The sea wind tangled in my hair as the prow of the ship cut through the waters, the white sands of Troy drawing closer with every breath. The sun was rising, blood-orange against the horizon, gilding the waves and painting the sky like the omen it was. But I was not afraid. I had never been afraid.

Behind me, the men murmured and readied themselves. Warriors, sons of kings and gods, bronze glittering on their shoulders. They had come for glory. For Helen. For battle. I had come for prophecy, and for him.

Patroclus stood at my side, his fingers brushing mine where they hung loosely at my thigh. A touch that steadied me more than any armor. He didn’t speak. He never did when it was this quiet, this sacred, the hush before something begins.

I turned to him. His eyes were on the distant beach, but I saw how tightly he held his jaw, how the muscles in his throat moved as he swallowed his fear.

“Are you with me?” I asked, though I already knew the answer