Aeneas chatted idly with the guards as he kicked a pebble down the path. The mountain breeze rustled through the olive leaves, whispering in soft bursts. Then, quite suddenly, he squinted—something, a shadow perhaps, flickered at the edge of the forest and vanished into the trees.
He froze.
"Hey… over there in the woods—did you see that? Looked like someone. Should we check it out?"
All three guards turned in unison toward where he was pointing. The oldest of them narrowed his eyes, waited a moment, then shook his head, calm as if humoring a child's imagination.
"Nothing to worry about, my lord. Our patrol ends right here at the edge of the olive grove. Beyond that lies the sacred forest of the goddess Cybele—we don't go disturbing that place."
"The goddess's forest?" Aeneas raised an eyebrow, his tone halfway between teasing and curiosity. "Sounds like someone just put up a convenient 'Keep Out' sign."
The older guard didn't catch the phrase "sign," but the skepticism was obvious enough. The younger one hurried to explain, lowering his voice as if afraid the trees might overhear.
"Yes, my lord. Folks say Mount Ida is the goddess's own palace. Even our estate is called Ida Fortress out of respect. But it's not just trees in there… there are deer, wild boar, wolves, and lynxes." He swallowed hard. "And the old men swear they've heard bears—and sometimes… lions."
By the end of his sentence, his eyes darted nervously toward the treeline, as though a lion might leap out right that second.
Aeneas gave him a sidelong look and burst out laughing.
"Lions? Well, that's quite the neighborhood. Guess we'd better prepare some welcome gifts—don't want to offend the locals, right?"
The young guard almost snorted before catching himself and clamping his lips shut. The elder one coughed into his fist, pretending he hadn't heard, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
Aeneas nodded thoughtfully. A natural wildlife reserve, huh? he mused. Saves the trouble of border patrols, at least. Still… too many beasts could become a problem. I'll deal with that later.
He lifted his gaze toward the thick, green wall of forest. The shadows of the trees swayed and folded like a living curtain, dividing the realms of men and gods.
A small smile tugged at his lips. Without another word, he patted a guard on the shoulder and motioned to continue downhill.
At the foot of the mountain stood a small earthen fortress. It wasn't grand, but it had everything it needed—wooden palisades forming a square, earthen ramparts, winding ditches, and a few watchtowers that looked like oversized children's toys, yet sturdy enough for their purpose.
Two sentries stood ramrod-straight at the gate, their spears glinting coldly in the sun.
Aeneas instinctively brushed the dust off his simple civilian tunic, smirking.
"All right then—'tourist passing by' look: check. As long as nobody recognizes me…"
Heavy footsteps echoed from inside the camp. Moments later, a grizzled veteran appeared—his face a map of scars, his arms thick as tree trunks. He wore old, well-oiled leather armor that somehow looked more reliable than new bronze.
"Captain Callippus!" Aeneas's heart gave a jolt. He knew this man well—one of his father's old guards. Anchises himself had given him the name Callippus, meaning "good horse," a mark of trust and loyalty.
Callippus blinked, taking in the young man's plain attire. Recognition dawned, and his expression lit up. He slammed a fist to his chest, his voice booming like a war drum.
"Lord Aeneas! You're here! Come to inspect the barracks, sir?"
For a moment, he looked every inch the soldier greeting his commander—stiff, proud, and utterly sincere.
Aeneas couldn't help but chuckle. He waved a hand lightly.
"Captain Callippus, you don't have to be so formal. I'm just out for a stroll—thought I'd drop by and see how everyone's doing."
His black-gold curls caught the sunlight, glinting with an easy warmth that seemed to melt the stiffness from the air.
Callippus's face broke into a wide grin, the deep lines on his weathered face folding like creases in old leather. He bobbed his head eagerly, his rough voice brimming with genuine respect.
"An honor, my lord! Please, allow me to give you a proper tour."
He stepped aside with a sweeping gesture, arm out like a door usher, inviting Aeneas into the camp.
Aeneas eyed the plain yet sturdy gate, the corners of his mouth curling upward.
"Huh. No mistaking Father's men—you even make 'please come in' look like a military ceremony."
He stepped over the wooden bridge spanning the trench, a faint ripple of thought stirring in his chest. This might be the first real line of defense for my lands—and the first place where I'll have to learn how to deal with men, not just walls.
Following Callippus inside, Aeneas took in the sight. The camp was small but spotless. In the center stood a broad gray-white tent—clearly the command post—while neat rows of huts surrounded it. Some held nothing more than straw mats on wooden frames; others managed a real bed or two.
The air was thick with the tang of sweat, smoke, and metal—living proof that life here wasn't exactly comfortable.
A few soldiers squatted in a corner, sharpening their weapons with slow, practiced motions. The scrape of whetstone against bronze sliced through the quiet, sharp as a drumbeat.
Weapons lined the racks along the walls—spears, short bronze swords, javelins—all neatly arrayed, radiating a sober, almost sacred order.
"We keep a hundred men here," Callippus said proudly as he walked. "Half train and rest inside the camp; the rest take shifts at the watchposts or on patrol. This is the key line of defense for Dardan estate and the town below."
Aeneas nodded, his dark eyes sweeping the camp. Instinctively, the "traveler's" part of his brain switched on.
Bronze weapons, with just a few iron ones… armor's mostly leather or heavy linen, the odd bronze cuirass here and there. Shields—wood with hide covering, not bad, but won't stop a strong thrust. Archers… straight bows, no recurve tech yet. Range and penetration limited. Arrows—mostly bronze tips. Can they even make enough of those locally?
He nearly frowned but smoothed it into a friendly smile instead.
"So," he asked lightly, "how's the training and the food around here?"
Callippus's chest puffed with pride. "Wrestling, javelin throws, and sparring, mostly. We add short runs and load-bearing drills every week—keep the stamina up. As for food…" He grinned, voice dropping conspiratorially. "Barley porridge, beans, cheese, and olive oil. If we get a bit of mutton or fish, it's practically a feast day."
He leaned closer, lowering his tone even more. "Still, thanks to Lord Anchises, supplies have been steady. The men grumble about watery porridge, but better thin gruel than an empty belly. You can't guard the land on hunger."
Aeneas laughed. "Complaining about watery porridge—sounds perfectly reasonable to me."
The remark was so casual, so normal, that it sent a ripple of laughter through the air. Callippus barked a hearty laugh, beard trembling. A few soldiers glanced up from their work; seeing the young lord's relaxed smile, they couldn't help but grin too.
Good, Aeneas thought, the morale's solid.
He strolled on, easy and unhurried, his steps matching the lazy rhythm of camp life.
Pausing beside a soldier polishing a spear, he nodded with a warm smile.
"Morning, Yatenis! How's your little sister these days?"
The soldier blinked, stunned, then lit up as though struck by lightning.
"My lord—she's—she's doing great!"
Aeneas turned to another young man honing arrows, eyes twinkling.
"Those arrows are shining brighter than my dog's coat. Care to see who hits the target first—you or me?"
The soldier's ears flushed red, and he scratched his head with an awkward grin.
"My lord, uh… I've never competed with a dog before!"
Aeneas chuckled under his breath, shoulders lifting in that easy, lopsided shrug of his. These lads are too easy to tease, he thought, amused.
Then—half out of habit—he let slip a modern quip:
"Honestly, gotta hand it to you guys. That was one solid move."
The soldiers blinked, exchanging puzzled looks. A few chuckled uncertainly; one scratched his head, pretending he understood. Yet the warmth in the air thickened—easy, genuine, human.
As Aeneas strolled among them, their stiffness began to fade. Men who'd stood like statues a moment ago now grinned openly, their eyes alight with pride.
"Our young lord's really down-to-earth, isn't he?" someone whispered.
Another straightened up instantly, saluting with earnest zeal.
"Lord Aeneas, it's an honor to meet you, sir!"
The camp was soon alive with sound—laughter, the clink of metal, snatches of conversation. It felt as though a spark had caught among them, a warmth that spread from man to man.
Aeneas took it all in, a small, satisfied smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. Good, he thought. Morale's solid. That's exactly what I wanted to see.
When it was time to leave, Callippus and a few men hurried forward, bowing slightly.
"My lord, allow us to escort you to the town!"
Aeneas gave a silent sigh, inwardly wincing. And here I am, dressed like a commoner for nothing. Might as well bring out a full honor guard and announce 'Lord Aeneas on parade!' So much for my undercover inspection.
He masked the thought with a good-natured grin and waved them off.
"Appreciate the offer, truly—but I'd like to take a look around on my own. You staying at your posts—that's the best protection I could ask for."
He gave Callippus's scarred, battle-tested shoulder a friendly pat.
"I know full well how hard you've all worked."
The soldiers nodded, half proud, half disappointed, watching as he walked toward the gate. Sunlight spilled over his black-and-gold curls, wrapping his figure in a gentle radiance—noble without pretense, warm without effort.
Their laughter lingered in the air long after he'd gone, echoing like a low, steady drumbeat of loyalty.
Outside the camp gates, the men still stood watching him go. Morning sunlight broke through the mist, gilding his tall silhouette. His curls lifted slightly in the breeze as he moved with that effortless, steady stride—like a young lord who knew the whole Dardan valley was quietly opening beneath his feet.
He sorted through his thoughts as he walked—precise and methodical, the way a gamer plots his next move on a strategy board.
Economic base: decent. The olive groves are running well, steady income stream—though I'll need real numbers. Military: three hundred freeborn professionals plus fifty elite slave-soldiers. In this age, that's not bad at all. But… training and equipment could use work. Especially ranged firepower. Need to fix that.
He exhaled lightly through his nose, the corner of his lips quirking upward.
"Paper-making and sanitation can wait," he murmured. "Guess I should level up the 'military tech tree' first? Bow upgrades? Metallurgy research? Or maybe something fun? Ugh, decisions…"
Ideas clicked rapidly into place in his mind—cold logic and wild imagination dancing in perfect sync. If I push innovation early, I could pull a full-on 'tech rush' in ancient times…
Then his expression softened, remembering the soldiers' faces. Their loyalty was genuine, their pride palpable. That's a blessing I can't waste.
"Father's reputation, the veterans' discipline… that's the backbone. As long as morale holds, the land holds. And if the economy allows—it's time to bump up their pay."
Each face from the barracks flickered through his memory—young, earnest, brimming with fire and the simple joy of being seen.
The path wound down toward the valley town, sunlight spilling warmly across his shoulders. The breeze rustled through the trees, carrying with it the low murmur of the Scamander River. His steps grew surer, his gaze sharper—not just an observer now, but a strategist sketching his domain, piece by piece, in the theater of his mind.
Every village, every olive grove, every patrol route—it all looked like a giant chessboard, waiting for him to plan his next move.
"Maybe I should start by upgrading the military tech tree first… then move on to civilian life and the economy."
Aeneas mused, the corner of his mouth curving upward, a glint of shrewd amusement flickering in his eyes. This was a game of wits and patience—and he was ready to play.
The outline of the town grew sharper in the morning light. Chimneys puffed pale mist into the air as villagers stirred to life. Aeneas quickened his pace, a spark of anticipation rising in his chest. Every detail of this era could be the key to understanding his new world—and his new domain.
By eight or nine in the morning, the sun had burned through the mist, revealing the largest settlement at the foot of the Dardan Valley hills. The air was a heady mix of woodsmoke, fresh bread, olive oil, and livestock musk—the unmistakable scent of an ancient town at work.
Aeneas drew in a deep breath and chuckled inwardly. "So this is the Bronze Age version of a CBD, huh? Rough around the edges—but brimming with life."
The central square was already buzzing. Earthen roads were crowded with stalls. A potter waved a reddish-brown jar at passersby, calling out his wares. Bolts of coarse linen and wool hung neatly from wooden racks, swaying in the breeze as if winking at Aeneas.
Pyramids of bright fruit glowed in the sun. Olives and pickled vegetables gave off a briny aroma that made villagers pause to haggle.
By the communal well, women drew water and exchanged gossip, their laughter rippling through the air like warm sunlight in sound.
Aeneas' attention was drawn to a nearby smithy—or rather, a bronzesmith's forge. Craftsmen worked the fire, hammering heated bronze with rhythmic ting-ting-tings, sparks leaping like tiny fireworks.
He crouched to watch, mentally taking notes. "So, bronze forging works like this—melt the copper-tin alloy, pour it into clay molds, then hammer and polish till it shines. Crude, but solid. Good enough for weapons and tools. Not bad at all. At least the territory's got its own metalworking base."
Across the square, a baker used thick gloves to pull flat barley bread from a clay oven. The hot scent of grain and crisped edges filled the air.
A few old men sat under a stone shrine, sipping watered wine, eyes following the crowd with quiet amusement—as if the marketplace itself were a daily play performed for them alone.
Guards patrolled in pairs, spears in hand but smiles easy, giving the place a sense of calm order rather than tension.
Aeneas strolled through the market, shoulders relaxed, eyes always moving. Merchants worked briskly but without panic. Children darted between stalls in high-pitched laughter. A few goats sauntered lazily down the road, bleating like they owned it.
His gaze lingered on a few items—bronze armor, wooden tools, small trinkets—each one a clue to the town's rhythm and labor flow.
"Hmm… lively, but organized," he thought, brow arching slightly, a half-smile tugging at his lips.
"This town's got its own beat. Even the sound of the hammers feels like background music."
He kept wandering, brushing his fingers against the soft wool of a hanging cloak, crouching to admire a fresh loaf as it cooled. "If this were an RTS game," he muttered with a grin, "this place would be a perfect spawn point—agriculture, crafts, bronze weapons… what more could you ask for?"
As sunlight deepened, the town around him seemed to bloom into color—busy yet balanced, ancient yet alive. And there he was: a tall, bright-eyed young nobleman with a gentle smile, slowly blending in. An observer, yes—but also, perhaps, the future guardian of this land.