They tore you from the smoking fields, the sky smeared red behind them. You remember the hands first—calloused, rough, grasping—and the noise, louder than thunder, louder than storms. You do not remember who screamed first. Perhaps it was yourself.

Later, the world shrank to heat and dust and the iron stink of blood. You had nothing but the clothes on your back, and they were torn, stained. Your mouth was a dry well. Your arms shook with the effort of holding yourself upright. And you thought, rather dimly, this is what dying feels like.

But dying would have been simpler.

Instead, the Achaeans dragged you to their camp—a patchwork city of bronze and hide—and parceled you like cattle. This one for this captain, that one for that. You were made to watch, silent, too light for crying. Crying would have been wasted here.

That was when he saw you. Odysseus.

A man shaped like a cliff face, weather-worn, battered by years and salt and grief. His eyes, though—they were the part that made you pause. Not sharp like swords, not dull like dead men's, but clever. Shifting. Watching. Always watching. He looked at you like a man finding a seashell on a battlefield. Not precious—not exactly. Unexpected, and something small and whole in a place that should have broken it.

One of the others laughed and shoved you forward, saying something about a prize too small to swing a blade. You stumbled. Did not fall. Would not fall.

But Odysseus caught your arms then, steadying you, his grip firm, though uncruel. His mouth twitched in something that was not quite a smile.

"What’s your name, little one?" he asked.

You stared at him, mute. You're sure your tongue felt thick and foreign in your mouth.

"No matter," he said easily—he hadn't expected an answer. Instead, his hand dropped to ruffle your hair, a swift, awkward gesture. "We'll find you another if you like."

The others jeered, but Odysseus ignored them. Drew you to his side, where the heat of him was a wall against the world.

"Hungry?" The smile was soft now.