At the graveyard of Troy, Nathan stood silently beside Aeneas and Hector, the three men casting long shadows across the cracked and uneven ground. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and distant wildflowers, mingling with the faint aroma of charred wood—a reminder of the destruction that had gripped the city not long ago.
Before them lay a modest pile of rubble, stones heaped with care yet betraying the tragic weight of their meaning. A small, weathered marker stood out among the debris. Its surface was rough, yet someone had taken the time to carve a name into it with painstaking precision.
Sarpedon.
Nathan’s dark eyes lingered on the inscription. His expression was as hard as the stone beneath his feet, but his thoughts churned with emotion.
For Hector and Aeneas, this loss was weeks old, a wound that had begun to scab over. But for Nathan, it was as fresh as yesterday. He closed his eyes briefly, allowing himself to feel the full weight of the moment.
“I’ll probably never find a friend like him again,” Nathan thought, the bitter realization settling over him like a cold shroud.
In the wake of Sarpedon’s death, only Hector and Aeneas remained—brothers in arms, the last among men he could truly call friends. He glanced at the two of them, their solemn faces mirroring the unspoken grief they all shared.
Aeneas broke the silence first, his voice steady but tinged with wistfulness. “Knowing Sarpedon, he’s probably on the island of the greatest Heroes by now.”
He was referring to the legendary resting place reserved for the noblest and most valiant warriors, a realm akin to Heaven but touched with the raw, untamed spirit of those who had lived and died for honor.
“Definitely,” Hector replied, his tone resolute. He placed a hand on Nathan’s shoulder, offering silent camaraderie before stepping away. Aeneas followed, the two men leaving Nathan alone with his thoughts.
Nathan lingered, the quiet of the graveyard wrapping around him like a heavy cloak. His gaze returned to the rubble, his lips pressing into a thin line.
“You fought well, Sarpedon,” he said aloud, his voice low but firm. “Now you can rest. You’ve earned it. Leave the rest to us.”
A gust of wind swept through the graveyard, carrying the scent of salt from the nearby sea. Nathan’s black hair stirred in the breeze as he continued, his voice barely audible over the rustling leaves. “The Greeks will soon regret stepping on Trojan grounds. I promise you that.”
For a long moment, he remained there, the silence broken only by the occasional cry of a distant gull. Finally, he turned and walked toward a weathered bench under a sprawling olive tree. He sank onto it heavily, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands.
The wind picked up again, teasing the edges of his tunic as his thoughts spiraled into darker territory.
The war had taken so much, not just from Troy but from him personally. Each loss chipped away at him, and now, for the first time, he found himself wondering if he would even survive long enough to see Apollo return.
“Will I survive before Apollo finds a solution?” he wondered grimly. “And even if he does… will it be enough to save me?”
Apollo, one of the mightiest and most influential gods, had gone to search for answers—an antidote, perhaps, or some divine intervention to stave off Nathan’s impending doom. But even Apollo had warned him there were no guarantees.
Nathan exhaled slowly, his breath forming a faint mist in the cool air. He was already bracing himself for the worst. If even Apollo, with all his wisdom and power, failed, then his fate was as good as sealed.
And, strangely, Nathan found himself accepting that possibility. The thought of his own death no longer terrified him as it once had.
“I should think about releasing Khione and Amaterasu while I still can,” he mused, the decision forming in his mind like a heavy stone sinking into water.
Khione… she was the woman he loved most in the world. To drag her into his death would be unforgivable.
And Amaterasu—another powerful figure in his life. She had helped him in many ways since then. They formed quite a bond as well though it didn’t start good.
“No,” Nathan thought resolutely. “I won’t take them down with me. I’m not that twisted.”
If Nathan was truly going to die, then he would release them. It was a decision he had already made in his heart. Khione, with her serene strength, and Amaterasu, whose wisdom had guided him more times than he could count—they didn’t deserve to be bound to a man who might not see another sunrise.
But as his thoughts lingered on his own mortality, another question crept into his mind, unbidden and troubling.
“If I die… where will I go? Heaven or Hell?”
He exhaled sharply, the faintest trace of bitterness curling his lips into a smirk. Most likely Hell, he thought. After everything he’d done—every choice, every compromise—Hell seemed inevitable.
But then again, this world played by different rules. Perhaps fate would show him a shred of mercy. Would he be sent to the same realm as Sarpedon if he fought valiantly in this war?
He doubted it.
“He was a good man.”
The words startled him, coming not from his thoughts but from behind him. Nathan turned slightly, his black hair catching the soft light of the setting sun, and his gaze landed on an unexpected figure.
Helen of Sparta.
She stood quietly, her hands clasped in front of her as her gaze rested on Sarpedon’s grave. The golden glow of twilight bathed her in an ethereal light, making her appear almost otherworldly. Her beauty was striking, as always, but it was her expression that caught Nathan off guard—a mix of sorrow and quiet determination.
“What are you doing here?” Nathan asked, his voice steady but tinged with curiosity.
Helen didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, she kept her gaze fixed on the grave, her tone soft yet filled with a weight of guilt. “Every week, I come to this graveyard. It’s the least I can do, being responsible for their deaths.”
Despite the countless reassurances from others that she wasn’t to blame, Helen still carried the burden as if it were hers alone.
Nathan studied her for a moment, his blue eyes narrowing thoughtfully. He understood her guilt but viewed the situation with a broader perspective. From what he had pieced together, the chain of events leading to this war was far more complex than Helen seemed willing to acknowledge.
Aphrodite had given her enchanted belt to Paris as a gift for choosing her over Athena and Hera in their divine beauty contest. But the goddess hadn’t anticipated Paris using it to seduce a married woman worse a Queen. Things spiraled out of control after that.
If anyone bore the blame, it was Paris. He had acted selfishly, recklessly, dragging countless lives into ruin for his desires. And the gods? They were no less culpable. Hera and Athena, in particular, had manipulated Agamemnon into believing victory in this war was inevitable, ensuring the conflict would escalate to catastrophic levels.
Nathan’s hand clenched into a fist at his side. If his fate was sealed, he would make sure to drag that bastard Agamemnon down with him. The only regret he harbored was that he wouldn’t live long enough to take his vengeance on the Divine Knights as well.
“You are responsible, yeah,” Nathan said, breaking the silence.
Helen’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with shock. She had expected the same tired reassurances, the placating words that people always offered to ease her guilt. But Nathan’s blunt response pierced through the facade she had come to anticipate.
Her lips parted as if to speak, but Nathan wasn’t finished. He turned his gaze toward her, his expression firm but not unkind.
“But you aren’t the one to blame,” he continued. “Being the most beautiful woman in the world shouldn’t be a curse. It should be a blessing. No one should feel ashamed of something so natural and extraordinary. Feeling sad about it… that would be stupid. A waste.”
Helen blinked, his words hitting her with an unexpected force. For so long, her beauty had been a source of pain, a barrier that kept her from forming genuine connections. People saw her as a prize, an object of desire, but rarely as a person. The bonds she forged were often shallow, filled with hypocrisy and ulterior motives.
Yet here was Nathan, speaking plainly, with neither flattery nor malice, but with a sincerity that cut through her defenses.
She fell silent, her gaze dropping to the ground. Her shoulders trembled slightly, and soon, her eyes moistened with unshed tears.
There had been a time when Helen knew happiness, when her days were filled with laughter and the warmth of genuine companionship. But those moments felt as if they belonged to another life, a distant memory buried beneath the weight of centuries. Now, she merely existed—breathing, walking, and talking, but not truly living.
The thought of seeking an end to her pain had crossed her mind countless times, but she knew she could never allow herself that release. Too many lives had already been lost in her name. The least she could do was bear the burden of staying alive, a penance for the countless souls who could no longer do the same.
Nathan’s words had stirred something in her, a faint ember of comfort amidst the cold ashes of regret. She glanced at him, her lips curling into the faintest of smiles, a rare and fragile thing.
“Those were kind words,” she said softly. “I am grateful. Thank you.”
Nathan said nothing in return, only nodding slightly as he observed her. There was a fleeting warmth in her smile, but he also saw the weight she carried. A lifetime of sorrow was etched into her face, hidden behind her grace and poise.
Before the moment could linger, a sharp voice cut through the stillness like a blade.
“Helen?!”
Nathan turned toward the source of the voice and saw Paris rushing toward them, his features twisted in a mix of anger and concern.
“I told you many times not to leave my side!” Paris barked, his tone harsh and commanding. “Stay inside the palace! It’s too dangerous for you to be out here!”
The shift in Helen’s demeanor was immediate. Her expression, once soft and contemplative, turned cold, her smile fading into a look of quiet annoyance. Nathan noticed how her shoulders tensed, though she maintained her composure.
For a moment, she didn’t respond, her gaze fixed on the grave before her. Finally, she turned toward Nathan, her voice steady and composed.
“I wish we could speak further another time,” she said, her tone polite but distant.
Nathan nodded once, understanding the unspoken implications. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Helen turned to leave.
“What?” Paris snapped, noticing her brief exchange with Nathan. His eyes narrowed as he glared at Nathan, his suspicion evident. Without waiting for an explanation, Paris hurried after Helen, his words trailing behind him like the echoes of a storm.