The Trojan War had come to an unexpected and historic conclusion—the day Heiron returned, alive and victorious.
For the first time in history, Troy had not only withstood the might of Greece but had emerged triumphant. The invincible coalition of kings and warriors who once boasted of their impending conquest had been shattered. The Greeks had lost.
And yet, they did not leave immediately.
Among those who lingered was Odysseus, ever the tactician, who remained behind to discuss the aftermath of the war with King Priam. Though the Greeks had waged war, it was they who had been defeated, and with defeat came consequences. Troy would not let them retreat without exacting a price for the destruction they had brought upon its lands.
The surviving Greek soldiers, battle-worn and exhausted, carried the weight of crushing defeat upon their shoulders. The war that was meant to cement their glory had instead left them in disgrace. But they could do nothing—fate had been cruel, and history would remember them not as victors but as failures.
For the Trojans, however, it was a time of unparalleled celebration.
Euphoria coursed through the veins of every citizen, from the highest noble to the humblest craftsman. The entire city roared with jubilation, its streets filled with music, laughter, and cheers. Men, women, and children flooded the avenues, their joy spilling forth like a river that had long been dammed.
At the heart of their exultation were two names that would forever be carved into legend: Hector and Heiron.
These two warriors had defied the might of Greece, shattered their greatest warriors, and brought about an unimaginable victory. Statues were already being sculpted in their honor, their likenesses immortalized in stone as living gods of war. Songs were being composed in their name, ballads that would echo through the ages, recounting their heroics on the battlefield.
Yet the greatest cause for celebration was the death of Agamemnon himself.
The so-called “King of Kings,” the tyrant who had waged this war out of arrogance and greed, had fallen. Heiron had finally slain the man who had long sought Troy’s destruction, and with his death, the city could finally breathe in relief.
For years, doubt had lingered in the hearts of the Trojans.
The Greeks had come in overwhelming numbers, their warriors unmatched in skill. They had the blessings of mighty gods—Hera, Queen of Olympus, and Athena, the very Goddess of Victory, had both opposed Troy. By all accounts, the city should have fallen.
And yet, it had not.
It was a miracle. A defiance of fate itself.
And miracles deserved to be celebrated.
Troy reveled in its newfound glory. Tables overflowed with the finest food and wine, laughter and song filled the air, and performances reenacting the war’s greatest moments took place in every plaza. Bards and poets were already composing epics of Heiron’s duels—his battles against Ajax, against Heracles, and Hector’s legendary clash against the centaur Chiron.
Soon, these stories would spread beyond the walls of Troy.
Within a month, they would reach the far corners of the world.
And in the annals of history, the victory of Troy—the impossible triumph—would be remembered for eternity.
Within the mighty palace of Troy, the usual banquet hall—where countless feasts had been held in times of peace—stood eerily empty. Tonight, it could not contain the scale of the celebration that the Trojans demanded.
A far greater hall within the palace had been chosen instead, one vast enough to accommodate a victory of this magnitude.
It was here that the heart of the celebration pulsed with life.
Laughter and cheers echoed against the grand marble walls, the clinking of goblets and the rhythmic beat of music filling the space with an infectious energy. The hall was packed to its very limits, and even outside, the festivities continued, the streets flooded with those eager to revel in Troy’s moment of triumph.
Yet within these golden halls, only the greatest figures of the Trojan War were seated—the warriors, leaders, and legends who had fought and bled for this city.
At the center of it all stood Aeneas, his voice carrying above the cacophony as he raised his cup high into the air.
“Let us cheer for the greatest heroes of Troy! Hector of Troy and Heiron!!”
His words were met with an immediate uproar.
“HECTOR AND HEIRON!!”
The entire hall thundered as countless goblets were raised in unison, a chorus of admiration and gratitude washing over the two warriors.
Seated among them was Heiron, dressed in formal Trojan attire, his usual battlefield presence replaced with an air of regal composure. Beside him sat Hector, his ever-loyal companion, along with two formidable women—Atalanta and Penthesilea, the latter now fully recovered from her wounds.
Penthesilea had been utterly shocked upon waking to discover Heiron alive.
The moment she had regained consciousness, she had nearly tackled him, filled with an overwhelming mix of relief and desire. If not for Nathan stepping in to calm her down, the situation might have escalated further and they would have fucked in public. Since that moment, she had barely left his side, relentlessly questioning everyone about what had transpired on the final day of battle.
Yet no matter how many answers she received, she remained disappointed.
She had wanted to witness the climax of the war herself, to stand at Heiron’s side as history was written. But despite her frustration, she made up for it in the only way she knew—by drinking and celebrating as fiercely as she fought.
She laughed boisterously, downing cup after cup of wine, her wild energy drawing others into her revelry. At one point, she attempted to pull Atalanta into her drinking spree, grinning mischievously as she tried to pass her a full goblet.
Atalanta, however, wanted no part in it.
The huntress skillfully evaded Penthesilea, darting behind Nathan in an attempt to escape. “I’d rather not get drunk,” she muttered, her expression slightly awkward as she peeked over his shoulder.
Penthesilea merely smirked before turning back to her Amazonian sisters, raising yet another cup to the heavens.
Hector, watching the spectacle unfold, chuckled heartily before standing and lifting his own goblet high.
“I believe we should have a personal cheer for Heiron—the greatest hero of the Trojan War!”
Another wave of cheers erupted through the hall, even louder than before. Goblets clashed, wine spilled, and voices rang out in unanimous praise.
Nathan simply smiled at their enthusiasm. Compliments were not something he was used to receiving so openly, so sincerely. And yet, for once, he allowed himself to enjoy them. It was… pleasing.
Beside him, Atalanta leaned in slightly, her sharp eyes glancing toward him with mild concern. “Have you recovered from your injury?”
Nathan let out a small laugh, his fingers brushing the spot where Paris had stabbed him in the back.
“That? It was nothing.”
Indeed, the wound had long since healed, a mere afterthought compared to all he had endured.
Atalanta’s expression remained unimpressed as she watched Nathan dismiss his injuries with a smirk and a laugh. It wasn’t the first time he had shrugged off wounds like they were nothing, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.
Nathan, noticing her concern, let amusement flicker in his golden eyes. Without hesitation, he reached out, his fingers gently brushing against the curve of her slender waist. His touch was teasing, deliberate.
“If you’re that worried,” he murmured, leaning in slightly, “you can check for yourself later.”
A soft flush crept onto Atalanta’s face as she quickly slipped out of his grasp, her movements graceful yet hurried. She cast a nervous glance around, her voice hushed but urgent.
“Artemis might be watching us,” she whispered in a panic.
Nathan merely chuckled, swirling the wine in his cup before taking a slow sip. “Artemis, yeah…” he muttered, his tone thoughtful yet indifferent.
Hera. Athena. And now Artemis.
His list of goddesses to deal with was only growing longer.
But unlike the other two, Artemis was a unique problem. She had always been fiercely protective of her ‘daughters,’ especially Atalanta. If she ever found out what had happened between them, the consequences would be… troublesome.
Nathan exhaled, tilting his head back slightly. He would have to do something about Artemis eventually—not just for his own sake, but for Atalanta’s. He had no intention of hiding their relationship forever, and she deserved the freedom to stop worrying, to stop glancing over her shoulder every time she was with him.
Unfortunately, it seemed that moment wouldn’t come soon.
“I’m leaving today,” Atalanta announced suddenly.
Nathan’s gaze snapped toward her. “Already?”
She nodded, crossing her arms as if to steady herself. “Artemis has called all of her daughters back.” There was disappointment in her voice, a reluctance she didn’t bother to hide.
Nathan frowned. He had expected this, but not so soon. “Are you safe?” he asked, his voice lowering. His greatest concern wasn’t just that she was leaving—it was Artemis discovering the truth.
Atalanta sighed but offered him a small reassuring smile. “Aphrodite gave me something to conceal it. It should be fine.”
Nathan relaxed slightly, though his gratitude toward Aphrodite only deepened.
She had done more for him than she likely realized. After his death, she had been the one to prevent disaster—keeping Charybdis, Scylla, and Medea from unleashing a massacre upon Troy. Instead of letting them descend into grief-driven destruction, she had promised them that he would return. And they had believed her.
He owed her.
And once he left Troy, he would have to face them. Charybdis. Scylla. Medea. They were waiting for him back in Tenebria, expecting his return.
His time in Troy was nearing its end.
There was nothing left for him to do here. He had accomplished his goals, fulfilled his purpose.
All that remained was for him to take a breath—to let himself rest for a little while longer in the city that had welcomed him as its hero.
But soon, he would resume his role as Lord Commander of Tenebria.
And soon, his plan against the Light Empire would resume.