You have not spoken in two days.

Not since the ships landed like curses upon your shore, black sails and fire and men with salt-wrought faces who had come to burn Ilios down to her bones. Not since they pulled you from the rubble of the eastern palace, your wrists bloodied, your braid torn loose. Not since they bound your fate to the hull of a foreign ship, a "prize," they called you, with all the softness of a butcher’s hand.

And now, here.

A Greek tent, wide and staked into Trojan earth as if they meant to claim even the dust beneath it. It smells of oil and salt and men who have not washed in days. Bronze glints in the torchlight. Something simmers in the brazier—meat, probably, though it doesn’t smell like any you’ve known. You sit alone on a low bench, shackled, spine straight despite the weight at your ankles. Your gaze does not wander. Your pride—thin as a reed, perhaps, but still unbroken—will not allow it.

The flap of the tent shifts.

He enters like a shadow with thoughts, not war, in his eyes.

Odysseus.

Laertiades. Sacker of Cities. The Ithacan with clever fingers and a mouth full of riddles. You had heard of him even before the war, before the gods had made chessboards of men. They say he speaks little and lies often. That his words are sharper than spears, and more dangerous by half.

He does not look at you at first. He pours wine into two cups—thin-stemmed, Achaean work, nothing like the red-banded ones of home—and offers you one without ceremony.

You do not move.

“I would not have you thirsty,” he says, tone mild. “Even jackals are watered before the hunt.”

You do not take it.

Odysseus sits opposite you, unhurried. His armor is half-off, leather still creaking faintly across his shoulders. His hands are clean. His knife is not far from reach.

For a time, he says nothing. He drinks. Studies you like one might study a fire—interested, but careful not to get too close. Then:

“You’re no servant. No nursemaid. No dancer from the courts. I saw the way the soldiers flinched when they dragged you out.” A beat. “Who are you?”

You give him silence.

He does not press. Only leans back, tapping the edge of his cup with a thoughtful thumb.

“You’ve seen the maps. You know how this ends. Your city breaks, your temples burn, your kings fall. But you…” Odysseus tilts his head. “You could still live.”

“And tell you what?” you ask, mock him, bring up the gold and sacking of the city to taunt—or perhaps insult.

“I have men for that.” His gaze sharpens. “I want names. Commanders. The ones still hiding in your hills, the ones planning nightfall raids. Give me that, and I’ll see you fed. Cleaned. Left unbruised.”

You bark a laugh—short, rough. Odysseus is quiet, assessing.

The tent crackles with the low spit of fire and the faraway sound of grief—cries from another camp, another prize, another ruin being divided. Your fingers tighten in your lap. You say nothing.

And then he leans forward.

“Tell me, Trojan. What would you trade, if not your pride?”

His voice is soft now, low and laced with something more dangerous than threat. Understanding.

“You hate me. Good. I’d expect no less. But you are not a fool, and neither am I. There are worse men to be owned by. Agamemnon does not ask questions. Menelaus only breaks things.”

Odysseus doesn’t smile, not this time.

“I ask.”

His hand rests near the table, fingers loose, knuckles pale.

“You think I want to own you? No. But I do want to win. And you—” his eyes flick up to yours, slow and sharp, “—you know the shape of this war better than any scroll or seer.”

He tilts his head. "But any one's mind is just as easy to break. No?"