Nisus had been half-slouched in his chair, relaxed as usual—until his father's words made him sit up straight, his expression suddenly serious. The easy calm dropped from his face like a mask.
Euryalus, though, still had that crooked little grin—eyes gleaming, alert and hungry. No one in the valley loved a bit of gossip about power quite like he did.
Hyrtacus drummed his fingers against the table, his voice roughened by old bitterness.
"Priam," he said, "can shake your hand with a smile one moment and slice your lifeline the next. For gain, there's nothing he wouldn't do. Banquets and laughter in a royal hall—believe me, they can be deadlier than a spear on the field."
Arisbe took up the thread with a quiet grace. Her hand brushed her wrist—where no bracelet had rested for years, yet she seemed to feel the ghost of its chill.
"He could cast aside the woman who once shared his bed," she murmured, voice low but cutting clear, "so what's loyalty to a man like that?"
A soft laugh rose from her lips—gentle in sound, sharp in intent.
"He thinks the court's scheming can bind the sea itself—foolish man. The ocean couldn't care less about the crown that tries to rule it."
Her gaze swept toward the boys, softening into the ache of a mother's warning.
"When you dine with serpents and jackals, never lower your guard, not even if the crown's on his head and the feast is laid before you."
The hearth cracked—sharp and sudden. Firelight flared across Nisus's face, catching the steel in his eyes.
So this is the shadow behind the palace walls? he thought. I used to believe loyalty and skill with a bow were enough. But it's not the hunt we're walking into—it's a swamp full of hidden currents. Are we ready for that?
Euryalus, by contrast, smirked to himself, his gaze glittering.
The court's filth and finery sound a lot more entertaining than wild beasts. If it's a stage they want, then fine—let's see how well they act.
Arisbe's voice came again, this time barely above a whisper, yet sharp as an arrowhead.
"When the time comes, keep your eyes open. Watch the lower ranks for any stirrings—before an earthquake, it's always the birds that know first. Information, my boys, cuts deeper than any blade."
Nisus drew a long breath. "Tomorrow, Aeneas departs for Ilion," he said at last, steady and certain. "Euryalus and I should go with him."
Hyrtacus studied his son for a long moment. Pride flickered beneath the worry in his eyes. Finally, he nodded.
"Then start tomorrow," he said quietly. "Fulfil your duty. Remember—your bows are for battle, but your eyes… your eyes are the torches that light the truth."
The fire wavered, throwing a restless glow across their faces. The warmth of the little hut thinned into something colder—an omen creeping in from the direction of the royal city.
Later, the embers in the hearth sank low, popping softly now and then. Dinner was over; clay bowls were stacked neatly against the wall. The night outside was still, save for the sigh of wind brushing the treetops.
Hyrtacus sat in the corner, back to the rough wall, turning his old bow over in his hands. The cracks along the limb ran like scars, and he traced them gently with his thumb—as if touching old wounds he could still feel.
Arisbe moved to the small shrine and lifted a tiny oil lamp. She lit it and placed it beneath the hunting goddess's statue. The flame trembled, painting her face with gold and shadow—a quiet strength tinged with grief. Her voice, when she spoke the ancient prayer, was nearly swallowed by the wind.
Nisus stepped outside. The sky spilled with stars, bright as scattered silver dust. He looked up, fingers brushing the beast-tooth charm at his belt.
Euryalus leaned lazily against the window frame, toying with the obsidian arrowhead at his throat. His smile was still there—careless as ever—but his eyes gleamed sharp as flint.
Inside, silence hung thick. The fire burned low; beneath its glow, each heart beat to its own secret rhythm. The night was still—but peace was an illusion. In that hush, the future was already stirring.
Meanwhile, deep in the royal palace of Troy, the night had its own pulse.
In a side chamber, blue flame danced upon bronze candleholders, scattering wavering shadows across the woven walls. The heavy curtains muffled the sea wind, and the air was rich with myrrh and frankincense.
Queen Hecuba sat poised on her couch, a half-woven length of wool spread across her knees. Her fingers spun the spindle with effortless grace—the soft hum of it was the only sound.
"I've heard," she said, her voice smooth, almost tender, "that Anchises' boy fought off a wild boar alone. They say a goddess guards him. A promising omen, wouldn't you think? If Troy still breeds such sons, perhaps the gods haven't turned away from us entirely."
Across from her, Priam sat by an ivory-inlaid table, hands folded as he turned the onyx ring on his finger. The candlelight flickered in his sunken eyes, but found no reflection there. His smile was faint, unreadable.
"Yes," he said evenly. "Anchises does have a fine son. Youth and fire—good qualities, both."
But his eyes were deep and opaque, like the sea under cloud—calm on the surface, and fathomless beneath.
Hecuba lifted her eyes and studied her husband's face, as though searching for something hidden in the faintest twitch of his brow.
Her smile faded almost at once. With a sigh, she set down her spindle and said quietly,
"I know that look all too well. You're wary of the boy, aren't you?"
Priam didn't answer straightaway. He rose instead, pacing to the window. Beyond the thick stone frame, night was devouring the city walls piece by piece.
"Divine favor?" he murmured at last, a dry laugh curling around the words. "If he were only a bold young hunter, I'd sing his praises myself. But if his name keeps spreading…"
His voice trailed off—half swallowed by the darkness beyond the glass.
Hecuba's brows drew together. She meant to stop him, but the words stalled on her lips. She knew that look too—the calculation in it. Her husband's caution was no mere prudence of a king; it was the instinct of a born survivor in a world ruled by daggers and crowns.
Priam reached toward the banner hanging on the wall. The deep crimson and gold threads shimmered in the candlelight, like molten fire frozen mid-flow. A strange glint flashed behind his eyes.
If this power can serve me, he thought coldly, it will strengthen my throne. But if not… it must be cut out before it festers.
Down the corridor, the bronze torchholders flickered. The faint scrape of armor and the whisper of servants carried through the marble hush.
Priam's hand closed around the onyx ring on his finger until the edges bit into his skin. Slowly, he curled his fist—like a man tightening a leash.
By the time the pain dulled, his mind was made up.
Through spies or subtler means, he would turn his gaze toward the Dardan Valley.
That valley was not merely rich borderland soil—it was a spark that could set his kingdom ablaze.
The candle flame wavered, and so did his expression, growing darker, deeper.
Moonlight spilled across Mount Ida's ridge. One by one, the cottages of the Dardan Valley and the homes of Maple Ridge went dark—except for the oil lamp before the goddess's statue. Its tiny flame quivered in the night breeze, guarding the last trace of peace in the valley.
Inside one hut, Nisus tossed restlessly, the fur mat whispering beneath him. His brows knit tight, still tangled in the thoughts Aeneas had left him with that afternoon.
"Stop thinking," Euryalus mumbled in his sleep. "We've got meat tonight and wine tomorrow."
He was grinning even in his dreams, one arm thrown protectively over the beast-tooth charm at his chest.
In the shadows, Hyrtacus shifted slightly and murmured, "The boys will leave the valley sooner or later… but the road ahead won't be kind."
Arisbe's eyes gleamed faintly in the lamp's glow. She ran her fingers over a black obsidian arrowhead, her silence a prayer in itself.
The goddess will watch over them, she thought. And if fate turns cruel, then let my blood be the price for their safety.
Far away, under the towers of Ilion, the palace slept under a mantle of stars.
Priam stood in the colonnade, gazing up at the heavens. His coarse fingers turned the onyx ring again and again, expression calm as still water—yet beneath, a storm was gathering.
Beyond the city walls, the constellations blinked quietly, as if warning of tides no king could command.
In the Dardan estate, Aeneas bent over his desk, scribbling across a wax tablet. His handwriting was a battlefield of smudges and half-formed symbols, but he pressed on stubbornly, determined to trap every scrap of knowledge floating in his head.
Halfway through a line, he stopped, looked around the empty room—and chuckled.
"Heh. If tomorrow's roast venison goes viral, I'll be the first man in history to start a food trend before history even begins."
He mimed turning a spit with exaggerated flair, imagining himself a chef in some grand kitchen.
He had no idea that the pebble he'd tossed into the water earlier that day had already sent ripples stretching far beyond his valley—to the royal palace, to the hearts of men he'd never met.
The camera of the world, if there had been one, would have pulled slowly back.
In the shadowed kitchen, a single clay jar sat sealed tight, the faint scent of wine drifting from its twine-bound mouth. Inside, venison soaked in herbs and grape liquor, its fibers quietly changing. A small thing, yes—but perhaps, soon enough, another miracle to Aeneas's name.
And farther still, in the dark silence of the eastern Redbean Forest, the world waited—like a slumbering beast before dawn.
Would it rise in flame, or fade into ashes?
No one yet knew.