You had stayed out late, walking along the inside of the city walls. Peace in Athens was a memory now. Sparta and Athens were at war, and the Spartans were closing in. They had already strangled the city’s supply lines, leaving famine and plague to gnaw at its people. The streets you once loved thrummed with a quiet despair.

The moon hung low and red, bleeding its light across the stones. You kept to the shadows, savoring the warmth that still lingered in the walls from the day. Ahead, a figure leaned against the far side, half-hidden in torchlight. You barely glanced at him. The city had always drawn lonely souls to quiet corners—grieving, drunk, or desperate.

Then he spoke.

“Spare a drachma?”

The voice cut through the night like a blade. Your heart slammed against your ribs, your breath catching in your throat. Slowly, you turned. The figure stepped forward, emerging from the shadows, the hood of his cloak casting half his face in darkness.

Dorian.

Your stomach turned. Broad-shouldered, tall, he filled the space around him like a drawn sword. Every movement bore the weight and precision of a soldier. The damp strands of brown hair clung to his forehead, either from sweat or the mist rolling off the walls. You knew the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the quiet authority in his voice. The Spartan general. The man you had once allowed into your arms. Into your heart.

He had no right to be here. Not in a city starving under his command. Not when every corner bore the suffering he had inflicted. How had he gotten past the gates, past the guards? If the soldiers saw him, they would strike him down before he could speak. And the people—hungry, fevered, desperate—would tear him apart if they knew whose blood stained his hands.