A stroll through the market, a chance to glimpse how ordinary folk lived—that counted as a bit of reconnaissance, didn't it?
So the three of them set off together, weaving into the lively bustle of the town's market. Stalls lined the winding road along the valley, bursting with all sorts of goods—sacks of flour in every shade, jars of olive oil glinting under the sun, wheels of goat's cheese stacked like treasures, and little bundles of salt wrapped neatly in animal hide.
Nisus and Euryalus moved with purpose, scanning the rows like hawks, competing silently over who could find the best deal first. Aeneas, on the other hand, strolled at an unhurried pace beside them, pausing now and then to pick up a grape or two, rolling them gently between his fingers, eyes flickering with curiosity and quiet calculation.
Every so often, he'd ask something that sounded casual enough—but each question was chosen with care.
"So, the price of this goat cheese—has it always been this steady? Really? The neighboring regions have seen at least three rounds of price hikes already. Why hasn't ours gone up?"
"Where do you usually get your salt from? Is the route safe these days?"
Nisus gave him a puzzled look. "Forgive me, sir, but… is all that something you truly need to know?" He hesitated. "Still—no harm in telling you."
Euryalus snorted, grinning with easy mischief. "Honestly, my lord, you talk like one of those little officials sent to sniff out market trends!"
Aeneas's lips quirked into a faint, knowing smile. Little official? He found the phrase amusing.
"Maybe," he said playfully. "But who doesn't like knowing a bit more about their own backyard?"
They were still chuckling when a sharp clatter of hooves and a man's loud cry drew their attention to the edge of the market.
A man stood there, dusty from travel, skin bronzed from the sun, a frayed rope looped over one shoulder. Beside him was a horse—tall, sleek, magnificent. Its muscles rippled beneath a glossy coat that gleamed as if it had just forded a river. In the haze of market dust, it shone like something carved from bronze.
Aeneas instinctively leaned forward, studying the animal's every detail—the measured breath, the powerful shoulders, the proud carriage of its neck. Every line spoke of careful breeding and expert training.
Catching the young man's interest, the merchant's eyes lit up. He hurried over, swinging the rope with dramatic flair.
"From Assyria!" he bellowed. "A stallion that runs a hundred miles a day! Look at that body, that stance—perfection, eh?"
He thrust his hands toward Aeneas, voice booming even louder now.
"Honored sir! I just came through the eastern mountain pass—right past that cursed Red Bean Forest. Bandits, the lot of them! Took every bit of my cargo. I only escaped thanks to this beast here! A true treasure, I swear it! Yours for just… thirty thousand silver drachmas!"
Nisus and Euryalus both gasped. "Thirty… thousand…"
They nearly dropped their bags of salt and flour.
That was the kind of sum that made even seasoned traders go pale—about two hundred and sixty minas, or roughly a hundred and thirty kilos of silver. In gold, thirteen.
Nisus's jaw twitched. "That's outrageous," he muttered under his breath.
Euryalus chuckled and clapped his brother's shoulder. "Easy, brother. We couldn't afford a hoof of that thing—but this young lord here? I've got a feeling he's not exactly… ordinary."
Aeneas raised an eyebrow, amused, but said nothing. He crouched down instead, running his hand lightly along the stallion's mane, feeling the rhythm of its pulse, the tension of muscle beneath the skin.
He wasn't really looking at the price tag. His mind was elsewhere—listening, always listening.
"Came through the eastern pass… attacked by bandits… escaped thanks to the horse."
The merchant's boast echoed in his mind. Not a random encounter, that. The Ida Mountain trade route had been trouble-free for months—or so the reports claimed.
Bandits there now? he thought, a frown flickering at the edge of his mouth. That's not good news.
Outwardly, Aeneas looked no more than a curious passerby admiring a fine horse. But behind his calm gaze, the gears were turning fast.
After all, he wasn't just a polite stranger wandering the market—he was the heir of the Dardan Valley. And to someone in his position, no scrap of information was ever too small to matter.
Aeneas stood in silence, his thoughts quietly circling.
Our lands don't reach the sea. The ships from the Dardan valley dock have to travel quite a stretch before they even glimpse salt water. We'll never outmatch the great houses of Ilion in maritime trade. No—the lifeblood of our commerce lies inland, right there along the Ida Mountain trade route that leads toward the Anatolian plateau. Olive oil, furs, mountain herbs, crafted goods—all must pass through that road to be traded for grain, metal, weapons, luxuries… everything we need.
He drew a slow breath, a flicker of concern glinting in his eyes.
Bandits, of all things. If they control that route, they strangle our economy. Caravans won't dare travel, taxes will dry up, and the supplies we depend on will never reach us… that's not just bad—it's disastrous.
He glanced down at the haunch of venison he'd just bought, at the armfuls of supplies Nisus and Euryalus were holding, and his expression remained perfectly calm—gentle, even, with the faintest curve of a smile at the corner of his lips.
"Fine horse, no doubt about it," he said evenly, giving the merchant a courteous nod. "But I've no use for one right now."
He revealed nothing of who he was, just added lightly, "Thank you, though, for the news about the mountain road."
The merchant looked mildly disappointed, but when another voice called from nearby, he quickly turned away, already pitching his horse to a new buyer.
Aeneas's eyes returned to the two brothers—Nisus was frowning, testing the venison's freshness, while Euryalus lifted the basket with a playful grin, as if waiting for the next interesting thing to happen.
Once the offering to the goddess is done, Aeneas resolved, this will be the next matter I handle. Those bandits must go. Trade must flow again. This isn't just housekeeping—it's survival.
His fingers brushed over the goods he carried, a small, deliberate motion—like the silent seal of an unspoken order. From somewhere deep inside him rose that familiar, steady resolve. This wasn't merely a nobleman's duty—it was a promise to every soul who lived in his valley.
If the trade routes weren't safe, neither wealth nor life would move freely. And Aeneas intended to make sure they would.
He lifted his head, gaze tracing past the market's bustle toward the distant ribbon of road snaking into the mountains—the Ida trade road, leading straight to the Anatolian highlands. That would be his next stronghold to secure, his next battlefield to command.
When they'd finished their shopping, Nisus hoisted the deer meat back over his shoulder—this time with a grin, as if saying, All right then, leave this one to me.
Euryalus carried a bulging basket filled with olives, grain, bread, salt, a new pair of thin-soled sandals, and a spindle freshly bought for his mother. His steps were light, and he even hummed a tune under his breath.
Aeneas watched them with quiet amusement, the corners of his mouth lifting into a warm, knowing smile.
"Well then, home we go," he said in that smooth, easy tone of his, a hint of mischief tucked behind the words. "I promise you won't be disappointed with lunch—it'll put every roast in this market to shame."
Nisus raised a brow, thinking wryly, This young master… he talks with that strange kind of confidence that makes you want to believe him.
Euryalus sped up a step, the teasing glint in his eyes saying, Knew it—he's not your average lordling.
A soft current of anticipation flowed between the three of them, an unspoken awareness that this young man, even strolling through a noisy marketplace, somehow carried the weight—and mystery—of command.
They stepped beyond the crowded stalls, the sunlight slanting through the valley and stretching their shadows long across the ground. Aeneas walked in the middle, steady and poised, his shoulders shifting with quiet rhythm, the natural leader without even trying.
Nisus and Euryalus adjusted their loads, yet couldn't help stealing glances at him—the casual flicker of his eyes, the thoughtful crease of his brow. Everything about him hinted at depths they couldn't yet see.
And as they made their way up the road, Aeneas's mind was already elsewhere—measuring, planning. The bandits of the Ida trade route. The safety of his valley. And perhaps… the two capable young hunters walking beside him.
Ideas streamed through his thoughts like the rivers winding through his homeland—quiet, persistent, unstoppable.
"Watch where you're going, you two," Aeneas called lightly over his shoulder, his tone warm and teasing. "Keep your eyes on the road, not just your baskets—unless you fancy tripping over your own laces."
Nisus broke into a grin; Euryalus rolled his eyes in mock exasperation—please, as if a pair of Ida Mountain hunters would stumble like that. Still, both of them ended up laughing. The young lord's good humor was impossible to resist.
Sunlight spilled down the valley, the wind soft as breath. It was the kind of small, ordinary moment that felt strangely precious. The three figures gradually disappeared up the mountain road, the day's simple encounter quietly laying the first stone for adventures yet to come.
When the two hunter brothers followed Aeneas into the reception hall of the Dardan Valley estate, their steps grew a little stiff, their eyes uncertain.
This was another world entirely.
High stone walls were hung with tapestries telling the legend of Ilion's founding—rough-woven yet intricately detailed, the threads shimmered in the candlelight as if alive. A long cypress table dominated the center of the room. Flames trembled in bronze candlesticks, their glow flickering across ceramic platters piled with wild greens dressed in olive oil, berries mixed with fresh cheese, and a steaming pot of stew still releasing curls of fragrant heat.
The sweet, waxy scent of burning honeycomb mingled with the crisp aroma of baked bread, filling the air with something at once solemn and homely.
Nisus couldn't help but glance around twice; Euryalus, wide-eyed as a child entering a temple, took everything in with wonder sparkling in his gaze.
Aeneas walked between them—easy, unhurried, yet there was no mistaking the quiet nobility that clung to his every movement. He rested one hand lightly on Nisus's shoulder and gestured with the other for the younger brother to take a seat first. The motion was casual, almost careless—but somehow made it perfectly clear who the master of this house was.
The servants started forward, but at the faintest glance from Achates, they retreated at once, melting into the shadows by the wall.
"Father, Mother—these two are… uh…"
Aeneas's usual eloquence faltered mid-sentence.
For a heartbeat, his mind went completely blank. He realized—horror dawning—that he'd spent half the day chatting with them and never once asked their names. His mouth twitched; he gave a strangled laugh and improvised,
"Two excellent hunters I met at the marketplace."
The awkward pause that followed was swiftly rescued by Nisus. Stepping forward, he placed a hand over his chest and bowed with the composed grace of a trained warrior. His deep, steady voice carried across the hall.
"Nisus, my lord. And this is my brother, Euryalus. It's an honor to accept your invitation."
Euryalus grinned, his manners less formal but no less sincere. He stole a quick glance at the food steaming on the table, swallowed hard—but said nothing.
Meanwhile, little Terani could barely contain herself. She clasped her hands before her chest, trying her best to look like a dignified young maid, yet her eyes kept darting—without the slightest shame—toward the tray of golden flatbread. Whoever these guests were didn't matter in the least; what mattered was that bread, which she was staring at as if willing it to sprout legs and leap straight into her hands.
Aeneas, meanwhile, was mentally burying himself six feet under.
Brilliant. Just brilliant, Buffett. Forgetting to ask people's names—what are you, a toddler?
If this were the modern world, the headline would be: "Help! Brought Two Internet Friends Home for Lunch, Realized I Never Asked Their Usernames." And the comments would all be, 'Dear, you're brave… but wow, that's dumb.'
He was dying inside—but outwardly, his expression never wavered. That serene, slightly awkward smile stayed perfectly in place. Somehow, it turned the stiff, rule-bound atmosphere of a noble dining hall into something warm, human—and faintly ridiculous.
For a moment, the whole room seemed to exhale, as if everyone had silently agreed: perhaps this house wasn't as distant as it looked after all.
As lunch began, the stiffness in the air melted into something warmer, almost homely. A breeze swept down from Mount Ida, slipping through the half-open shutters and carrying with it the scent of resin and grass.
Sunlight streamed through the stone columns, gilding every line and edge in the room.
Anchises leaned on his oak cane, but his gaze was as sharp as a hawk's. Stroking his silver beard, he fixed his eyes on Nisus and said slowly,
"Your father—Hyrtacus, that old wolf—his spear work was among the finest in all of Troy. His son seems to have the same mountain-oak strength. How is he these days?"
There was both curiosity and an ache of nostalgia in his voice.
Nisus straightened at once, his hands resting stiffly by his sides, back straight as a spear. "Thank you for asking, my lord," he said with quiet respect. "Father's still strong. Trains with the spear every day, though he does complain that his old wounds ache whenever it rains."
A flicker of sorrow passed through his eyes, quickly masked as he lifted his chin. "But he's still the warrior we all look up to."
Anchises's mouth curved, almost imperceptibly. He didn't press further, just nodded—yet the weight of that silence carried more approval than words ever could.
On the other side, Aresya was studying Euryalus with eyes soft as morning light on a river. Smiling, she said,
"How's Arisbe? Do give her my greetings. We used to gather herbs together in Mount Ida's sacred groves, forever arguing over which laurel leaves best pleased the goddess."
Her tone was playfully fond, like a memory still alive and laughing.
Euryalus broke into a grin, eyes sparkling with mischief.
"She's well, my lady! If she knew I still remembered the names of three kinds of laurels, she'd probably say I'd finally grown a brain."
He raised his brows in mock pride, and Aresya covered her mouth, laughing—a sound so light it seemed to lift the whole room.
Aeneas watched from the side, nodding inwardly. Just a few exchanges had laid bare the threads binding everyone together: Hyrtacus, a retired veteran; Arisbe, once a priestess—and through her, a shared past with his mother, Aresya.
Invisible, yet strong, these ties wove everyone into one living web.
With the mood easy now, the brothers began recounting their hunting tales.
Euryalus gestured wildly, explaining how he'd mimicked a deer's call with a whistle to lure a stag toward their trap. Nisus filled in the details, describing how the deer nearly toppled the trap—and how he'd grabbed his brother by the back of the tunic to stop him from tumbling in after it.
Then came another story—of being chased up a tree by a furious mother boar defending her piglets. Euryalus acted out how he'd been left dangling, "one foot barely hooked on a branch!"
Anchises listened, the tension easing from his face; a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Aresya alternated between gasping in mock horror and stifling laughter, warmth glowing in every line of her expression.
Outside, Mount Ida's slopes were clear against the horizon, and the red-bean forest beyond lay like a slumbering beast—quiet, but heavy with unspoken menace. Inside the hall, though, that sense of distance had dissolved. What began as formality now felt almost like family.
Aeneas lounged at the end of the long table, absently tearing a piece of steaming bread and dipping it in olive oil. To anyone else, he seemed perfectly at ease, just another son enjoying a comfortable meal—but his dark-gold eyes, sharp and steady, kept drifting toward his father.
"So—" he said casually, tone light as if tossing out gossip, "I heard something at the market today. Some Hittite trader claimed the road east, past the red-bean forest, isn't safe lately. Said he ran into bandits and lost some cargo. Have you heard about that, Father?"
The cup in Anchises's hand paused mid-air. The diluted wine caught the light, its pale red turning almost somber. He didn't reply right away. Instead, he took a slow sip, set the cup down, and only then lifted his eyes—those weathered, time-marked eyes.
His fingers tapped the table, a slow, heavy rhythm echoing a burden too old to name.
"Yes," he said at last, voice low but steady. "About thirty kilometers east, near the edge of the red-bean forest. There's a group of them—twenty, maybe more. They strike like moles, slipping through the woods. They rob, but rarely kill. Looks like they're after coin, not blood. Maybe they're careful on purpose—too much damage would bring the guards down on them."
Aeneas listened in silence, though his lips tightened slightly. He knew this kind of "measured cruelty" all too well. Not enough to start a war, but just enough to make merchants afraid—bleeding the trade routes dry, little by little.