At one corner of the town square, two young men stood out like bright strokes on a dusty canvas.
The one in front—Nisus, about twenty-seven—had the build of a seasoned woodsman: broad shoulders, thick arms, and a calm, grounded stride. He was carrying an adult roe deer across his back, the antlers swaying gently like a crown of the wild. Sweat glistened on his bronze skin, trickling down the curve of his neck as sunlight caught every drop.
He shifted the weight a little, muttering under his breath, brow creasing.
"Blimey… heavier than that hare from yesterday."
His tone was half complaint, half satisfaction—the sound of a man quietly proud of a hard-earned catch.
A few paces behind him came Euryalus, twenty-four, leaner and wirier, moving with an effortless spring in his step. A longbow and a quiver of arrows rested easily across his back. His short brown hair was neat, his grin mischievous, and his eyes darted everywhere with the bright curiosity of someone who never quite managed to sit still.
Watching his brother lumber under the deer's weight, Euryalus smirked. That's what you get for showing off. "Big brother's stronger, let me carry it"—and now look at you.
He shook his head, amused. Next hunt, I'll haul the whole thing home myself, just to see his face.
The two were dressed plainly: leather vests and linen trousers spattered with dirt and crushed leaves—unmistakably men fresh from the forest. The teeth strung on Nisus's shoulder guard clicked softly as he walked, the quiet trophies of a practiced hunter. On Euryalus's forearm, a leather band marked his trace of Amazonian blood. His fingers brushed his bowstring now and then—habit, grace, and instinct all at once.
"Watch your step, big brother!" Euryalus suddenly called out, feigning alarm as Nisus neared a loose stone.
Nisus turned his head with a grin.
"Relax. I've handled worse—boars twice this size."
His voice carried that mix of older-brother pride and teasing bravado that made people grin despite themselves.
A few townsfolk paused to watch them—some smiling, some whispering to each other. The weight on Nisus's back, the lightness of Euryalus's stride—it made a picture both vivid and familiar, like the kind of scene people hoped their own sons might grow into one day.
From a distance, Aeneas observed quietly, noting the way the brothers moved. Good synergy. Strength and speed—a balanced pair. Useful in a hunt, and better still in a crisis.
Nisus kept walking steadily, occasionally swiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Euryalus walked beside him, waving cheerfully at vendors, tossing good-natured jokes at his brother's expense. The banter between them filled the morning air with a kind of living warmth.
Euryalus sped up to walk shoulder to shoulder with him, mischief glinting in his eyes.
"Hey, Nisus, that deer's getting heavier by the minute, isn't it? How about I carry it the rest of the way—if you throw in your share of the barley ale?"
He nudged his brother's side with his elbow, half teasing, half testing how much strength he had left.
Nisus narrowed his eyes at him, lips pressed into a mock-stern line.
"Save your breath, Euryalus. You were the one pretending to be exhausted up in the hills. Now you're trying to bargain for my ale?"
He stopped for a moment, hefting the deer on his shoulders, then said thoughtfully,
"This one's worth, oh… fifty obols in silver bits, give or take. Enough for grain, salt… and maybe a new spindle for Mother."
Euryalus groaned dramatically, crossing his arms with a grin far too bright to be serious.
"Only fifty? Come on—it's worth at least sixty! We chased the thing half the day! And we'll need good thread, too—my bowstring's about to give."
He tilted his chin toward the nearby bowyer's shop, where rows of finely made longbows and bronze-tipped arrows gleamed in the sun.
Nisus snorted, his shoulders shifting under the weight.
"Your bowstring was replaced last month. We're getting food and salt first. As for the rest…"
His tone softened beneath the mock sternness.
"…maybe a new pair of sandals for you. Those things are practically falling apart."
Euryalus couldn't hold back a laugh. He nudged his brother again, his grin as bright as the morning sun.
"Knew it! You've got a soft spot for your dear little brother. Honestly, Nisus, you talk tough, but your heart's mush. Ha!"
Nisus just gave him a sidelong smile—quiet, patient, amused. He said nothing, merely gave the deer's flank a firm pat, as if to say, yes, yes, keep talking. Beneath the teasing, their easy banter carried the warmth of years of brotherhood—steady, unshakable, and full of life.
The morning air hummed with the scent of bread and bronze. Steam rose from the bakeries, voices called across the marketplace, and sunlight poured like honey through drifting smoke. The brothers' steps fell into rhythm, a kind of wordless dance—strength meeting lightness, mischief meeting care.
At the edge of the square, they found an open spot. Nisus crouched, carefully lowering the deer onto a flat stone slab. He adjusted the pose just so, ensuring the animal looked both sturdy and elegant—as if the beast itself knew it was the star of the morning.
He wiped the sweat from his brow, exhaled deeply, and said,
"Keep an eye on it for a bit. I'll fetch some water—my throat's parched."
Euryalus handed over a horn cup without missing a beat. Nisus took it with a nod and strode toward the small tributary of the Scamander River, his tall frame reflected in the rippling blue-green water. Even in the calm of morning, there was a hunter's rhythm in his every step—measured, balanced, and sure.
Back at the stall, Euryalus crouched to neaten the deer's fur, smoothing it with practiced hands. Then he straightened up, drew a deep breath, and let out a call clear enough to slice through the chatter of the crowd.
"Fresh venison! A fine buck from Mount Ida—brought down just this morning! Tender meat, flawless hide, and antlers fit for a king's hall! Come have a look!"
His voice carried easily—playful, inviting, impossible to ignore without being brash. Within moments, townsfolk began to drift over, curious and smiling. Some rubbed their chins and muttered about the price; others pointed at the deer and whispered among themselves.
Then, from the crowd, an old man with a beard like snow leaned in and clicked his tongue.
"Fine beast, that one—but a bit small, eh? You hear what the young lord did yesterday? Lord Aeneas, from the manor—brought down a wild boar all by himself, with just a javelin! Great beast, fierce as they come!"
He gestured wide with his hands, exaggerating the size until the boar was nearly monstrous.
"I heard he used a stone!" said a woman holding a baby, her eyes wide. "And they say he was wounded, but the goddess Aphrodite appeared and healed him in an instant! A real miracle, it must be—a sign he's blessed by the gods!"
"Not only that!" the baker chimed in, his hands still dusted with flour. "Word is, he drank three bowls of soup last night and was up training at dawn! No ordinary man, that one!" He flung his arms in the air, as if he'd been there to see it himself.
A young shepherd edged closer, voice low but eager.
"I heard there was still blood on his spear! That boar was ten times bigger than my sheep! Can't imagine how he took it down alone…" His eyes shone with a mix of fear and awe.
Euryalus blinked, utterly thrown. Oh, come on… really?
He looked around at the townsfolk, now deep in animated gossip, each story growing taller than the last. The corners of his mouth twitched; he couldn't help but grin. The deer lay quietly before him, glinting under the morning sun—utterly indifferent to the swirl of human nonsense around it.
"Well then," he murmured, half to himself, half to the universe, "looks like we're not just selling venison today—we're serving up legends."
When Nisus returned, horn cup in hand, he shot his brother a knowing look. The faintest glimmer of laughter flickered in his forest-green eyes. His shoulders gave the smallest shake, as if to say, You heard it too, didn't you?
The square had grown louder now—bargaining, laughter, a dozen stories competing in the air. For the two brothers, it was just another morning in the market: part business, part entertainment. And through it all, the name Aeneas drifted from lip to lip—whispered, embellished, glorified—carried like a rumor riding on the wind.
Euryalus was still fussing over the deer, trying to make it look a touch more presentable—head tilted just so, fur brushed the right way, antlers catching the light at a flattering angle.
That was when a young man in plain, spotless clothes wandered over, drawn by the shouting of vendors. He crouched down with easy grace and brushed a finger along the animal's back, curiosity and amusement mingling in his eyes.
"How much for the deer?" he asked, smiling.
Euryalus, still half-lost in the earlier gossip about the "young lord's miracle hunt," blurted out without thinking, "Sixty silver obols!" The moment the words left his mouth, he noticed the stranger's simple attire and hastily added, "Or, uh, the equivalent in grain or salt works too." His tone carried that teasing lilt of someone testing whether the other could actually afford it.
Aeneas chuckled softly. Not bad, he thought. Knows how to price a trophy. Sixty obols—about two weeks' pay for a soldier—steep, perhaps, but fair.
He didn't bother to haggle. Instead, he asked mildly, "It's fresh, isn't it? You hunted it this morning?" His voice had that warm curiosity of someone who genuinely wanted to know.
Just then, Nisus returned with a cup of river water. He shot Aeneas a cautious glance—an instinctive, hunter's read of the newcomer. Euryalus took the water and, still in high spirits, waved the cup.
"Hey, friend! Thirsty? It's straight from the river—cold as ice, fresh as it gets!"
Aeneas froze for half a beat, then raised both hands quickly. "Ah—no, thank you!" He smiled awkwardly, adding, "Um… best to boil it first, really. There are these—tiny creatures—in the water. Makes your stomach ache if you drink it raw."
The brothers stared at him, eyebrows climbing higher by the second.
"Boil… water?" Nisus muttered, narrowing his eyes. "Tiny creatures? You serious? You sound like one of those scholars locked up in a tower somewhere."
Euryalus bit the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing, waving as if to calm both his brother and his own disbelief.
"Forget it," he said under his breath. "Another oddball for the market to gossip about."
The deer lay quietly between them, fur gleaming under the morning sun, like a silent witness judging this strange little "science lecture."
Aeneas crouched again to inspect the animal, smiling faintly. "Well," he murmured to himself, "hygiene standards could use some improvement around here."
When he looked up, he studied the two brothers more closely. Despite their rough clothes, they carried themselves like men trained by instinct—every movement lean, balanced, and sure.
Strong. Steady. Sharp eyes. They'd make fine allies, he thought.
He reached into his leather pouch and began to count out sixty neat, gleaming obols. In the sun, they looked like tiny stars trembling in his palm. He held them out to Nisus with an easy grin.
"I'll take it then—sixty obols."
Nisus's hand stiffened as the cool weight of the silver touched his palm. His eyes widened slightly—no ordinary townsman carried that kind of coin. He glanced at Aeneas, then at his brother; both of them were silently trying to fit the pieces together.
Euryalus nearly whistled. Generous, this one. Either rich, crazy, or both.
"I live a little ways up the hill," Aeneas said casually, nodding toward the slope where the Dardan estates stood. "Mind helping me bring the deer back? I'll treat you both to a proper lunch as thanks. Deal?"
The brothers' faces lit up instantly. "Deal!" they chorused.
Euryalus added, almost tripping over his own words, "We were heading to buy a few things anyway. Uh—sir—uh, friend! You could come along with us, if you've got time! We'll head up together after."
At the slip of sir, Nisus's brow arched slightly. His thoughts sharpened. Lives on the hill. That kind of silver. That calm way of speaking… Could he be—the Aeneas? The one who killed a wild boar single-handed and was healed by the goddess herself?
He watched the young man more carefully now. Despite the humble clothes, there was no mistaking the quiet confidence—the effortless grace of someone born to lead.
Aeneas crouched once more beside the deer, lips curving into an almost private smile.
"Not bad," he murmured. "These two might just do nicely."
And so the morning unfolded: the glint of silver, the hum of the crowd, the scent of venison and sun-warmed dust. None of them knew it yet, but somewhere between the barter and the laughter, the first threads of a legend had begun to weave themselves.