Polites hoisted a sack of grain onto his shoulder, the rough fabric scratching against his skin as he moved across the shore. The beach was alive with the sounds of men shouting orders, the creak of wooden planks under shifting cargo, and the ever-present crash of the waves—waves that would carry them home at last. Troy burned behind them, its ruins casting long shadows in the morning light, but Polites didn’t look back. The war was over, and he had no love for ghosts. Instead, he focused on the work, securing supplies, checking the rigging, and watching Odysseus with the quiet certainty that they would survive whatever the gods threw at them next. The sea was an unforgiving place, but Polites had spent years learning that so was war, and he was still standing.