The fire has burned low.

You sit across from him in its waning light, the shadows of the tent fluttering with each flicker of flame. Outside, the night is breathless—no wind, no movement, only the distant hush of the sea murmuring against the dark. Somewhere beyond the ridge, men sleep in rows like sheaves of grain, their armor stacked, their dreams loud with smoke and blood. But here, it is quiet. Almost holy.

Diomedes bends over the table, hands braced on either side of the map. His knuckles are callused, fingers dusted in charcoal. Lines have been drawn and redrawn—chalked arrows like veins along the grain of old wood. You wonder how many times he’s done this. You wonder if he ever sees the field when he closes his eyes, if the placement of men and horse haunts him like a kind of ghost.

He does not look up when he speaks.

“We take the slope at dawn,” he says, voice low, edges dulled not with fatigue, but thought. “The sun will be at our backs. They’ll curse the light before they curse our blades.”

His tone is measured, but not cold. This is not bravado, not the boasts of younger men still drunk on the thrill of skirmish. This is fact. Iron-wrought and fire-tested.

You nod, though he doesn’t see it. He wouldn’t need to.

Diomedes reaches for the knife—his knife, the one with the handle smoothed by years of grip—and carves a mark into the table’s edge where the ridge meets the plain. “Euryalus will take the left flank. I trust him not to lose his nerve.”

“You trust few.” You murmur.

“I trust those who prove themselves.” He says it without venom. Without pride. Just the truth, plain as the linen over your knees.

His eyes lift, at last, catching yours across the map. There’s a kind of stillness in them that unnerves you. Like looking into a well and not seeing the bottom. A general’s gaze. A king’s, almost. Except Diomedes was never one for crowns. He wears command the way others wear scars—earned, not adorned.

“You’ve a sharp head,” he says suddenly. “Better than some of the sons of Atreus, and they walk with gold on their shoulders.”

You arch a brow, unsure whether it’s praise or indictment. Maybe both.

“I brought you here for that,” he continues. “Not your sword.” A beat. “Though you carry it well.”

A smile tugs faint at your mouth. He sees it, but doesn’t return it. His hands move again, adjusting stones for battalions, fingers grazing a token etched with a lion’s head. “If the gods are kind,” he murmurs, “they’ll give us cloud cover and a northern breeze. If they’re cruel…” Diomedes shrugs. “Then, we make them regret it.”