Heir of Troy: The Third Son

The morning came grey and cold, and Lysander was not there.

Arsini went to the supply office at first light, as she always did, her tablet under her arm and a dozen tasks already arranged in her mind. The door was open. The lamp was cold. The tablets on the desk were exactly where Lysander had left them the night before—grain reports, patrol schedules, a half-finished note about the harbour defences. Everything was in its place.

Except him.

She stood in the doorway, a small knot of unease forming in her chest. It was not unusual for Lysander to be gone early—he often walked the walls at dawn, or stood on the tower counting ships. But he always left word. A note. A message with a servant. Something.

There was nothing.

She set her tablet down and went looking.

She found Hecuba in the corridor outside Priam’s chambers, standing with her walking stick planted before her like a spear. The queen was dressed in her usual dark robes, her grey hair bound back, her face unreadable. But Arsini had learned to read the smallest signs. There was a tension around Hecuba’s mouth, a weariness in her eyes.

"Queen Hecuba," Arsini said. "I’m looking for Lysander."

"He’s gone." Hecuba’s voice was flat, final. "His father sent him on a mission. He left last night."

Arsini stared at her. "A mission. What kind of mission."

"I don’t know. Priam didn’t tell me." Hecuba paused. "He told me enough. He told me not to ask more."

"And you accepted that."

"I had no choice." Hecuba’s dark eyes met hers. "Priam is dying. When a dying king sends his son on a secret mission in the middle of the night, you don’t ask questions. You trust. You wait."

"How long."

"I don’t know. A week. Perhaps more."

"A week." Arsini’s voice was quiet. "The Greek fleet could sail any day. The Sea Peoples are massing. The council is nervous. And you’re telling me our best strategist left in the middle of the night on a mission no one can explain."

"That is exactly what I’m telling you." Hecuba shifted her grip on the stick. "Now. You’re the one who knows the supply office better than anyone except Lysander. You’ll take over his duties while he’s gone. I’ll inform the council this morning."

Arsini felt the weight of it settling onto her shoulders—the same weight Lysander had carried for two years. "And when they ask questions."

"Then I’ll answer them. Or Priam will. That is not your concern." Hecuba turned toward the royal chambers, then paused. "Arsini. He’ll come back. He always comes back. My son is many things, but he is not a man who leaves without returning."

"I know."

"Good. Then hold the city together while he’s gone. That’s what he would want."

She disappeared into the shadows of the corridor. Arsini stood alone for a moment, then turned and walked toward the supply office. The knot in her chest had not loosened.

The council met at midday, and the questions came quickly.

"Where is Prince Lysander." Phaedrus’s voice was sharp, suspicious. He had been nervous since the priest’s execution, watching for any sign of weakness in the royal house. "He was expected at the supply review this morning. The harbour master says he hasn’t been seen since yesterday evening."

"Prince Lysander has been sent on a mission by the king," Hecuba said. She sat beside Priam’s empty chair—the king was too weak to attend, but his presence was felt in every silence. "He will return within the week."

"A mission. What kind of mission."

"A matter of state. I’m not at liberty to discuss it."

Phaedrus’s eyes narrowed. "The council has a right to know when the city’s chief strategist disappears in the middle of a war. His absence affects everything—the supply lines, the defensive preparations, the coordination with our allies. If something has happened to him—"

"Nothing has happened to him." Hecuba’s voice cut through the chamber like a blade. "He is on the king’s business. When he returns, you will be informed. Until then, his duties will be handled by Arsini, who knows the supply office better than anyone except Lysander himself. Do you have an objection to that, Councillor Phaedrus."

Phaedrus opened his mouth, then closed it. He had learned to read the queen’s moods. This was not a mood to be tested.

"The council will proceed," Hector said from the head of the table. His voice was flat, tired. He had been on the walls since dawn. "We have a war to prepare for. Lysander’s absence changes nothing."

But it changed everything, and everyone in the room knew it.

Paris was on the eastern wall, the bow in his hand, the cold wind blowing from the sea. He had been training for hours, his arms trembling from the strain. But he did not stop. He could not stop.

"Stop thinking of the target as a soldier," Antenor said without looking at him. "Think of it as a deer. A wolf. Something a hunter tracks in the wild. A soldier thinks of shield and spear. A hunter thinks of the vulnerable point."

Paris drew. Released. The arrow struck the center of the target.

"Better," Antenor said. "But still too slow. The Greeks will not stand still waiting for you. They will move. The range will change. The wind will shift. You must learn to release quickly without losing accuracy."

"How long will that take."

"Years. But you have weeks. So we work on what can be fixed." Antenor gestured at the bow. "Again."

Paris drew again. Released. The target shuddered.

"What about Achilles," Paris asked suddenly.

Antenor paused. He looked at Paris with the eyes of an old hunter. "What about him."

"Can arrows stop him."

Antenor was silent for a moment. "I’ve heard he’s faster than any living man. He sees the movement before you see it yourself. An arrow takes a heartbeat to reach its target. In that heartbeat, Achilles has already moved." He paused. "But we will try. Every archer on this wall will try. Because if he gets close to the walls, arrows are all we have between him and death."

"And if arrows fail."

Antenor looked at the sea. "Then we have a very big problem."

Helen was in the supply office, the tablets spread before her in neat rows. Arsini entered, her face drawn with worry.

"Lysander is gone," Arsini said. "On a mission by the king."

"Gone." Helen set down her stylus. "Where."

"I don’t know. No one was told. Royal commands are not explained. The king said he is on a mission. That’s all we know."

"When will he return."

"Within a week. Maybe more." Arsini sat heavily in the chair across from her. "I’m now responsible for the supply office. For the council. For coordination with our allies. I don’t know how he did it for two years."

"He did it because he had to. Same as you." Helen reached across the table and touched Arsini’s hand. "You are not alone. I’m here. I know the numbers. I know the systems. Let me help."

Arsini looked at her. In the pale light, Helen’s face was tired but steady. The woman who had arrived as a frightened queen, a prize, a symbol of war—she had become something else. Something useful. Something real.

"You’re already helping," Arsini said. "More than you know."

"Good. Then let’s get to work. The inventory won’t count itself."

Helen picked up her stylus and returned to the numbers. She did not ask more. She did not need to. She had a task, and she performed it. That was enough.

Later, Fylon found Arsini alone.

He had waited until Helen left the office to fetch water, and now he stood in the doorway, his face grim. Arsini looked up, and the knot in her chest tightened further.

"The mole is still active," Fylon said. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. "I intercepted a message this morning. It was going out on a fishing boat headed west. Mycenaean code. Same cipher as the others."

"What did it say."

"Troop positions. Patrol rotations. The placement of the cauldrons on the northern wall." Fylon paused. "The person who wrote this knows things that only the war council should know."

Arsini felt the blood drain from her face. "Who else knows the defensive plan."

"Hector. Miros. Daidalos. The patrol commanders. Me. You." Fylon met her eyes. "And whoever wrote this message."

"It can’t be any of us."

"I know. But it is. The information is too specific, too current. The mole is someone in the inner circle. Someone we trust." Fylon moved toward the door. "I’m telling you because you need to be careful. Watch what you say. Watch who you say it to. The mole could be anyone."

He left. Arsini sat alone in the office, staring at the tablets without seeing them. Someone in the inner circle. Someone she trusted. Someone who had been feeding information to the Greeks for months.

She did not know who. But she would find out.

Cassandra stood at the window at the end of the west corridor, looking at the sea. The sun was setting, painting the water in shades of gold and grey. She had been standing there for hours, her bare feet cold on the stone, her dark hair loose around her shoulders.

Arsini found her there as the last light faded from the sky. She did not speak. She just stood beside the prophetess and looked at the water.

"The thread," Cassandra said. "In the west. It’s pulled tighter than ever. The fleet will sail soon. Days. Maybe less."

"I know. Ampelos said the same thing."

"That’s not what I meant." Cassandra turned to look at her. "There’s another thread. A different thread. It runs under the earth, not over the sea. It’s pulled taut, like a bowstring. It’s waiting for something. Someone."

Arsini stared at her. "Lysander."

"Yes. He’s on the path now. He’s walking toward something that has been waiting for him since before the walls were built. Since before the first kings of Troy. Something that will change everything." Cassandra paused. "I can’t see what it is. I can only feel the weight of it. The importance. Whatever he finds at the end of that path, it will change the way he sees the world. And it will change the way the world sees him."

"Will he come back."

Cassandra was silent for a long moment. Then she said, "He will come back. But he will not be the same. The path under the earth will test him. It will break him and rebuild him. And when he returns—if he returns—he will know things that no one else in this city knows."

She turned back to the window, her dark eyes fixed on something beyond the horizon. The last light faded from the sky, and the stars began to come out, cold and sharp and indifferent.

"The road under the earth," she said quietly. "It leads back to the beginning."

She did not speak again. Arsini stood beside her until the cold became too much, then turned and walked back toward the supply office. Behind her, Cassandra remained at the window, watching the stars, feeling the thread that ran beneath the earth—the thread that was pulling Lysander toward whatever waited for him in the dark.

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