irrigation channels. In the kitchen garden, maids gossiped about some strange thing they'd heard the night before, while the vintner leaned over his fermenting vats, breathing in the sharp, hopeful scent of ripening wine.
From the upper terrace, Troy itself was a faint smudge on the horizon, the sea whitening beneath the dawn. Low walls and watchtowers guarded this peaceful pocket of the world, and the young sentries polished their bronze short swords—not for show, but for the defense of supper and sleeping children.
One old goose, self-appointed captain of the guard, honked officiously at every passing servant. A puppy dove nose-first into a pile of flour and emerged dusted white, tail wagging with foolish pride. These little interludes were like raisins scattered through the bread of morning life.
As the sunlight edged each leaf in gold, the Dardan estate was fully awake. Human voices, animal calls, the clatter of tools—all wove together into a humble symphony. Here, people understood: real heroism didn't only live in the flash of an epic battle—it hid quietly in hot soup, sturdy walls, and the vigilance of the night watch.
Aeneas staggered out of the stone-built latrine, sunlight catching the sharp lines of his shoulders. His face, however, was a cocktail of emotions—pain, disgust, and a pinch of hopeless despair.
He stood in the courtyard, hands on hips, inhaling deeply the aroma of the ancient world—a heady mix of olive smoke, flour dust, and… other notes best left unnamed.
"Oh, for crying out loud…" he groaned. "This is way too authentic! I swear I've never appreciated modern plumbing this much in my life!"
A nearby elder servant, busy scrubbing the stone floor, nearly snorted with laughter but quickly bowed his head to hide it.
"The cleanup afterwards is pure torture!" Aeneas muttered, hobbling a few steps. "Broken pottery shards? Really? Who thought that was a good idea? No wonder ancient people had short lifespans—this has to be one of the top causes!"
He lifted his hand, sniffed it experimentally, and pulled a face worthy of Greek tragedy.
His eyes darted toward the crude water basin and clay jars. Already his mind was drawing up a full list of fixes. Inside this young Trojan body, the soul of modern writer Allen Buffett stirred with righteous purpose.
"Paper," he declared solemnly. "We need paper. Top priority. Forget fertilizers, forget water filters—none of it matters! For the sake of my backside—and the tender bottoms of every Trojan citizen—the paper industry must begin now."
His expression shifted from anguish to a general's grim resolve. This was no longer a complaint; it was a declaration of logistical war.
Squaring his shoulders, he straightened up, replacing embarrassment with noble composure. Then, like a half-dreaming engineer, he paced toward the wash basin, muttering about materials and production methods under his breath—already sketching blueprints in the air.
By the washbasin, Aeneas splashed cold water onto his face, rinsing away the dust—and the faint sting of yesterday's indignities. He muttered as he scrubbed, "All right, Aeneas. Focus on today. Then invent paper. Farewell, dear laziness—your shift ends here. The schedule's booked all the way to Greece."
He inhaled deeply, the air cool and rich with the faint tang of olive-wood smoke. For the first time that morning, resolve settled into him like armor.
At the stone table beneath the old olive tree, he filled a clay jar and doused his face again. Droplets slid down his temples, washing away sleep and leaving his black-and-gold curls in a state of deliberate chaos—the kind that says I woke up like this (and absolutely didn't).
Then he blinked, spotting the so-called "ancient skincare set" on the table: a few bottles of olive oil, a pinch of herbs, fine sand, and a tiny bowl filled with wood ash.
"This is it? The legendary facial scrub of antiquity?" he muttered. "Oh right, add wood ash—fancy stuff, reserved for nobles. How I miss my foaming cleanser... and my electric toothbrush."
Resigned to the era, he poured a bit of oil into his palm, mixed in herbs and sand, and began massaging his face with scientific precision. The grains rasped softly over his skin.
When a bit of sand tickled his eyelid, he jerked his head, flinging grit and dignity alike. "Ugh—fine. When in Troy, do as the Trojans do. At least it probably kills bacteria… right?"
He rinsed again, the coolness biting pleasantly, the olive scent cleansing not just his skin but his mood. The "toilet trauma" of earlier faded at last.
He dried his face on his cloak. Sunlight caught the rippling water beside him, throwing gold onto his cheekbones—a face that was, despite the morning chaos, unmistakably handsome. He straightened, brushing off his shoulders. Morning ritual: complete.
His gaze drifted to the weapon rack by the wall—oak practice swords, spears, and bronze shields arranged in military precision, waiting.
"Well," he sighed, "the grand plan for the backside will have to wait. First—sword drills, then factory plans. Morning training begins."
Each step toward the rack felt like a step away from modern comfort and into something older—heavier with duty.
He stripped off his shirt. Bronze-toned shoulders caught the dawn light. Taking up a wooden sword and small bronze shield, he walked to the open stone yard and began to stretch.
Arm swings, waist twists, leg kicks—each motion part exercise, part ritual.
"So I don't get one-shotted by that ankle-challenged muscle god someday," he muttered, "I'd better put in the work."
He planted his feet, eyes sharpening. In his mind, his opponent took shape: a young, movie-perfect Achilles—handsome, hawk-eyed, light on his feet.
"Come on, then," Aeneas whispered.
The phantom lunged, sword flashing straight for his chest. He raised his shield—crack! The impact numbed his arm.
"Wrong angle! Shield needs to tilt—deflect, don't absorb!" He turned aside, sliding the blow off, ducked, and jabbed forward with his wooden blade.
The phantom twisted gracefully, pivoting behind him. A counterstrike came—swift, fluid, merciless. Sword thrust, shield chop—like lightning uncoiled.
"Too fast! I can't match speed—gotta rely on prediction and strength!" He lowered his stance, tightened his core, and swept sideways with all his might.
The imagined Achilles let out a sharp, derisive laugh—and Aeneas froze mid-swing. Seriously? Even his imaginary opponent was mocking him now?
A blur of motion—a vicious spinning kick slammed into his shield, sending a jolt up both arms. Before he could recover, the phantom hurled its sword like a javelin.
"Wait—what?!" The situation teetered between absurd and genuinely perilous. He dove aside, rolling through dust and gravel. His sandal slipped, flinging a spray of mud behind him as he lunged forward. He's unarmed now! Go, go!
He charged—but the phantom caught his wooden blade between shield and arm, twisted, and nearly tore it from his grasp. Gritting his teeth, Aeneas ducked low and rammed forward with his shoulder, using his own shield to smash a path clear.
Crack! A stone bench went flying, skidding noisily across the courtyard.
And then—the vision evaporated. Silence flooded back in, leaving only Aeneas's ragged breathing in its wake.
He straightened, bracing his hands on his knees, then let out a helpless, breathless laugh. "Lost, huh? Well, fair enough. He is half divine, after all. Still—good workout. Feels great!"
He stretched both arms above his head with a satisfied groan, bones popping, the last of the morning tension slipping away. However strong the opponent—real or not—he'd keep fighting. Always.
Beads of sweat trickled down his collarbone, glinting gold in the sunlight.
He stooped to pick up his wooden sword, about to wipe the sweat from his brow when two servants appeared—swift and quiet as trained doves.
The young male servant froze, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. He was seriously injured just yesterday… and he's back training already? Is he actually the son of a goddess?
The maid, head bowed, clutched a linen towel to her chest. Her cheeks flushed crimson, as red as ripe pomegranates. She stole a glance at Aeneas's glistening shoulders, her pulse fluttering like a startled deer.
He looks… incredibly handsome today… she thought, breath quickening.
Summoning courage, she stepped forward and offered the towel.
"Thank you," Aeneas said with a gentle smile. "I've got it."
Just that—soft, ordinary words—but they melted something in her chest. Her blush deepened. She stepped back, hands trembling slightly, the basin swaying as she tried not to stare at the way his arm moved while he wiped the sweat away. For that brief, fragile moment, he was both warrior and gentleman.
The young man still hadn't moved. The young master must be blessed by more than one god, he thought in awe.
Then—
"Master Aeneas!" Terani burst into the courtyard like a whirlwind, skirts billowing and cheeks flushed from the kitchen heat. "Breakfast is ready!"
Seeing he'd finished training, she darted inside, grabbed his tunic, and hurried back, fussing as she helped him dress.
"Quick, quick! You've got to taste this—it's amazing! Way better than pomegranates, rarer than honey bread—just wait till you see it!"
Aeneas smiled, lifting his arms obediently as she tugged at the fabric. This girl never runs out of energy, he thought fondly.
While adjusting his peplos, Terani couldn't help peeking toward the dining hall. Her little star-shaped pendant swung wildly as she turned, her herbal pouch hanging crooked with a bandage corner sticking out. She sniffed the air—whatever was on the table clearly had her full attention.
Once he was dressed, she placed a hand on his lower back and gave a playful push. "Come on, don't just stand there! Breakfast's getting cold!" Her eyes sparkled like starlight.
Aeneas chuckled, letting her herd him toward the house. "All right, all right, Miss Terani—just don't shove me straight into the table."
She laughed; he laughed. Under the shade of the olive trees, their voices intertwined and drifted through the courtyard—light, easy, and perfectly ordinary. The kind of morning that would, one day, glow warmly in memory.