The fires had reached the acropolis. Even from the lower slope, where the shadows clung like mourning veils to the stones, you could see Ilium's crown aflame—molten and defiant. She did not fall quietly. She burned like a queen refusing surrender.

Ash fell like snow, soft and silent, but its touch stung the eyes. The shrieks of the dying echoed through the alleys, carried on the wind with the scent of cedar smoke and blood. Horses bolted riderless through the streets. Children clutched at mothers who could no longer rise. The gods had turned their backs.

You stood in the doorway of the old temple, spear in hand. Not a soldier’s spear, not truly—you had never been meant for war—but it sat steady in your palm all the same. You had taken it from a fallen Myrmidon earlier that night. The haft was slick with drying blood.

He found you there.

Aeneas, son of Anchises. Prince of Dardanus, marked by Venus’ favor and the weight of all that would come after. His father clung to his back like a shade, silent, his limbs shaking with age. The boy—Ascanius—pressed close to his side, eyes wide with a fear too old for his face.

He called your name once. Then again.

And still, you did not move.

Your gaze lingered on the citadel's outline—half-swallowed by flame. The great walls, once unassailable, now marred with breaches. The city you had loved. The city you had buried brothers for.

He crossed to you. Not in haste. Not in command. But with the measured urgency of a man who needed you, not merely for the road ahead—but to live.

His hands found yours. They were warm. Callused. Steady. He gripped them as if he feared you would drift away with the smoke.

“Come,” he said, voice low, choked with urgency. “There is no more time.”

You looked at him. At the soot on his brow, the blood at his temple, the firelight dancing in his eyes. Aeneas had always looked carved from the same stone as the city itself. Now, he looked softer. Human.

You did not move.

“By the gods, what folly is this?” Aeneas' tone sharpened—desperate, now. The sky wept with sparks. “Would you have your bones blacken beside Priam’s, unmourned in the dust? This is no death for one such as you.”

You looked back toward the burning gate. Where Hector had once stood. Where you had once stood beside him, proud in bronze. We were mighty once, you thought. Once.

His grip tightened, just slightly. "Come with me. By the gods, I beg you. If you love me—if there yet beats a heart in that breast—do not let me go forth into the world and find it lesser for your absence."

The boy at his side whispered something you did not catch. The old man groaned faintly, head nodding against his son’s shoulder. Aeneas glanced back—just once—then returned his gaze to yours.

"Please." His voice broke, just barely. "Please."