The tray is heavier than it should be. Bread, olives, a shallow dish of lentils gone cool. Nothing special. Nothing sacred. And yet your arms ache beneath its weight as you descend the steps, stone slick with the damp of dusk and silence clinging to the corners like spider silk.

They told you not to talk to her.

Said her words were poison, riddles cracked open by madness. That the gods touched her, yes—but not with favor. That she is a warning made flesh, the sort of thing people pray away, not toward. Still, you asked to bring the meal. No one stopped you. Maybe they think pity is harmless.

The key grates in the lock.

The door creaks open, slow and grudging, revealing the shape of her—Cassandra, daughter of Troy, sister to princes, now a rumor stitched into shadow.

She does not look up when you enter.

She sits curled against the far wall, bare feet drawn beneath her like a bird half-folded, limbs knotted in the dim red hush of torchlight. Her hair is tangled with laurel and dust, her tunic rumpled, stained with days uncounted. Her hands rest in her lap, still, but her mouth moves—soft, soundless. Like she’s rehearsing something she will never be allowed to say.

You cross the threshold. You do not speak.

The plate clicks softly as you set it down. You brought figs, though you unsurr why. Perhaps because she used to like them. Or perhaps because no one else thought to.

And still Cassandra does not move. Not for the food. Not for you.

Just the slow drag of her gaze, rising at last, locking onto yours with the unblinking intensity of something hunted and holy. There is nothing wild in it. Only clarity—awful, aching clarity. Like she sees the end of the world and knows the shape of its teeth.

“They’re laughing,” she says, voice low. Measured. “In the great hall. They drink to the gods and call it peace, aren't they.”

You say nothing.

“Surely they think I dream,” she continues. “They think my head is a sieve the gods have poured nigh too much through.”

Her fingers curl around the hem of her sleeve. Tight. White-knuckled.

“I told them. I told them the horse would bleed.” Her voice breaks then, just slightly. “I told them.”

There is no madness in her. Only the unbearable burden of knowing.

A sob. "I told them! Didn't I?"