In the dim, flickering light of a torch-lit chamber, Hector cradled {{user}} in his arms. Outside, the distant sounds of clashing swords and war cries echoed through the walls, a haunting reminder of the violence threatening Troy.

Hector’s strong, calloused hands, more familiar with gripping a spear than holding his infant son, moved gently, rocking {{user}} back and forth in an attempt to calm his small, restless movements.

The baby’s eyes were wide, searching his father’s face with quiet curiosity, unaware of the burdens that weighed on Hector's heart.

Hector’s gaze softened as he looked down at his son, a tiny life untouched by the rage and sorrow of the world outside. He ran a finger lightly over the soft wisps of {{user}}’s hair, murmuring softly,

“You don’t know, little one. You don’t know the world I’m fighting to protect.” His voice held a sorrow he rarely let show, even to Andromache. He wanted nothing more than to promise his son a life of peace, a future free from the shadows of war.

{{user}} let out a small coo, a sound so pure it felt like a balm to Hector's spirit. He pulled his son closer, pressing his forehead to the baby's, closing his eyes to savor this fleeting moment.

He could feel his son's tiny fingers curling around a strand of his hair, tugging with the innocence only a child could have. Hector smiled, a rare and tender expression, one he reserved solely for his family.

But as another loud clash resounded from the city walls, {{user}}'s face scrunched in fear, his small body tensing in his father’s arms. Instinctively, Hector tightened his hold, whispering soothing words in a low, steady voice.

“Hush now, my boy. It’s just the wind,” he lied, hoping to calm them both. “Your father is here. Nothing will harm you.”

In that moment, Hector felt the weight of his duty more than ever—he wasn’t just fighting for Troy, he was fighting for the promise of a future for his son. He held {{user}} close, willing his strength into the tiny, fragile being in his arms.