Patroclus stood at the edge of the camp, staring out at the flickering fires of the Greek encampment. His heart was heavy, weighed down by emotions he couldn’t quite name. Since the beginning, he had dreamed of being part of this war, fighting alongside his comrades, proving himself worthy of the warrior’s blood that coursed through his veins.
Perhaps it was his Greek heritage, that innate hunger for battle and glory, that had driven him here. Yet even in the midst of his dreams, he’d harbored no desire to destroy Troy or slaughter its people.
No.
Patroclus had always believed the best outcome would be a swift conquest—taking the city, exacting a ransom so large it would leave Troy humbled but intact, and then departing. There was no honor, in his eyes, in shedding the blood of innocents. That wasn’t how he was raised, and it wasn’t who he wanted to become.
But now, something far graver consumed his thoughts.
The vision haunted him—a prophecy that spoke of Khillea’s fate should she take part in the war. She would die, the vision said, her life ending upon Trojan soil. Patroclus could hardly bear the thought.
Khillea wasn’t just his cousin; she was like an elder sister to him. When he had been a fragile, timid boy, it was Khillea who had taken him under her wing. She had trained him, molded him into the man he was today. Her strength, her unwavering determination, had been his guiding star. It had never mattered to him that she was a woman. To Patroclus, she was simply Khillea—formidable, brilliant, and irreplaceable.
The idea of losing her was unbearable.
Yet Patroclus understood her too well. He knew why she had thrown herself into this war despite the prophecy. Khillea had longed to leave an indelible mark on the world, to be remembered not as a shadow of the name “Achilles,” but as herself—the strongest woman to ever walk the earth. She wanted to shatter the chains of that borrowed name and carve her own legacy.
For that reason alone, Patroclus had held his tongue, despite the torment it brought him. He couldn’t bring himself to speak against her will.
But lately, things had changed for the worse.
The spark in Khillea’s eyes had dimmed, her once-unwavering resolve shaken. It all started when Agamemnon, in his arrogance, demanded Briseis—Khillea’s prize of war.
Khillea had handed Briseis over. She had no choice. Agamemnon was the self-proclaimed leader of the coalition, and the demands of the other Greek kings, coupled with Athena’s insistence, had left her cornered.
Since that day, Khillea had withdrawn from the war entirely. She refused to march, refused to fight. She and her army of Myrmidons remained in the camp, their weapons idle. Khillea herself stayed cloistered in her tent, watching the war unfold from a distance.
Patroclus knew there was more to her withdrawal than what others might assume. Whispers passed through the camp, speculating that she stayed hidden because of her incestuous liaison with her own cousin, Patroclus. But Patroclus knew better.
He knew his cousin.
Khillea wasn’t the type to abandon the battlefield, not when glory awaited her. Not when she could be the first Greek woman to step foot inside Troy, an image that would forever etch her name into the annals of history.
Patroclus knew. He had always known. Khillea was not one to let an insult slide without retribution. She wasn’t sulking in her tent out of defeat or despair. No, she was waiting—biding her time like a lioness, poised to strike when the Greeks were at their weakest.
She wanted Agamemnon broken.
The arrogant king had wounded her pride deeply when he demanded Briseis, forcing Khillea to submit to his authority. Now, she would make him crawl back, groveling for her return. She wanted him to feel the same humiliation he had inflicted upon her, and she had no intention of rushing her revenge.
Khillea had all the time in the world.
She was pregnant, after all. The child growing inside her was her priority now. Each passing day that Agamemnon refused to beg for her aid only granted her more time to rest and care for her unborn baby. For Khillea, this was a victory in itself.
But for Patroclus, it was torture.
Every day, he wandered through the Greek camps, witnessing the grim reality of their struggle. Soldiers lay dying, their bodies battered and their spirits crushed. The once-proud Greek army was a shadow of its former self, their morale dwindling with each passing hour.
And they hated him for it.
Every glare, every muttered curse aimed at him and the Myrmidons was a dagger to Patroclus’s heart. The resentment in their eyes was palpable—an unspoken accusation that he, too, had abandoned them in their time of need.
Patroclus, however, couldn’t turn away from their suffering. Though he felt powerless to change Khillea’s mind, he refused to stand idly by. Instead, he devoted himself to treating the wounded, offering what solace he could to the dying men. It was a thankless task, but it was all he could do.
Unlike the others, Patroclus was still respected. Even amidst their hatred for the Myrmidons, the Greek soldiers could not ignore his kindness. Patroclus was a warrior, yes, but he was also a healer—a man whose heart remained open despite the bloodshed surrounding him.
It was during one of these moments, as he moved between the injured soldiers, that Patroclus noticed a familiar figure slipping through the shadows.
The man was discreet, keeping his face partially hidden beneath a hood, but Patroclus recognized him immediately.
Nathan.
The Spartan warrior who had done what no one else could—he had given Khillea a child.
At first, Patroclus hadn’t believed it. Khillea, a woman who could topple cities, falling for a Spartan of all people? It had seemed absurd. Yet the proof was undeniable. A miracle, some might say.
Still, Nathan remained an enigma. Patroclus had searched for him for months at Thetis’s behest. Khillea’s mother had been adamant about meeting the man who had fathered her grandchild. She suspected there was something special about him, something beyond mortal understanding.
And yet, Nathan had vanished like smoke in the wind. Even among the Spartans, no one seemed to know of a man by that name. It was as if he didn’t exist.
Perhaps it was deliberate. Spartans had always been wary of the Myrmidons after all being a bit similar in their creed. And for a man tied so closely to Khillea, it wasn’t surprising that Nathan would prefer to remain hidden.
As a Trojan, Nathan would constantly live on the razor’s edge. If his fellow Spartans ever discovered he frequented Achilles’ tent—they could brand him a traitor. At best, they’d cast him out. At worst, he’d be killed on the spot, likely by the very men he shared bread and battle formations with, that was Patroclus thoughts.
Yes, all Greeks were allied against Troy, but that alliance was fragile. Each city’s army was a world of its own, fueled by rivalry and pride. Spartans, Myrmidons, Athenians—all competed to prove themselves the strongest and most disciplined, their kings the most capable. The tension between the factions was palpable.
This fractured camaraderie worked to Nathan’s advantage. Nobody will suspect him as a Trojan mercenary just because he kept distance and avoided myrmidons after all.
“Nathan.” With that in his mind, Patroclus called.
Nathan stopped in his tracks, shoulders stiffening at the mention of his real name. There was a beat of silence as he acknowledged the call, weighing his options. Avoiding Patroclus was always the safest route, but tonight that was impossible.
Slowly, Nathan turned. His face was a mask of nonchalance, his tone clipped.
“What?”
Patroclus stepped closer, his familiar warmth masking an undercurrent of purpose.
“You remember me, don’t you?”
Nathan arched an eyebrow, his voice laced with sarcasm. “How could I forget Achilles’s shadow?”
Patroclus chuckled at the jab, his laugh genuine. “Good. Because finding you wasn’t easy. I never imagined anyone would dare give us a fake name.”
Nathan’s expression didn’t falter, though the statement caught him off guard. What was Patroclus implying? He couldn’t afford to show any cracks in his facade, so he opted for a calculated reply—one that would play into the existing tension between the Greeks.
“I was told to keep my distance after…everything,” Nathan said vaguely, letting the implication hang in the air.
Patroclus nodded knowingly, the ambiguity fitting neatly into the strained relations between the armies. It was the perfect deflection, and Nathan noted the glimmer of understanding in Patroclus’s eyes.
“Fair enough,” Patroclus said. “But I need you to come with me this time.”
Nathan’s frown deepened. He crossed his arms, his tone sharp with irritation. “Does Achilles want me to bed another one of his women?”
Patroclus burst into laughter, the sound carrying through the camp. The suggestion, while bold, was so far from the truth that it caught him completely off guard. Nathan, however, remained stone-faced, his patience clearly wearing thin.
“No, no,” Patroclus managed between chuckles, wiping at his eyes. “I swear, it’s nothing like that. Trust me, you won’t face any trouble from the Spartans. This will only take a moment.”
Patroclus’s honesty was disarming, though Nathan still felt the familiar tug of suspicion. He searched Patroclus’s face, looking for any hint of deceit. Finding none, he exhaled slowly and gave a reluctant nod.
“Fine.”