“You’re the hero of the day,” Hector continued, his voice tinged with both pride and regret. “The man who killed Ajax. And after a victory like this, my father will undoubtedly have a reward prepared for you.”
Nathan inclined his head slightly, his way of signaling he understood. He didn’t protest or grumble. He had accepted this inevitability the moment he chose to kill Ajax on the battlefield—under the watchful eyes of Greeks, Trojans, and, most importantly, the Gods themselves.
Stepping into the spotlight had been a calculated decision. If the Gods wanted a spectacle, he would give them one.
Nathan returned to his quarters within the towering walls of Troy’s royal castle. The room, though grand by most standards, was modest compared to the opulence surrounding it, a reflection of his role as an outsider—a mercenary allowed inside the heart of Trojan society. The evening sun filtered through the intricately woven curtains, casting warm amber hues across the stone walls.
He shrugged off his worn battle tunic, the scent of sweat and blood lingering faintly on the fabric, and stepped into the adjoining bathing chamber. Warm water cascaded over him as he let the tension of the day slip away. The recent battle replayed in his mind—not with a sense of glory, but with the calculated detachment of one accustomed to war.
After a quick shower, Nathan selected a set of fine Trojan garments. The rich fabric, dyed in deep crimson and gold accents, was far removed from the utilitarian attire he usually donned. Every detail, from the embroidery of laurel leaves on his cloak to the polished leather of his belt, spoke of a warrior whose deeds had earned him a place among kings and nobles.
Not long ago, the people of Troy had eyed him with suspicion, their whispers echoing through the grand halls. A mere mercenary, living in the royal castle? they had scoffed. But today, those murmurs had been silenced. No one dared question his presence now—not after his victory.
Leaving Charybdis to rest outside the palace walls, Nathan made his way alone toward the banquet hall. The sea creature, who served as both companion and ally, had grown restless on land. She needed the open seas to find solace, to feel truly at home. Nathan understood this unspoken need and gave her the space she deserved. Tomorrow promised respite; the Greeks, licking their wounds from their catastrophic loss, would likely require days to regroup. The death of Ajax had shaken them to their core, and the absence of their formidable hero would cripple their morale.
The Trojans, however, were jubilant. Victory hung in the air, thick and heady like the scent of roasted meats wafting from the banquet.
As Nathan approached the grand hall, the sound of celebration grew louder. The Trojans’ laughter and cheers echoed through the marble corridors, a symphony of triumph and relief. He pushed open the heavy wooden doors, and the room fell into a brief hush before erupting into applause.
Nobles and warriors alike turned to him, their faces alight with admiration and gratitude. “To Heiron, the slayer of Ajax and Jason!” someone shouted, raising a goblet high.
Nathan inclined his head in acknowledgment, his expression impassive. The crowd interpreted his stoic demeanor as humility, a trait that only endeared him further. To them, he was not just a warrior but a paragon of restraint—a man who did not let his monumental achievements inflate his ego.
Priam, seated on his gilded throne at the far end of the hall, raised a hand. “Silence, please,” the king commanded, his voice steady but authoritative.
The room quieted immediately, the sea of celebrants parting to allow Nathan a clear path to the throne. He strode forward, his boots echoing against the polished marble floor, until he stood before the aging king. Without hesitation, he dropped to one knee, his head bowed.
Priam leaned forward slightly, his weathered face softening. “Rise, Heiron,” he said gently. “You need not kneel after what you have done for my city and my people.”
Nathan stood, his piercing gaze meeting Priam’s. The king’s expression was a mixture of gratitude and curiosity.
“I am more than satisfied with your accomplishments,” Priam continued, his voice carrying the weight of sincerity. “Troy has been fortunate to have a warrior of your caliber fighting beneath its banner. But tell me, was there a reason you chose us over the Greeks? Both sides seek mercenaries, and I cannot imagine the Greeks would have offered you less. What brought you to Troy willingly?”
The room stilled, all ears tuned to Nathan’s response. It was a question that had lingered in the minds of many. Why had a man of such extraordinary skill and renown cast his lot with Troy, whose resources paled in comparison to those of their enemies?
Nathan hesitated for a fleeting moment, the weight of the king’s question pressing on him. He couldn’t reveal the truth—that he fought for Troy because Aphrodite herself had requested it, nor that his very survival hinged on Apollo’s debt to him. Those truths would sound absurd, perhaps even blasphemous, to those gathered here.
Instead, he chose the other reason, one that had grown steadily in his heart after spending time within Troy’s walls and among its people.
“I find the Trojans far more honorable, deserving of respect, and worth fighting for than the Greeks,” Nathan said, his voice calm but steady, each word carrying conviction. “The Greeks fight not for justice, nor for love, but for greed and immoral ambition. Helen of Troy is merely an excuse—an illusion Agamemnon uses to justify his true goal. He seeks to sack Troy and plunder its wealth, nothing more. I could never fight for someone like him or the other Greeks.”
As his words settled over the room, the hall fell silent.
The stunned expressions of the Trojans said more than words ever could. They had expected Nathan to speak of strategy, or perhaps personal gain, but instead, he had shared his truth. A truth that resonated deeply, not just because of its boldness, but because it came from a man who had no obligation to flatter them.
Helen of Troy, who stood among the crowd in a delicate gown of shimmering white and gold, drew a sharp breath. Her lips parted slightly as her gaze fixed on Nathan, her normally composed demeanor wavering. She looked visibly moved, though Nathan had not spoken these words with her in mind. They were not for her, but the sentiment struck a chord nonetheless.
The other Trojans were equally affected.
Aeneas, a warrior known for his unyielding composure, blinked rapidly, his eyes suspiciously wet. Hector, standing tall and proud, exchanged a knowing smile with Sarpedon. Even Atalanta, who often wrestled with her own conflicted emotions, seemed moved. Though her expression betrayed a lingering inner turmoil, a small smile touched her lips. She understood Nathan’s reasoning well—it mirrored her own after having spent time among the Trojans and witnessing their kindness.
Finally, Priam broke the silence with a soft chuckle. “I see now,” he said, his voice warm and tinged with relief. “We are truly fortunate to have you among us, Heiron.”
“We are,” Queen Hecuba agreed, her voice serene yet firm. Her gaze lingered on Nathan, a mixture of admiration and affection in her eyes. She had come to regard him not only as a formidable warrior but as a steadfast ally and even, perhaps, as an elder son in spirit. She had seen him countless times fighting alongside Hector, shielding her beloved child from harm on the battlefield.
Priam straightened in his throne, his expression turning solemn once more. “Now, Heiron, tell me your reward. Speak your desire, and I will grant it—whatever it may be.”
Nathan faltered. What could he possibly ask for? Priam had nothing to offer that he truly wanted. Gold, lands, titles—these held no appeal to him. His goals lay elsewhere, in matters the king could not touch.
“For now, nothing, Your Majesty,” he said honestly, his tone calm yet firm.
The room held its breath, then erupted in murmurs of awe. Anyone else in Nathan’s place would have seized the opportunity to ask for riches or something of immeasurable value. Yet here he stood, declining such generosity with quiet dignity.
Priam threw his head back and laughed, the deep sound echoing through the hall. “You are truly a rare man, Heiron. A man of unparalleled worth. And yet, that is precisely why I wish to strengthen the bond between you and Troy.”
The king’s gaze softened as he leaned forward. “Very well, if you will not ask for a reward now, then you may claim one later, should anything come to mind. However, I insist on honoring you in another way.”
He paused, his next words ringing with significance. “I will personally grant you one of our finest guest rooms on the third floor of the castle.”
Gasps rippled through the hall like a wave. The third floor was a space reserved exclusively for high-ranking nobles and visiting royalty. For a mercenary to be offered such an honor was unheard of. Yet no one voiced any objections. Instead, the Trojans looked at Nathan with pride, as if this gesture somehow reflected their collective gratitude for his deeds.
Nathan hesitated. He wasn’t fond of grand gestures or undue attention, but he knew declining the offer would only invite further insistence so he inclined his head.
“I accept gratefully,” he said, his tone formal yet sincere.
“Then enjoy, brave Trojans!” Priam proclaimed, standing tall with a smile that radiated genuine warmth and pride. His voice echoed through the great hall, carrying the weight of his joy and relief.
The Trojans erupted into cheers, their voices rising in unison to celebrate the moment. It was as though the heavy tension of war had been momentarily lifted, replaced by the simple joys of camaraderie and hope. Servants hurried in with platters of roasted meats, fresh-baked bread, and overflowing goblets of wine. The rich aroma of spices and honey filled the air, a testament to Troy’s fertile lands and the careful preparation they had undertaken for this long-looming conflict.
Despite the shadow of war hanging over them, Troy’s prosperity remained evident. The kingdom had been blessed with fertile soil and resourceful people, ensuring their stores were well-stocked. For at least the next five years, they would not know the pangs of famine. Months of preparation had made sure of that.
Nathan allowed himself a moment to breathe amidst the jubilant atmosphere. The tension in his shoulders loosened as he took a seat beside Hector and Aeneas. Both warriors had smiles on their faces, though Nathan could see the underlying weariness in their eyes—a weariness he shared.
He accepted a goblet of wine, raising it slightly in a quiet toast before taking a measured sip. The warm liquid slid down his throat, its subtle sweetness mixed with a faint spice. It wasn’t enough to cloud his mind, but perhaps it would help numb the ever-present ache of his wounds.
“Not bad, eh?” Hector grinned, clapping Nathan on the shoulder. “You’ve earned this, my friend. Drink, eat, and let the gods grant you peace tonight.”
Nathan offered a faint smile in return, though his thoughts were elsewhere. The hall buzzed with laughter and song, but he couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched.
A particular gaze burned into him.
He resisted the urge to turn his head, knowing all too well whose eyes followed him.
Kassandra of Troy.