??The screams that shattered the quiet and peaceful night—a chaos of bloodshed that the Greeks had long sought after years of grueling war—broke through the air as the men hidden within the titan wooden horse emerged. They descended upon the drunken, the unwary and unprepared soldiers drunk in celebration.


    ??From the palace steps, as the fire spread and screams shriek like the blaze of flames torch the city—its people fleeing in cries—Iason watched in frozen horror as chaos consumed the city below. Fires leapt from rooftop to rooftop, devouring homes and marketplaces with an insatiable hunger. The clang of swords and the cries of the dying rose like a dreadful chorus, each voice a ghost of the life it once carried. The smell of burnt charred flesh was strong. Soldiers scrambled in the streets, some still half-drunk from the celebrations, others cut down before they could even reach for a weapon.


    ??Iason''s knuckles turned white around the shaft of his spear. His instincts screamed at him to act—to charge, to fight, to find his father, his mother, his sister. But his duty held him in place like chains around his ankles, a noble request that kept his feet embedded.


    ??Behind him, within the great hall, the last remnant of Prince Hector''s legacy lay in quiet slumber, unaware of the ruin unfolding beyond these walls. The child—so small, so fragile—was now the last thread to a fallen hero. And Iason had been sworn to protect him.


    ??"You look young. How many years have you seen?"Hector''s voice was weary but firm. His gaze swept over the camp—men tending wounds, sharpening blades, speaking in hushed tones of battles yet to come. All were occupied. His eyes settled back on the soldier before him."Are you sworn to any captain?"


    ??The soldier straightened."No, my prince. I serve where I am needed."


    ??Hector nods as if the answer confirmed what he already suspected."Good. You are needed now."He glanced toward the heart of the camp, where the royal tent stood. His leadership was always in great need in the defences—never returning to the palace no matter how close in reach."My son—Astyanax—he is still a child, too young to hold a blade, too young to know the weight of war."His voice softened, but only for a moment."But war does not spare the young."


    ??The soldier''s mouth pressed into a thin line, uncertain."My prince, surely there are others more suited—"


    ??"There are not."Hector''s tone cut through any protest."My best men are bound to the walls, to the gates, to the fields where the fighting never stops. I need someone who is not bound elsewhere."He met the soldier''s gaze, steady and unrelenting."I need you."


    ??A command. A duty. The soldier swallowed and bowed his head."Then you shall have me."


    ??Hector placed a firm hand on his shoulder, a silent promise exchanged. Then, without another word, he turned back to the war. Until the city burned. Screams filled the night, the clash of swords and the splintering of wood echoing between the crumbling walls. Blood soaked the streets, the weight of Troy''s end pressing upon the air like a funeral shroud.


    ??And Hector was dead.


    ??The soldier had not seen it—he had been at the palace, keeping to his duty—but he had heard the cries, the whispers of Achilles dragging Troy''s prince behind his chariot. Hector, the unbreakable, was gone.


    ??Yet there was no time for grief. The prince''s son, the boy he had sworn to protect, still lived. And now, with Troy crumbling around them, the soldier felt the weight of his oath twice over—no longer just to Hector, but to the last hope of his fallen city.


    ??He swallowed hard, forcing his gaze away from the inferno of Troy. His friends were out there. His family. He could almost hear his father''s battle cry, see his mother''s terrified eyes as she and his sister searched for safety. The weight of helplessness still crushed his chest, but he could not move. He could not abandon his post.


    ??Just then a new sound broke through the distant chaos—the pounding of boots against stone. The Greeks were coming.


    ??Iason exhaled slowly, adjusting his grip on his spear. He had always imagined meeting his fate on the battlefield, standing beside his brothers-in-arms, not as a lone guardian before a set of doors. But if death came for him tonight—either on the field or in this lonesome hall—he would face it with courage.


    ??And he would not fall easily.


    ??Iason inhaled sharply, whispering to himself and steeling his resolve.


    ??A thunderous crash against the doors sent a jolt through his spine. He stepped back, bracing himself as another blow followed. The wood groaned under the assault.


    ??Then, silence.


    ??The door swung open, revealing a lone figure standing in the threshold. The man was draped in a tattered cloak, his face shadowed by flickering firelight. But Iason recognized him instantly. The wily tactician. The man of many schemes.


    ??Odysseus.


    ??For a moment, neither of them spoke. There was no need for words; both knew their roles. One, a protector bound by duty. The other, a conqueror driven by purpose. But while Odysseus stood with the unshaken resolve of a man who had seen and won countless battles, Iason was a soldier who had no choice but to stand his ground—fearful, yet unwavering.


    ??The silence broke.


    ??"Step aside, Trojan. I have no quarrel with you,"Odysseus said, his voice like stone against steel. Iason''s grip tightened around the shaft of his spear. His heart pounded in his chest, but his voice was steady."I would rather die protecting Troy''s son than live in the shame of your mercy."


    ??Odysseus tilted his head, scrutinizing him as though committing his face to memory. Then, in a rare moment of solemnity, he asked,"What is your name, courageous warrior of Troy?"


    ??A lump formed in Iason''s throat. His name was nothing compared to those who had come before him—Hector, Achilles, Priam. And yet, he straightened his back and answered.


    ??"...I am Iason."


    ??Odysseus gave a slow nod.


    ??"I will remember your name. And know this—Troy will grieve you before it falls."


    ??The battle was short. Iason fought, but he was outmatched. Odysseus was as relentless as the tide, striking with precision, wearing him down until his body could no longer resist.


    ??Iason had struck first, but Odysseus moved like water, dodging with ease. A counterstrike—sharp, deliberate—bit into Iason''s ribs. He barely flinched. He pressed forward, attacking with desperation, but Odysseus was methodical. A cut to the thigh. A parry that sent Iason''s spear clattering to the stone. A final strike—deep enough to end the fight, but not to kill.


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    ??Defeated and bleeding, Iason collapsed against the cold stone wall as Odysseus stepped past him, disappearing into the chamber beyond. The pain was dull now, the warmth of his blood seeping into the marble beneath him. His vision blurred, darkness creeping at the edges.


    ??He drifted in and out of consciousness. His surroundings shifted, the battle a distant echo. The next thing he knew, his feet were dragging against the ground, his weakened body stumbling forward. The palace was gone. The city—gone.


    ??Cold. Dark. Silent.


    ??''Where... am I?''


    ??His breath came in ragged gasps. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim surroundings. The stone walls around him felt ancient, worn by time. This was not the Troy he knew. It was something buried beneath it, a forgotten place swallowed by shadow.


    ??His fingers curled, but he could barely feel them.


    ??''I... I can''t feel my fingers...''


    ??He staggered forward, his legs trembling under his own weight. He had to move. Had to find a way out. But with every step, his strength faded. His knees buckled, and he collapsed.


    ??Was this it? Was this where he would die—not in battle, but alone, in the dark?


    ??His mind reeled, caught between the agony of his wounds and the agony of his failure. His family—gone. His friends—gone. The city he had sworn to protect—reduced to ash. And Hector... the man he had revered, the prince he had sworn to serve—he had failed him.


    ??Iason closed his eyes, ready to let the darkness take him.


    ??Then, a sound.


    ??A wet, pulsing, slithering sound.


    ??His eyes snapped open, his breath hitching. Something moved in the darkness.


    ??It was unlike anything he had ever seen—something shifting between liquid and solid, a mass of writhing, centipede-like tendrils with razor-sharp legs that scraped against the stone. It pulsed, as if alive. As if... watching him.


    ??Iason tried to move, to crawl away, but his body refused to obey.


    ??''I''m too weak... I can''t move...''


    ??The creature inched closer, its many legs clicking against the ground—then against his flesh. He tensed as he felt each razor-sharp limb press into him. Its tendrils reached for him. He flinched as it loomed, staring directly into his eye—so close there was no space between them. He felt its legs climb his cheek, each razor-sharp point pricking into his skin—before it latched onto his eye. A sickening pressure followed as something squirmed, writhing its way deeper, sending agony lancing through his skull.


    ??Pain.


    ??Searing, unbearable pain as it slither like molten fire. His body convulsed, his back arching as the agony overwhelmed him. His vision exploded into flashes of light—visions, memories, nightmares.


    ??Stars, burning bright in the abyss. An ancient presence, vast and unknowable.


    ??The scent of smoke and blood. His mother, clinging to him, weeping as the war began.


    ??"You make me proud, son. You make Troy proud."His father''s voice, strong and unwavering.


    ??The battlefield. His captain rallying the soldiers."These Greeks are here to plunder, enslave, and murder our friends and neighbors! Let them try! To arms!"


    ??His friends, dying in his arms.


    ??"I tried... tell them I did my best..."


    ??And then, the whispers.


    ??"Kill them... Iason, kill them all... make them bleed..."


    ??Iason gasped, his hands clawing at his own skin as the parasite merged with him. His veins darkened, his body twisted in torment. He could hear voices—some from the past, some from something far beyond his understanding.


    ??"Kill me... Trojan..."


    ??A Greek soldier, wounded and slumped against a broken wall. The man''s voice was barely a whisper. Iason knelt, leaning in closer.


    ??"I''m dying... just end this pain..."


    ??He stared into the soldier''s exhausted eyes, eyes that mirrored his own. There was no hatred there. Just weariness.


    ??Iason stood, gripping his spear. He had meant for it to be quick—a mercy. A clean thrust to the heart. But his hands trembled, hesitation creeping in. Still, his grip tightened, and the spear drove forward. A clean kill. A mercy.


    ??But it didn''t like that. No. And so, the whispers stirred.


    ??A sharp, nauseating pull wrenched through him—like something had reached inside his skull and twisted.


    ??''Again.''


    ??The moment rewound.


    ??The spear was in his hand once more. The wounded soldier lay before him, his ragged breaths filling the air, waiting for mercy. But something was different.Off.Iason''s grip tightened, his heart pounding. He had already done this. The man should be dead.


    ??The whisper slithered through his mind.


    ??This time, his hand moved differently. The spear struck lower—not the heart, but the gut.The soldier gasped, choking on his own pain. Iason tried to stop, but his body wasn''t his own. His hands wrenched the spear sideways, dragging it through flesh and bone. The soldier let out a raw, broken scream.This wasn''t what happened. This wasn''t what he had done.


    ??And yet, it was happening.


    ??Again. And again. Every wound stretched time, prolonging the suffering, drawing it out beyond reason. The whispers swelled, laughing, urging.


    ??The soldier convulsed violently, his breath catching as darkness consumed him one final time. His veins blackened, his muscles tensed. And then—silence.


    ??Iason gasped, stumbling back. His hands trembled, slick with blood.


    ??Had it really happened this way?


    ??The pain in his body was gone. His wounds had vanished. His strength had returned. But as he gasped for breath, a sickening dissonance clawed at his mind.


    ??He had seen it—the brutal, merciless execution.Felt it. Lived it.The screams still rang in his ears, the phantom weight of the spear still in his grip.


    ??A nightmare. A vision.


    ??Iason staggered back, his pulse thundering in his ears. His hands trembled, expecting to be painted with blood. But they were clean. He swore they had been drenched in it just moments ago.Hadn''t they?


    ??''It was a nightmare... it wasn''t real... it wasn''t....''


    ??Iason wrestled with reality—with what he had done to the Greek soldier. His breathing slowed. Was it because of whatever that thing had done? Had it twisted his mind into believing its whispers?


    ??He flexed his fingers, half-expecting his veins to blacken before his eyes. Nothing. No corruption. No unnatural strength.


    ??Just the cold weight of uncertainty sinking into his bones.


    ??Iason swallowed hard.


    ??Because if that thing—whatever it was—could manipulate his mind so thoroughly, so convincingly. How would he ever know what was real?


    ??A sharp inhale. Cold air flooded his lungs.


    ??Iason''s body jerked as if he had been drowning and finally breached the surface. His vision swam, the world around flickering between shadow and light before solidifying into something real. Something tangible.


    ??He was back. Freed from that nightmarish loop.


    ??The whispers had gone silent. The phantom sensation of the spear in his hands faded, replaced by nothing but the weight of exhaustion pressing against his bones.


    ??Shoving the thought aside, he took his only chance for reprieve—this moment—since the encounter with Odysseus, lying tired and unmoving. But most of all defeated as his thoughts fall back to Astyanax.