The firelight carved hollows in Diomedes’ face, a shifting interplay of gold and shadow as he turned the untouched cup in his hands. He did not drink. Not yet. Perhaps not at all. The rim of the goblet skimmed his knuckles as he rolled it absently, the deep red catching the flicker of the flames.

Beyond him, the camp pulsed with revelry.

Laughter rose into the night, bold and careless, swelling beneath the distant thunder of the sea. The air smelled of roasted meat, of charred fat dripping into the embers, of sweat and smoke and the heady musk of men too long bathed in battle-lust.

Near the fire, they danced.

Achaeans, lean and taut with the thrill of early victories, with the belief—unstained, untarnished—that glory would find them before the grave did. They stamped and leapt, arms slung over shoulders, wine-slicked voices raised in half-remembered songs. A soldier staggered, laughing, catching himself against another’s chest before throwing his head back, throat bared to the heavens. Someone had begun a rhythm—palms beating against the stretched hide of a drum, boots striking the packed earth in time.

You watched, as Diomedes did.

Neither of you spoke. Until he did.

“They’ll regret this in the morning.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “The dancing?”

“The wine.” He tilted his head toward the stumbling mass of men, eyes flicking over the ones who swayed a little too freely. "Half of them will wake up cursing Apollo, and the other half will swear they fought him in single combat.”