“Rest well, my friend,” Hector murmured, his voice heavy with grief as he knelt beside Mynes’ lifeless body. The once-proud prince of Lyrnessus now lay still, his bloodied armor broken, his face forever frozen in a final, peaceful expression. Hector stared down at him, his heart weighed down by a sorrow that words could not convey.
Mynes had been more than just an ally. They had known each other for years, had stood side by side on the battlefield, and had shared countless meals and moments of camaraderie. To Hector, he was not just a fellow warrior but a brother in arms, someone he respected deeply. And now, to see him like this—defeated, his city in ruins—filled Hector with deep regret.
I should have come sooner.
But it was too late now. No amount of regret or guilt could change what had already happened. The city had fallen, and Mynes had died defending it with everything he had. All Hector could do now was honor his friend’s memory and ensure that the survivors of Lyrnessus reached Troy safely, away from the wrath of the Greeks.
As Hector pondered over the next steps, Aeneas approached him from behind, his face grim.
“Hector,” Aeneas said, his voice quiet but urgent, “Achilles’ army is here. They’ve brought others with them—some of them are quite young, but they’re strong. Very strong.”
Hector’s expression tightened, his brows knitting together. He had expected Achilles to be among the attackers, but hearing it confirmed sent a cold chill down his spine. Achilles, the greatest of the Greek warriors, was not a man to take lightly. His presence only meant more devastation was on the horizon.
“What about the people of Lyrnessus?” Hector asked, though part of him already dreaded the answer.
Aeneas’s face darkened further, his features twisting in bitterness and anger. “Most of them… most of them have been killed,” he said, his voice strained. “The Greeks showed no mercy. They didn’t spare anyone—not even the innocent civilians who couldn’t fight. It’s a massacre.” His fists clenched tightly, his knuckles white as his anger boiled beneath the surface.
Hector closed his eyes, letting out a long, pained breath. War… he understood war. He understood the violence and the death that came with it. But this? This was something else entirely. The Greeks had crossed a line, and Hector couldn’t comprehend the senseless brutality they had unleashed on the people of Lyrnessus.
Women, children, the elderly—those who had no part in the conflict were butchered as if they were soldiers on the battlefield.
Why? Why such cruelty?
The scene around him was a testament to the horror that had unfolded. Blood stained the ground, thick and dark, pooling beneath the bodies that littered the streets. Limbs and corpses lay scattered as far as the eye could see, innocent lives extinguished in a senseless slaughter. The once vibrant city of Lyrnessus was now reduced to nothing more than a graveyard.
Aeneas continued, his tone growing more hopeful despite the grim circumstances. “I’ve ordered the others to gather all the survivors behind the city. The carriages are ready to take them to Troy. Several have already begun the journey, slipping away while the Greeks are still occupied. They haven’t noticed our presence yet,” he explained.
Hector gave a nod of approval. That had been their plan from the beginning—not to engage the Greeks directly but to save as many of the people of Lyrnessus as possible. It wasn’t about winning a battle here. It was about saving lives.
“Good,” Hector replied, his voice firm. “We aren’t here to fight. We can’t waste time getting drawn into a battle we can’t win. Focus on evacuating the survivors before anyone realizes we’re here.”
Aeneas’s face softened a bit as he nodded in agreement, but the worry hadn’t left his eyes. “The good news,” he continued, “is that not all the Greek kings are present. I didn’t see anyone resembling Achilles, either. But I did hear some of the soldiers calling the one leading the Myrmidons ‘Patroclus.’ If he’s here, then it’s very possible Achilles isn’t far behind.”
The mention of Patroclus made Hector pause. Achilles’ closest companion and trusted right hand—where Patroclus went, Achilles usually followed. If Patroclus was leading the charge here, it meant that Achilles’ presence in Lyrnessus was all but guaranteed, even if he hadn’t yet shown himself on the battlefield.
“And the bad news?” Hector asked, sensing there was more Aeneas hadn’t yet said.
Aeneas’s expression darkened again. “I saw Agamemnon’s flag.”
Hector’s heart sank. Agamemnon, the king who had ignited this entire war, was a far more dangerous presence than most of the other kings. He brought with him not just soldiers but a relentless drive to conquer and crush anything in his path. If Agamemnon’s forces were on their way, time was running out.
Hector thought quickly, his mind racing as he weighed their options. They needed to move fast—there was no time for hesitation. “We don’t have time to waste,” Hector finally said, his voice sharp with urgency. “Get everyone moving, now. Don’t engage the Greeks unless it’s absolutely necessary. We can’t afford to get bogged down in a fight.”
He paused, his thoughts turning to another concern. “I already warned Penthesilea, but I hope she listens.”
°°°°°
Agamemnon’s boots crunched against the shattered remnants of Lyrnessus’s gates as he entered the fallen city, the smell of blood thick in the air. Behind him followed a fraction of his army, hardened men who had fought beside him for years, their faces void of emotion as they surveyed the destruction. Agamemnon’s eyes gleamed with cold satisfaction.
Though he had allowed Achilles the honor of launching the first assault, the King of Mycenae had no intention of standing idly by while others claimed the glory. His pride demanded that he be part of this victory, even if it meant overseeing the bloody aftermath.
“Has everything ended?” Agamemnon asked, his tone casual as he glanced at the smoldering ruins around him.
Patroclus, walking beside him, gave a curt nod. “Yes. It’s only a matter of minutes before Lyrnessus completely falls into our hands.”
Patroclus’s gaze flickered across the scenes of carnage around them. Everywhere they passed, civilians were being slaughtered mercilessly. Women and children cried out in vain, their prayers to the gods going unanswered as Greek soldiers tore through the city like wild animals. His heart twisted in his chest, but he said nothing.
What could he do?
He was Achilles’ closest companion, and the Myrmidons were unmatched in their brutality. But Patroclus was different—he did not revel in the slaughter of innocents. Still, it was war, and his voice, for all its weight among the Greeks, could not stop the madness.
“It took longer than I expected,” Agamemnon said with a mocking smile. “I thought Achilles could take this city within an hour.”
Patroclus’s expression hardened as he recalled the fierce battle that had delayed them. “There was… a bothersome opponent,” he admitted. He couldn’t help but feel a measure of respect for Mynes, the prince who had stood against them for hours despite the overwhelming odds. Mynes had been blessed by a goddess, Aphrodite no less.
“Where is Achilles now?” Agamemnon asked.
“He’s gone to kill the King. He should be returning soon,” Patroclus replied.
Agamemnon’s lips curled into a smile. “Good. We’ll continue as planned—this is just the beginning.” His gaze darkened as he thought of Troy, its towering walls built by the hands of gods themselves—Apollo and Poseidon. That was his true goal. The fall of Troy would be his ultimate triumph.
He did not care for these smaller victories, for these villages and minor cities were mere stepping stones toward his ambition.
He had sacrificed too much to turn back now. His own daughter, Iphigenia—his beloved, his favorite—had been offered up to the gods to ensure their passage to Troy. There was no turning back. Compassion had no place in him any longer. Only conquest mattered now.
As these thoughts swirled in his mind, Agamemnon’s gaze was drawn to a small, beautifully adorned temple standing untouched amidst the chaos. A temple dedicated to Apollo, god of the sun, music, and prophecy. Yet, even this sacred place was not spared from the Greeks’ violence.
As he and Patroclus approached, the scene before them unfolded with savage clarity—Greek soldiers, their faces twisted with ugly glee, were desecrating the holy site. The priestesses inside were assaulted ruthlessly, their cries for mercy echoing in the air, while the male priests lay dead at the soldiers’ feet.
At the sight of Agamemnon, the soldiers immediately paused in their vile acts. They straightened up and bowed respectfully, fear flickering in their eyes. They knew better than to displease the king, especially one as volatile as Agamemnon.
Agamemnon strode inside the temple. The once-echoing cries of panic and pain seemed to fade into an eerie silence as he ignored the men around him, his attention drawn to something—or rather, someone—near the altar.
Kneeling before the statue of Apollo, her back to him, was a young woman. She was dressed in the pure white robes of a priestess, her slender frame framed by the soft glow of the temple’s fading light. Despite the chaos and destruction happening around her, she remained serene, her lips moving in quiet prayer, oblivious to the King of kings approaching.
Agamemnon’s footsteps echoed in the stillness as he moved closer. Something about her unwavering devotion, her utter disregard for the carnage behind her, piqued his interest. When he finally stood beside her, his eyes widened in brief surprise.
She was beautiful.
More than beautiful, even. Agamemnon had seen many women in his life, from noble queens to foreign concubines, but this priestess possessed a radiance that seemed almost otherworldly. Her soft blonde hair was tied back with care, revealing delicate features that spoke of innocence untouched by the horrors outside the temple walls.
Her skin was porcelain, unblemished, and she had an air of purity that felt almost unreal amidst the bloodshed.
The young woman, with large, luminous blue eyes that seemed to reflect the very skies Apollo ruled over, remained kneeling, hands clasped together in a gesture of prayer. Her voice was low, murmuring words of devotion to her god, completely ignoring Agamemnon’s looming presence.