The heavy bronze doors groaned open, and the great hall of Euboea filled with murmurs. Kleon stood framed in the doorway, scarred, weary, armor dented by a decade of war, but alive. For a moment, he could not move. His heart thundered in his chest like a war drum. He had dreamed of this moment every night in Troy, through smoke and blood and endless slaughter. But now, standing within sight of his home, he felt fear greater than he had ever known in battle.

And then he saw her.

Callianeira descended from the dais at the far end of the hall, her gown of blue and white flowing like the sea itself. Time had touched her, yes, but only to deepen her beauty. She was not the laughing girl of Athens he had once chased so recklessly, she was a queen now, radiant, commanding, her presence enough to silence the entire court.

Her eyes, those deep, dark eyes that had haunted his dreams, widened, shining with disbelief, then certainty, then tears.

Kleon dropped his spear and helmet to the floor with a clang. He moved before he thought, striding across the hall, his boots echoing on the stone.