The sun has nearly dipped behind the walls when they bring him to you.

Not bound—of course not. Diplomats are not dragged, not even here, not even when your brother’s war burns the edges of the world. No, he walks like he belongs in Ilios, calm and upright, with dust on his boots and the faintest smirk coiled beneath his eyes. An envoy, they say. A guest, by sacred custom. A serpent in a guest’s tunic, you think.

You do not rise.

You remain seated on the stone bench beneath the portico, helm resting at your side, cuirass still buckled, fresh sweat drying beneath the arms. The bronze of your greaves shines faintly in the dying light. You are Hector, son of Priam, breaker of horses, prince of dying Troy. Your hands ache from the weight of the spear. Your heart aches more.

And still, you receive him.

“Odysseus,” you say. The name fits in your mouth like something half-bitter.

He bows, the barest dip of the head. Respectful enough to avoid insult, clever enough to avoid sincerity.

“Hector,” he replies, voice like oiled stone, smooth but grounded. He joins you at the edge of the colonnade, standing just near enough for conversation, just far enough for caution. The shadows gather beneath his cloak like secrets.

“I come not with sword, but scroll,” he says. “Agamemnon seeks parley.”

“And sends you?” Your tone is not mocking, but it rings hard.

“I do not speak in fury or age,” Odysseus answers, evenly. “And I am not in love with my own wounds.”

He meets your gaze without blinking. You study him in silence. This is the man they speak of with wary admiration—the fox among lions. Cunning as Athena, cold as the sea. No warrior, perhaps, but dangerous all the same. His victories are not won with spearpoint, but with the curve of his tongue.

You ask what he has to offer.

Odysseus lifts one brow. “Peace.”

You laugh—quiet, joyless.

He steps closer now, careful, calculated.

“You know this war cannot end in conquest—not truly. You hold the walls. We hold the seas. Ten years have not broken your gates, and ten more will not drown our resolve. What does Troy gain by dragging its sons into another season of ash?”

Your jaw tightens, foolishly asks what he seeks. What doesn't he?

“I seek to end what need not go on,” he says. “Give her back, and we can all go home.”

Odysseus holds your gaze. He does not flinch.

“I offer what I can,” he replies, low. “And I do not deny what will you say. But even a fox may tire of the hunt. Even lions can bleed. And the gods—” he lifts his hands, palm open, “—ah, well, the gods grow weary of the noise.”

You look past him, to where the towers catch the light of the last sunrays. To where your son sleeps, curled beneath his mother’s arm. To where your brother paces like a lion in a cage, and your father’s hands tremble when he thinks no one sees.

Peace. You do not trust it.

But gods help you—you wish you could.

And Odysseus watches you, silent, as the wind tugs at the edges of his cloak. Not gloating. Not gentle. Simply waiting.

As if he knows the war in your mind might yet be the one to end all others.

"So, what do you say," you hate the sneer in his voice, "prince of Troy?"