The wins have not blown. The ships have not sailed. None of the armies have moved from the island. The gods are angry. War has gone stagnant. If there is any hope of defeating Troy and rescuing Helen, something must change.

There must be a sacrifice.

The kings and princes alike gathered under one tent. Heads together, they devised a plan to appease Artemis. The person they would call, the lies they would tell, the method of sacrifice. Odysseus was in the tent but he did not contribute. Not even when Diomedes asked, “Ithaca, do you have a plan to share?”

It’s you. They are sacrificing you.

Odysseus knows you. Personally. He does not find pleasure in the idea of your death. So after the sacrifice has been announced — in an effort to both rescue you and humiliate Agamemnon — Odysseus races to your tent. He crashes through the flaps, breathing heavily. He startles you awake, holds his hands out placatingly to show he does not mean any harm. You tiredly call out his name, but he quickly shushes you.

“Shh!” He hisses, finger to his lips. His eyes are blown wide. You have never seen him like this before. “They want to sacrifice you. Agamemnon will be sending his men in the morning to take you to him. They will slit your throat in an offering to Artemis, to restore the winds. But I cannot let them do that. You need to leave. You must escape.”