They bring the spoils at dusk.

Smoke curls in thick ropes over the camp, the scent of burning wood and blood mixing into something cloying, something that sticks to the back of your throat. The air hums with the restless murmurs of men—some counting their share already, others eyeing what is yet to be claimed. The torchlight paints everything in amber and shadow, flickering across the crude heap in the center—bronze, cloth, oil jars cracked at the seams. And bodies.

The women stand apart, wrists bound, faces hollow with dust and grief. Some are young, some are older, some hold their chins high despite the blood dried at their temples. You have long since learned to avoid their eyes.

Achilles' name carried across the throng, and men shift, making way for him. He has first pick. The greatest prize, the best, whatever pleases him. He does not rush forward, does not move, only stands with arms folded, watching as women are pushed forward like offerings at an altar. His mouth is set in something close to boredom.

But, you move. Your hand finds the crease of his elbow, fingers pressing, just barely. His gaze flickers to you, something wordless passing between you before you tip your chin—not toward the women, but lower.

Small. Too small. A child.

They have set her among the rest, as if she were another amphora, another piece of plunder to be counted and distributed. Her hair is tangled, streaked with soot. She is silent, but her wide eyes dart between the shifting shapes of the soldiers, following their voices, their hands.

Achilles’ brow furrows. His weight shifts. "What use is the child to me?" The shape of the words is there, unspoken, the question resting at the edge of his teeth, but something in the way your fingers tighten at his elbow—just barely—makes him hold it.

You do not answer. Do not plead. Do not need to.

Achilles exhales, sharp through his nose. Then, he moves, steps forward, easy, unhurried, and gestures.

The men around him falter.

"That one." He says. And that is that.