Chapter 225: The War Does Not Stop

The figure heard the door. Turned.

The face went white.

“Queen Hecuba… what are you doing here?”

Hecuba stood in the doorway. Her back was straight. Her hands were at her sides. Her eyes were steady — the same eyes that had watched her sons and held Arsini’s hand and read a dead king’s letter. The same eyes that had seen everything and said nothing until now.

She looked at the woman in front of her. The woman who had counted grain and catalogued supplies and worked in the harbour office and asked questions that seemed innocent and were not. The woman who had floated a sealed jar into the strait and let the current carry it to a Greek patrol boat. The woman who had been waiting since before the fleet sailed.

“Tell me,” Hecuba said. “Why are you betraying us, Helen of Sparta?”……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Morning. The inner wall.

Hector ran his hand along the gate’s bronze surface. Cold. Thick. Each rivet was fist-wide and set deep into the stone frame.

“They’re building the ram,” Hector said.

Lysander stood beside him, looking north. From the inner wall, the fifty paces of outer parapet the Greeks held was visible. Men moved on it like ants — carrying timber, fitting brackets, reinforcing.

“How long,” Lysander asked.

“Three days. Maybe four. Diomedes is overseeing it himself.”

Below them, the lower town was waking. Soldiers moved through the streets. Women carried water from the wells. The distribution points were opening.

Paris was on the eastern wall. His bow strung. A group of Greek soldiers carried timber along the beach toward the outer wall.

“The one in the red cloak,” Antenor said beside him.

Paris drew. The arrow crossed two hundred paces and struck the man in the shoulder. He dropped the timber. The others scattered.

“Not the red cloak,” Antenor said. “The one behind him. The one giving orders.”

Paris nocked another arrow. Found the target — a man in a bronze breastplate, standing back, pointing. The arrow took him in the thigh.

“Better,” Antenor said.

Arsini climbed the eastern stairs with a basket of bread and a jug of water. She set them on the parapet behind Paris.

“Eat.”

“I’m fine.”

“You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

Arsini set the bread next to his bow hand. She didn’t argue. She moved along the wall, distributing to the other archers. Bread. Water. A nod here, a word there.

She reached the northern section. Hector took a piece of bread without looking at her. Ate it in two bites. Lysander took the jug and drank.

“The distribution points are running,” Arsini said. “But the queues are longer. People are scared. Some are hoarding.”

“How many.”

“Forty families have taken double rations this week. I caught twelve. The rest I couldn’t prove.”

“Let them have it,” Hector said.

Arsini looked at him. “If they take double, others get half.”

“Let them have it anyway. A frightened man who hoards bread is not a frightened man who opens gates.”

Arsini nodded and moved on.

Evening. The Greek camp.

Agamemnon stood at the palisade, watching the inner gate. The bronze surface caught the last light.

Menelaus came up beside him.

“When.”

“When I say.”

“I’ve been patient.”

“You have. Continue.”

Menelaus walked away. His steps were heavy in the sand.

Odysseus appeared from the carpentry section. Sawdust on his cloak. He wiped his hands on his tunic.

“The ram. Three days. Diomedes is testing the bronze head against a stone sample. He says the rivets will give on the fourth day of assault.”

“Four days of ramming.”

“He says three. I say four.”

Agamemnon almost smiled. “Diomedes is many things. Optimistic is not one of them.”

“Then four days.”

On the beach, Achilles stood at the waterline. His spear rested on his shoulder. He was looking at the inner gate — the bronze, the stone, the dark shape behind it.

Fifty paces.

Under the earth, the blue light pulsed.

Echion sat in the corridor. Axe across his knees. Shield on his arm — the grey-blue metal that had stopped his bronze blade without a scratch. He had been here for six hours.

He heard it.

From behind the metal wall at the end of the corridor. Faint. Low. Like lungs filling with air.

He held his breath. The city light dimmed. The sound continued — once, then stopped.

He counted. Fourth time today. Once every hour.

He picked up his tablet. Wrote one line: Fourth breath. Same interval. Same depth.

He set it down and waited for the fifth.

In building three, Deia was cross-referencing the unique symbol — the one paired with “emerge” — against every other symbol in the city. Looking for a match.

No match. The symbol existed once. In one panel. In one building. At the bottom of the city.

She wrote: The symbol may describe something that does not exist until the gate opens. The builders carved it as preparation — not a record. An instruction for the future, written in the past.

She looked at the metal wall at the end of the corridor. The circle, the line, the root curving upward. Glowing faintly.

Behind it, something breathed.

Troy. The inner wall. Night.

Hector and Lysander stood at the parapet. The stars were out. The Greek fires burned on the outer wall and on the beach — hundreds of them.

“The gate defense,” Lysander said. “When the ram comes, we can’t hold it with men alone. We need — “

Footsteps. Fast. On the stairs behind them.

Lysander turned.

A girl. Young — fifteen, maybe. One of the queen’s serving women. Her hand was on the wall for balance. Her face was white.

She found Hector first.

“My lord — ” She stopped. Swallowed. “The Queen.”

Hector’s hand went to his sword. Reflex.

“What about the Queen.”

“We can’t find her. Her bed wasn’t slept in. Her room is empty. We searched the palace. The gardens. The temple. The lower town. No one has seen her since yesterday evening.”

Hector’s hand dropped from the sword.

“Since yesterday.”

“Since she left her chamber at sunset. No one saw where she went.”

Hector looked at Lysander.

Lysander looked at Hector.

The stars turned. The Greek fires burned. The war did not stop.