Heir of Troy: The Third Son

Hecuba was half-asleep in the chair beside Priam’s bed when she heard him shift. She had learned to wake at the smallest sound from him—a cough, a sigh, the rustle of blankets. Forty years of marriage had trained her body to be alert to him, even when her mind was fogged with exhaustion.

"Priam." She straightened, reaching for his hand. "What is it. Are you in pain. Do you need Antiphus."

"No. I need you to do something for me." His voice was steady—steadier than it had been in weeks. That steadiness worried her more than pain would have. "In the alcove. Behind the tapestry. There’s a loose stone in the floor. Lift it."

Hecuba stared at him. "What stone. What are you talking about."

"The stone in the alcove floor. Loose. Lift it. There’s a compartment beneath. Bring me what you find there."

Hecuba rose slowly, her joints aching. She had not slept more than a few hours in weeks. The weight of Priam’s illness, the war, the city—all of it pressed on her like a physical burden. But she had been a queen for forty years. She knew how to carry weight.

She found the loose stone exactly where he said it would be. She lifted it, grunting with the effort, and set it aside. Beneath it, in a hollow carved from the living rock, was a small wooden chest, bound with bronze and sealed with wax. The wax was old, cracked, grey with age.

She carried the chest to the bed and set it on the floor beside her chair. Priam fumbled at his neck, drew out a thin leather cord, and pressed a small iron key into her palm.

"Open it."

She broke the seal and unlocked the chest. Inside, wrapped in oiled cloth, was a square of leather, folded many times. It was old—older than anything she had ever seen in the palace archives. The edges were worn soft, the surface covered in the cramped, spidery handwriting of someone long dead.

She lifted it out and held it toward Priam. "What is this."

He took it from her, his trembling fingers closing around the leather. "This is the record of a path beneath the palace. Older than the walls. Older than the citadel. My father showed it to me when I was young. His father showed it to him." He paused, his eyes meeting hers. "I am going to give it to Lysander."

Hecuba went still. "Lysander."

"He is the only one. Not Hector. Not Paris. Lysander." Priam’s voice was firm, the voice of the king he had been before the collapse. "You know why. You’ve known since the day you came back from the springs. You’ve known he is different. You’ve known he sees things the others do not."

"I know he is my son."

"Yes. He is your son. And he is also something else. Something I do not understand and do not need to understand. What matters is that he is the one who should carry this knowledge." Priam set the folded leather aside and gripped her hand. "Now I need you to prepare provisions. A week’s worth. Dried meat. Hard bread. A waterskin. Pack them in a bag he can carry over his shoulder. Then go to him. Give him the provisions. Tell him his father wants to see him. Tell him to bring the bag with him."

Hecuba stared at him. "A week’s provisions. You’re sending him somewhere."

"I’m sending him on a journey. A journey only he can make." Priam leaned back against the cushions, exhausted by the effort of so much speech. "I should have told you sooner. I should have told you everything. But I was afraid. Afraid of what it meant. Afraid of what he would find. Now there is no more time for fear. The fleet is coming. The city may fall. And he is the only one who might understand what lies at the end of the path."

"What lies at the end of the path."

"I do not know. I have never known. I only know that it has been waiting for him. For someone like him. For a very long time." Priam closed his eyes. "Now go. Prepare the provisions. Give them to him. Bring him to me. And do not ask me to explain more than I have. I have already said too much."

Hecuba stood slowly. She looked at her husband—the gaunt face, the trembling hands, the tired eyes that had once been so fierce. She had loved this man for forty years. She had buried children beside him, ruled a city beside him, fought wars and plagues and the slow erosion of age beside him. And now he was sending their son into a darkness he would not explain, carrying a burden he could not describe.

She did not argue. She had learned long ago that Priam did what he did for reasons that often only became clear later. She bent and kissed his forehead.

"I will do as you ask."

She left the chamber, the door closing softly behind her.

The provisions did not take long to prepare.

Hecuba went to the palace stores herself, moving through the dark corridors with the ease of a woman who had walked these halls for decades. The night servants watched her pass but did not speak. They had learned long ago not to question the queen when she moved with purpose.

She filled a leather bag with dried meat and hard bread, a small wheel of cheese, a bundle of dried figs. She added a waterskin, newly filled from the palace well. She checked the straps, tested the weight, and decided it would do. A week’s provisions, as Priam had asked. Enough to keep a man alive on a hard road.

Then she went to find Lysander.

He was in the supply office, hunched over his tablets, the lamp burning low. He looked up when she entered, and something in his face shifted—concern, quickly masked. "Mother. What’s wrong."

"Nothing is wrong. Your father wants to see you." She set the leather bag on his desk. "He asked me to prepare this for you. Bring it with you."

Lysander looked at the bag, then at her. "Provisions. A week’s worth. Why."

"I don’t know. He wouldn’t explain." She met his eyes. "He said it was for a journey. A journey only you can make. He said there is no more time for fear." She paused. "Whatever this is, it frightened him. And I have not seen your father frightened in forty years."

Lysander stood, but he didn’t move toward the door. He studied her face—the lines around her eyes, the tension in her jaw. She had aged years in the past months. They all had. But Hecuba had been carrying more than most. The weight of a dying husband. The weight of a city under siege. The weight of sons who might not survive the coming war.

"How is he," Lysander asked. "Father. How is he really."

Hecuba was quiet for a moment. "He’s dying. We both know it. Antiphus won’t say it, but I see it in his eyes. I’ve been watching that man die for months, and I can’t stop it. No one can." She paused. "And now he’s sending you on a journey he won’t explain, and I’m terrified. Terrified for him. Terrified for you. Terrified for all of us."

Lysander stepped toward her. "Mother—"

"Don’t." She held up a hand. "I don’t need comfort. I need you to do what your father asks. Whatever it is. I need you to come back. And I need you to know that whatever happens—whatever you find—you are my son. That doesn’t change. It has never changed. Even when I didn’t understand you. Even when I was afraid of you." She met his eyes. "You are my son."

Lysander didn’t speak for a long moment. Then he said, "I’ll come back. I swear it."

"I know you will. You always do." She reached out and touched his face, her fingers cool against his skin. "Now go. Before I change my mind and throw that bag into the sea."

He almost smiled. "You wouldn’t."

"Probably not. But the sea is tempting." She turned toward the door. "Go. He’s waiting."

Lysander gathered the bag and walked through the dark corridors toward the royal chambers. The palace was silent, the guards little more than shadows at their posts. The bag was heavy on his shoulder—not just the weight of the provisions, but the weight of what they represented. Secrets. Burdens. The accumulated weight of a dynasty that had been keeping things hidden for generations.

When he reached the royal chambers, Priam was sitting up in bed, propped against his cushions. His face was gaunt, his hands trembling, but there was a clarity in his eyes that Lysander had not seen in months. A purpose.

"Close the door," Priam said. "And help me up. There is something I need to show you."

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