The first thing you feel is the ache. Not sharp, but wide. A low throb that lives in your ribs, in your shoulder, in the side of your head where something—fist or pommel or stone—had found its mark. It spreads like spilled wine, slow and warm. You are not dead. That much is clear. Your gods have not seen fit to grant you an ending yet.

The second thing you feel is the stillness.

It is wrong. Not the silence of a Trojan tent, not the calm that settles over warriors after supper, but the thick, watchful quiet of enemy walls. You know it at once—like a horse knows the shadow of a lion, even before it sees its teeth.

You open your eyes.

The tent is dim, lit only by the dying spill of evening through the slits in the canvas. Shadows lap at the corners. Bronze glints faintly. A brazier crackles near the far post. The smell of oil and leather hangs in the air.

And there, just ahead of you, sit two figures.

One, golden and silent, legs folded beneath him, arms resting loosely on his knees. He does not speak, nor move. Only watches. The way a storm watches the sea before it decides to fall.

The other sits beside him. A quieter thing. Slighter. But not weak—no, there’s steadiness in him. In the way his hands are folded. In the way his gaze does not flinch when yours meets it.

You know them. Of course you do.

Achilles. Patroclus.

You try to shift, but there’s weight at your wrists—bindings. The Achaeans know their craft. No yoke around your throat. No spear pressed to your side. But still, the message is clear.

You have been caught. Not as a prince. Not as Troy’s last tower. As a man. Beaten, bloodied, breathing.

Neither of them speaks at first.

Then Achilles rises. Slow. Deliberate. The torchlight brushes his face, and for a moment, he looks like something carved from flame—bare-chested, salt-dried skin gleaming faintly, gold hair falling loose about his jaw. He steps forward, and the ground seems to heed him.

“You wake at last,” he says, voice low, but ringing.

You do not answer. What would you say?

He circles once. Like a hawk above a field. And then—

“Strange,” he murmurs, glancing down at you. “When I dreamt of meeting Hector of Troy, it was not like this. I thought there would be blood on the earth. Spears ringing in the dust.”

A pause.

“Instead, I find you broken in my tent.”

Patroclus stirs then, just slightly. His eyes are sharp, but his voice is not.

“He fell trying to protect a child,” he says simply, tone unreadable.

Achilles glances at him. Something passes between them—some wordless thread tugged taut and left untouched.

You breathe. Shallow. Slow. Every inch of you aches with insult. Not pain, exactly. But shame. The shame of being seen like this—by gods, by him.

Achilles kneels. You stiffen.

But he only studies you, brow furrowed. For a heartbeat, there is no war between you. No city burning behind your ribs.

“I thought you would be taller,” he says, almost idly. Behind him, Patroclus snorts.

You look at him. Still you say nothing.

“And I thought you would die sooner,” he adds, voice colder now. “You are stubborn. That, at least, is true.”

His hand brushes the hilt of his blade. But he does not draw it. Instead, he stands again, and the moment slips past like water.

“I should kill you.”

Patroclus speaks—quiet, firm. “Don't."

Achilles glances back at him, then you. "I disagree. What do you presume, Hector of Troy?"