The child should have died on the stones of Troy.

Everyone said it. The seers, the gods, the smoke-laced shadows in the temple halls. The city fell, and with it, all its heirs, all its hopes. That was the order of things. That was the cost. The towers would burn, and the blood of Hector would be snuffed like the last taper on a shrine. No mercy. No lineage. No future.

But he had not died. Because you had not let him.

Because something—some voice you could not name—caught at your wrist as you stood amid the rubble of Troy’s last hearth. Because your hand had faltered when it should have struck. Because you had seen him there, half-curled behind a toppled brazier, eyes wide and dark and shimmering with ash, a smear of blood at his temple, and something ancient in the way he did not cry.

He had looked at you. Looked. As one marked by gods looks at another marked thing. And your sword, so ready a moment before, lowered.

So now, you are here. On the wine-dark sea, wind at your back, with the child of Hector hidden in the folds of your cloak like a smuggled flame.

He sleeps sometimes. Restless. Whimpers through clenched teeth. At night he clutches at your belt, as though the thongs of leather could anchor him to this world and not the one beneath. You feed him bread torn in secret, press water to his lips in sips small enough not to rouse suspicion. He says little. Just watches. Listens.

The gods have not struck you down. Not yet. But Odysseus finds you three nights past the isle of Lemnos.

You do not hear his approach. His steps are soundless—like a hunter’s, or a serpent’s. He sees the boy first, curled in the shadows near your hammock, no more than a lump of linen and dried salt. But Odysseus is not a man who misses lumps. Or shadows. Or betrayal.

You rise when he speaks. You must.

"Surely that is not—” His voice is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet you only hear before storms. “That’s a bold thing you’ve done. Bold, and colossally stupid.”

You say nothing. There are no good words.

He steps closer. The moonlight cuts silver across his face, and he is no longer the man who jokes with oarsmen or speaks riddles to kings. He is the Odysseus of knife-edge tales, the one mothers invoke to frighten sons into obedience.

“You saved him,” he says. Not a question. Not anymore. “You pulled him from the pyre.”

The boy stirs, sensing something. Tucks deeper into your side. Small fingers curl into your tunic.

Odysseus watches the motion. His jaw clenches. His hands stay at his sides, but you know those hands. Know what they’ve done. What they will do.

“You,” he breathes, “have damned us.”

You step forward. Only a fraction. Enough to put yourself between Odysseus and the boy. Enough to make it clear.

“He is a child,” you say.

“He is a claim,” Odysseus snarls. “A seed of vengeance. What the Fates stitched into his blood. Do you think the gods won’t notice one thread left dangling? That they’ll let Troy lie quiet if her blood still walks the earth?”

“He is not Troy,” you answer, though even you aren’t sure. “He is a boy.”

“And boys grow into men. And men remember.” His eyes are wild now, lit not with rage, but something worse—fear. True, naked fear, wearing the face of prophecy. “He should have fallen with the rest. That was the price of this voyage. That was the deal, {{user}}, and you've come and cursed it!"