Heir of Troy: The Third Son

The assassin came in the hour before dawn, when the palace was at its quietest and the guards were changing shifts.

Lysander was in the supply office, reviewing the latest grain reports, when he heard the scream. It was not a scream of fear or pain—it was the scream of someone who had seen something that should not be there. He was on his feet and running before the echo died.

The royal chambers were at the far end of the eastern corridor. By the time Lysander reached them, the corridor was already crowded with guards. Miros was there, his sword drawn, his face pale. Hecuba stood in the doorway, her walking stick gripped like a weapon, her dark eyes blazing with a fury that made the guards shrink back.

"Inside," she said. "He’s inside."

Lysander pushed through the guards and into the chamber.

Priam was alive. He was sitting up in his bed, his face grey with shock, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Antiphus was already there, his hands pressed against the king’s chest, checking his pulse, checking his pupils. But Priam wasn’t looking at the physician. He was looking at the floor beside his bed.

A man lay there. He was dressed in the robes of a temple acolyte—young, perhaps twenty, with the soft hands of someone who had never done physical labour. His face was peaceful, almost serene. A small clay vial lay beside his hand, its contents spilled across the stone floor. The smell of bitter almonds hung in the air.

"He came in through the window," Hecuba said. Her voice was steady, but there was something underneath it—a cold, controlled rage that was more frightening than any scream. "I was in the chair. I saw him climb through. He had a knife. He was reaching for Priam when I struck him with my stick. He fell. He looked at me. And then he drank from the vial."

"Poison," Antiphus said. "He knew what would happen if he was caught."

Lysander knelt beside the dead man. The acolyte’s robes were plain, unadorned, but there was something familiar about his face. He had seen this man before—in the temple, perhaps, or in the market. One of the High Priest’s assistants. One of the shadows that moved through the corridors of the temple, carrying messages and secrets.

"His name is Lykos," Fylon said from the doorway. He had arrived moments after Lysander, his breath still quick from running. "The acolyte I told you about. The one who handles the priest’s correspondence."

"He’s the leak."

"Yes. And now he’s dead." Fylon knelt beside the body, his face grim. "No interrogation. No confession. No proof connecting him to the priest."

"Except the robes. The temple seal. The fact that he tried to assassinate the king."

"The priest will say Lykos acted alone. A fanatic. A madman. He’ll deny everything." Fylon stood. "And without proof, we can’t touch him."

Lysander looked at the dead man on the floor. The peaceful face. The empty vial. The bitter smell of almonds. Lykos had been their best chance to trace the leak to its source. And now he was gone.

"The priest sent him," Hecuba said. "He knew we were closing in. He sent this boy to kill my husband and take the blame."

"I know," Lysander said. "But we can’t prove it."

"Then find proof. Find something. I don’t care how long it takes." She looked at him, and her eyes were hard as iron. "That man tried to murder my husband. He tried to murder your father. I want him to answer for it."

"He will," Lysander said. "I promise."

The council chamber was full when Lysander arrived, summoned by Hector’s urgent message. The councillors sat in their usual seats, but the atmosphere was different this morning. The assassination attempt had shaken everyone. Even the old men who had been serving on the council for decades looked pale and uncertain.

"An acolyte of the temple attempted to murder the king," Hector said. He was standing at the head of the table, his hands braced on the wood. "He was stopped by Queen Hecuba. He took poison before he could be questioned."

"What did he say before he died," one of the councillors asked. "Did he name anyone."

"He said nothing. But his robes were from the temple of Athena. He was an assistant to the High Priest."

A murmur moved through the room. Several councillors exchanged glances. One of them—a man named Phaedrus, who had been quietly supportive of Lysander’s reforms—spoke up.

"The High Priest has been preaching against the refugees for weeks. He’s been stirring up unrest in the market. And now his acolyte tries to kill the king."

"The priest will deny involvement," another councillor said. "He’ll say the acolyte acted alone."

"Of course he will. But the question remains—what do we do about it."

Hector looked at Lysander. "We have no proof that the priest ordered the assassination. We have suspicions. We have circumstances. But we can’t arrest a High Priest of Athena without proof. The temple is too powerful. The people would riot."

"So we do nothing," Hecuba said from her seat near the door. She had insisted on attending the council, despite her exhaustion. "The priest sends an assassin to kill my husband, and we do nothing."

"We don’t do nothing," Lysander said. "We investigate. We gather evidence. Fylon is already tracking the priest’s contacts. We know the leak came from the temple. It’s only a matter of time before we find the proof we need."

"And until then."

"Until then, we increase the guard on the royal chambers. No one enters without authorization. Priam is protected around the clock. And the priest—" Lysander paused. "The priest knows we’re watching him. He’ll be careful. But careful men make mistakes. When he does, we’ll be ready."

Hecuba looked at him for a long moment. Then she nodded slowly. "Find the proof. I don’t care how long it takes."

The council moved on to other business—patrol reports, supply numbers, the ongoing repairs to the harbour. But the shadow of the assassination attempt hung over everything. The High Priest had crossed a line. He had sent an assassin into the royal chambers. And even if they couldn’t prove it yet, everyone in that room knew the truth.

The Island – The Same Day

The winds had finally shifted.

Paris stood on the beach, watching the Kalliste rock gently in the shallows. Phaidon had worked a miracle with the scrub pine and the limited tools available—the keel was patched, the hull was sealed, and the ship was ready to sail. They would leave at dawn.

Behind him, the island was quiet. The crew were gathered around a small fire on the beach, sharing a meal of dried fish and hard bread. The sun was setting over the western hills, painting the sky in shades of gold and rose. It was almost peaceful. Almost beautiful. Almost enough to make him forget that somewhere beyond the horizon, a war was coming.

Helen came down from the rocks where she had been sitting, her dark cloak wrapped around her against the evening chill. She had recovered her strength in the days they had spent on the island—the colour was back in her cheeks, the steadiness back in her hands. She had even laughed once or twice, a sound that Paris had come to treasure like a rare gift.

"Tomorrow," she said, coming to stand beside him.

"Tomorrow. Dawn."

"We’re really going to make it."

"I told you we would."

"I know. But I didn’t always believe it." She looked at the sea. "I’ve been thinking. About what happens when we arrive. About your family. About the war."

"Don’t."

"Don’t what."

"Don’t think about the war. Not tonight. Tonight is for us. Tomorrow we can worry about everything else." He turned to face her. "We’ve been running for weeks. Chased by storms and pirates and the wrath of your husband. We’ve been hiding in cramped compartments and waiting on desolate islands. Tonight—just tonight—I want to pretend that we’re the only two people in the world."

She looked at him, and something in her face softened. "You’re a romantic."

"I’m a fool. There’s a difference."

"Not always." She reached up and touched his face. Her fingers were cold, but her touch was gentle. "Tonight, then. Just us. Just the sea. Just the stars."

He kissed her. It was not the desperate kiss of their first meeting in the temple, nor the urgent kiss of their escape from Sparta. It was something slower. Deeper. The kiss of two people who had survived storms and pirates and the weight of the world, and had finally found a moment of peace.

"Come with me," he said.

He led her away from the beach, up the rocky slope to where a cluster of wind-bent pines sheltered a small clearing. The ground was soft with pine needles, and the trees blocked the wind, and the stars were coming out overhead, sharp and bright and infinite. He spread his cloak on the ground, and they lay down together, their bodies finding each other in the gathering darkness.

There was no urgency now. No fear. No desperate hunger. Just the slow, steady rhythm of two people who had learned each other’s bodies and were still discovering new things. He traced the curve of her hip with his fingers. She gasped when he found the sensitive place at the base of her throat. The stars wheeled overhead, cold and indifferent, but the space between them was warm and alive.

Afterward, they lay tangled in each other’s arms, the cloak pulled over them against the cold. Her head rested on his chest. His fingers traced lazy patterns on her shoulder.

"When I was young," she said quietly, "I used to dream about the sea. I’d never seen it—Sparta is too far inland. But I’d heard stories. I imagined what it would be like to stand on the shore and watch the waves. To be free."

"You will be. Tomorrow, we sail for Troy. And when we arrive, you’ll stand on the tower and see the whole Aegean spread out before you. You’ll walk through the market and no one will watch you. No one will guard you. No one will tell you who to be."

She lifted her head and looked at him. "You make it sound like a dream."

"It’s not a dream. It’s a plan."

She smiled and kissed him. "I love you. I’ve never said that to anyone and meant it."

"I love you too."

"Tomorrow, then. Dawn."

"Tomorrow."

They lay together in the clearing, watching the stars. The wind stirred the pine branches. The sea whispered against the shore below. Somewhere in the palace in Troy, a king was recovering from an assassin’s blade, and a priest was spinning webs of fear, and a prince was standing on a tower, counting ships.

But here, on this island, there was only the two of them, and the quiet, and the promise that tomorrow, they would finally be home.