The sun was sinking slowly into the Aegean Sea, draping the western sky in a grand tapestry of crimson and violet.
Up on the Dardan Valley estate, the terrace pillars cast long shadows across the marble floor, their carved vines and creatures seeming to stir awake in the twilight. Down below, the village lights began to flicker—tiny, scattered stars grounded on earth. Far to the east, Mount Ida's outline was swallowed by the dusk, and beyond it, the Red Bean Forest lay cloaked in mystery—a towering mass of trees bearing scarlet fruit, like a slumbering beast baring its fangs in the dark, waiting for trespassers.
Aeneas stood at the terrace edge, hands resting on the stone railing, back straight, the wind teasing his black-and-gold curls.
"Athena tomorrow, Aphrodite the day after…" he muttered, the corner of his mouth quirking in self-mockery. "My schedule's tighter than a modern CEO's. Better sort out what's in my head before I forget half the useful stuff…"
Achates stood nearby, hands folded, quiet but watchful. He had long grown used to his young master's odd mutterings—half nonsense, half genius.
Aeneas turned to him, his tone suddenly firm. "Achates, tomorrow's trip to Ilion—keep it low-key. You'll come with me. Bring Nisus and Euryalus too. I've got my eye on those two—they need to be trained, starting now."
Achates inclined his head, calm as ever, but his eyes flashed with approval.
"And tell the kitchen—" Aeneas gestured toward the distant village, where a wisp of smoke curled into the evening sky, his voice alight with youthful enthusiasm. "Tomorrow night's main course must follow my instructions exactly. It's my first official contribution to the family table. No screw-ups!"
"Yes, sir," Achates said, bowing slightly, a rare smile tugging at his lips.
Aeneas drew his gaze eastward again. Mount Ida loomed solemn and silent in the fading light, and the Red Bean Forest stretched beyond like a dark promise.
(Nisus and Euryalus—born hunters, sharp as their arrows. If I train them right, they'll become my strongest hands. Father's made it clear enough—the valley will soon be my responsibility. I can't drown in paperwork like some bureaucrat, so I need capable men. But first things first—those bandits. Clear them out, prove myself, and the rest will follow.)
His fist tightened around the railing, knuckles whitening in the last gleam of sunset.
The wind swept across the terrace, carrying the chill breath of the forests.
"The Red Bean Forest…" he murmured, his young voice steady with confidence and resolve. "You'll be my first trial. Let's see who hunts whom."
Achates heard but said nothing. His eyes darkened slightly, and his hand drifted to the short sword at his belt.
Night fell at last. The Aegean turned a deep indigo, and one by one, torches flared to life around the estate, bathing the pillars and corridors in gold and shadow. Aeneas turned to head inside, his silhouette sharp against the lamplight—determined, composed, already half a man of destiny.
Southward, not far from the valley, in the region known as Maple Ridge, a hunter's cabin stood quietly at the edge of the forest. Its walls were a patchwork of oak logs and stones packed with mud and straw. Firelight flickered from the hearth, filling the air with the scent of woodsmoke and tanned hide.
Suddenly—bang! The door flew open. Nisus and Euryalus tumbled inside, leaving muddy streaks across the stone floor.
Arisbe, their mother, looked up from her loom, frowning, though her hands never stopped moving.
"Why so late? The owls are already calling." Her tone was stern, but it carried that familiar edge of worry only a mother could hide behind scolding.
Euryalus, still panting, was the first to answer. He grinned like a boy who'd just won a bet, tossing aside his empty game bag.
"Mother! You won't believe it—something incredible happened! The young lord from Dardan Valley, Aeneas himself, bought our deer! Sixty silver obols!"
He held up his hands to make a wide circle, as if the number alone could fill the room with the shine of silver—or gold, in his imagination.
Nisus stood to one side, catching his breath. He was steady as an olive tree—solid, quiet, and rooted deep. His voice was low but carried the kind of strength that made people listen.
"Not just that," he added, "the young lord's invited us to the manor for lunch. At the long table, with his family. Said he values our skill, hopes we'll come often to help with patrols."
There was no boasting in his tone—only calm, and a faint undercurrent of pride.
Arisbe set down her shuttle. Surprise and something softer flashed in her eyes. She rose and crossed to the hearth, fingers brushing, out of old habit, the base of the goddess statue that stood there—half prayer, half reflex. Then she turned to the two boys, who still looked like a pair of overexcited puppies.
"The Dardan Valley manor isn't a place for games," she said. "The young lord may be kind, but noble tables are trickier than any trap in the hills. Don't let sixty silver obols make you forget the way home after dark."
It was a mother's warning—born of old scars, and an instinct for the storms that brew beneath polite society.
Euryalus only grinned, tossing his empty game bag onto the floor with a soft thud.
"Don't worry, Mother! We'll mind our manners. Besides, the manor's barley stew beats ours any day—and the lord said he wants us on patrol. Sounds like a fine chance to me!"
Nisus nodded beside him, his gaze steady but alight with a faint, awakening fire. It was the look of a young lion finally sensing the horizon.
"Our bows and blades," he said simply, "will serve the peace of Dardan Valley."
Arisbe inhaled the bean-scented air, letting it warm her lungs. Her stern mouth softened into something tender.
Perhaps… perhaps Aresya's child won't turn out like that man.
Outside, the night deepened. The firelight stretched and tangled the shadows across the walls, painting them into strange, flickering shapes.
When the bean stew was finally ladled onto the table, talk drifted from silver and hunting to things far larger—future and fate.
They all squeezed around the rough wooden table: loaves of dark rye still steaming, a pot of bubbling stew, and a small dish of olives—salted just enough to bite. The holly logs in the hearth crackled and spat, their scent sharp in the warm air.
Hyrtacus took a sip of his weak wine and chuckled—a deep, hearty sound like an axe striking an olive trunk. He tapped the rim of his cup with a finger.
"Anchises, that old fox—his eye's as sharp as ever," he said. "Even when he was young, he could spot a gem buried in a pile of rocks. Handing power to Aeneas? That's a clever move."
The words, sweetened by wine, filled the room with easy warmth.
Arisbe's hand went instinctively to the bronze bow charm hanging from her neck. She smiled faintly, her voice gentle as she joined in:
"Aresya mentioned him last time she came to gather herbs—said Aeneas was thoughtful, not reckless like most young men. If he sees worth in you two, that's a blessing."
She glanced at her sons, pride glimmering in her tone—the pride of a mother who'd seen her children noticed.
"But remember," she added, "if he takes you along for the sacrifices to Athena or Aphrodite, mind your tongues and your manners."
It wasn't only pride she felt—it was the aching pride of a mother eagle watching her fledglings take flight, knowing the sky ahead held dangers she could no longer shield them from.
Euryalus couldn't resist showing off. He straightened, put on an exaggeratedly solemn face, and mimicked Aeneas' formal tone, raising two fingers as if addressing a crowd:
"You're not my pawns," he declaimed, "you're my arrows, loosed upon the world—your victories will build our future better than your deaths ever could!"
He even waved his hand for emphasis. For a moment, everyone just stared—then laughter burst out all around.
Arisbe shook her head, smiling despite herself.
"This boy and his tongue… If the gods didn't bless him with a strange sort of wit, how could he say things that sound so wise?"
Euryalus, flushed with the thrill of being funny, launched into tales of the market—each story bigger and sillier than the last. Nisus occasionally added quiet corrections, steady as a counterweight. Together they wove their day into something half boast, half promise—a new rhythm for their little household.
But inevitably, the conversation turned to the Red Bean Forest—thirty kilometers east, and forever heavy with danger.
Hyrtacus' smile faded. He set his cup down, the sound dull against the wood.
"Those people," he said, voice deep and grim, "move like ghosts. Anchises is right to be cautious. Without solid information, a campaign out there… is suicide."
The weight in his words came from years of battle and loss. The respect he held for the forest—and his fear for his sons—was thick as smoke in the firelight. Arisbe's hand drew her shawl closer around her shoulders.
Hyrtacus leaned forward, his weathered face caught by the flickering flame. The laughter vanished; the air seemed to hold its breath.
"Listen, boys," he said quietly. "If you're stepping into the Dardan Valley manor's world, there are things you'd better know. Troy—especially King Priam—he's not half as simple as he looks."