Heir of Troy: The Third Son

The corridors of the palace were quieter than usual the morning after the attack. Not the quiet of peace—the quiet of a household holding its breath. Servants moved with their heads down. Guards stood a little straighter at their posts. The blood had been scrubbed from the stones where the acolyte had fallen, but the memory of it lingered like a stain that wouldn’t lift.

Paris woke to the smell of herbs and vinegar. Antiphus had come before dawn to change his bandages, his hands quick and impersonal, his expression unreadable. The wound in Paris’s side was healing cleanly, he said. No infection. No fever. He would have a scar, but he would live. Miros had not been so lucky. The knife had cut deep, severing tendons that would take months to mend, if they ever did. Antiphus had done what he could. The rest was up to the body.

"Can he fight again," Paris had asked.

Antiphus had paused in the doorway. "With his right arm? No. Not the way he used to." He had left without saying anything more.

Paris lay in the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling. Helen was already at the supply office, despite his protests. She had kissed his forehead and told him she would be back by midday. She had not mentioned the letter or the acolyte or the priest. She had simply gone to work, because that was what she did now.

He was still lying there when Lysander entered.

"You look terrible," Lysander said.

"I was stabbed."

"That was two days ago. You should be up by now." Lysander sat in the chair beside the bed. "The council is meeting this afternoon. They want to discuss the attack. Some of them are saying the priest should be arrested immediately, proof or no proof. Others are saying we’ve provoked him by harbouring Helen and the refugees. Phaedrus is leading that faction. He’s been gathering support since the day you arrived."

"What does Father say."

"Father says the law is clear. The priest is protected by his office until we have irrefutable evidence. He won’t violate the temple’s sanctuary on suspicion alone." Lysander paused. "He’s right. If we arrest the priest without proof, we make him a martyr. Half the city still listens to his sermons. The other half is too afraid to oppose him openly. We need to catch him in the act. We need witnesses. We need something the council can’t ignore."

"And in the meantime."

"In the meantime, we wait. And we watch." Lysander looked at the window, where the pale winter light was filtering through the shutters. "Fylon has a watcher in the temple. One of the serving women. She says the priest is being careful. No more secret meetings. No more sermons in the market. He’s staying in the sanctuary, praying, letting his followers do the talking for him."

"He’s waiting."

"Yes. For what, I don’t know. But he’s patient. More patient than Akastos was. More patient than any of the others." Lysander stood. "Get up. Walk around. Let people see you’re alive. The city needs to know the prince survived."

"And the priest."

"The priest already knows. Fylon’s watcher says he was in the sanctuary all night. Praying. Fasting. Waiting for news. When the acolyte didn’t return, he knew what had happened." Lysander walked to the door. "He’s not going to stop. You know that."

"Yes. I know."

The council chamber was packed when Paris entered. He had insisted on attending, despite Antiphus’s protests and Helen’s silence. The wound in his side pulled with every step, but he walked to his place at the table without assistance. He would not let them see him weak.

Hector was already there, his arms crossed, his face hard. Lysander stood near the window, as he always did, watching the room. Hecuba sat beside Priam’s empty chair—the king was still too weak to attend—her walking stick propped against the armrest, her dark eyes moving over the councillors like a hawk surveying a field.

Phaedrus rose first. The old councillor’s face was troubled, his voice careful. "Prince Paris, we are relieved to see you alive. The attack on your person is an outrage. The perpetrator has paid for his crime with his life. But the question remains: who sent him."

"The acolyte wore temple robes," Hector said. "He carried poison identical to the poison used in the attempt on my father’s life. He spoke the same words the priest has been preaching from the pulpit for weeks. The goddess demands blood."

"Words are not proof. The priest has many followers. Any one of them could have acted alone."

"Three assassins in as many months. All of them from the temple. All of them carrying the same poison. All of them speaking the same words. That is not coincidence. That is a pattern."

Phaedrus spread his hands. "A pattern is not proof either. The law protects the temple. The priest cannot be arrested on suspicion alone. You know this, Prince Hector."

"I know the law. I also know that the law was written to protect the innocent, not to shield the guilty. The priest is using the temple as a fortress. He sends young men to die while he remains safe behind his altar. That is not justice. That is cowardice."

A murmur moved through the room. Some of the councillors nodded. Others looked away.

Hecuba spoke for the first time. Her voice was low, but it cut through the murmuring like a blade. "The priest will answer for what he has done. But he will answer to the law, not to our anger. If we arrest him without proof, we make him stronger. We prove his story true—that the royal house fears the goddess. That we are tyrants who silence the faithful. We must be patient. We must gather evidence. And we must not tear ourselves apart while Agamemnon’s fleet is gathering in the west."

Phaedrus inclined his head. "As the queen says."

Hecuba looked at him, and her expression made it clear that she had not been seeking his approval. "The council will continue to investigate. The guard will be increased around the royal family. The temple will be watched, but not violated. If the priest moves again, we will catch him. And when we do, he will face the full weight of the law."

The councillors nodded, some with reluctance, some with relief. The meeting continued—supply numbers, patrol reports, the endless logistics of preparing for a siege. Paris listened without speaking. His side ached. His mind kept returning to the corridor, the knife, the acolyte’s hollow eyes. The goddess demands blood.

He had been a symbol before. A prince. A charmer. A fool. But he had never been a target. Not like this.

The garden was cold and empty when Andromache found Hector there. He was standing beneath the bare fig tree, his hands clasped behind his back, looking at the harbour where the fishing boats were coming in with the afternoon catch.

"You should be resting," she said.

"I can’t rest. Every time I close my eyes, I see Paris on the floor. I see Miros bleeding. I see the acolyte’s face." He turned to look at her. "I’ve been a soldier my whole life. I’ve killed men. I’ve watched men die. But I’ve never watched someone try to murder my brother in my own palace."

"You stopped the assassin who went after your father. You were there."

"I was there. But I didn’t stop him. Mother did. I was too slow. I was—" He stopped. "I’m always too slow when it comes to the people I love."

Andromache walked to him and took his hands. "You’re not too slow. You’re carrying too much. The walls. The patrols. The council. The war. You’ve been carrying it for years, and you’ve never once put it down. That’s not slowness. That’s exhaustion."

"I don’t have the luxury of exhaustion."

"Yes, you do. Right now. For five minutes. Let me carry it for you."

He looked at her—at her steady grey-green eyes, her calm face, the hands that held his without trembling. "You’re pregnant."

"Yes."

"Our child."

"Yes." She squeezed his hands. "Our child. Who will need a father. Who will need you to come home from the war. Who will need you to rest, sometimes, so you can keep fighting."

He pulled her into his arms and held her. The wind stirred the bare branches of the fig tree. The fishing boats were coming in. The city was quiet. Somewhere in the west, a fleet was gathering. Somewhere in the temple, a priest was praying for blood. But here, in this garden, there was only the two of them, and the quiet, and the promise that whatever came next, they would face it together.

The Temple of Athena – Night

The High Priest knelt before the altar, the flame casting his shadow across the sanctuary walls. He had been kneeling for hours, his knees aching, his throat dry. He had not eaten since the morning the acolyte had failed to return. He had not spoken except to pray.

Behind him, the temple was empty. His followers had been warned to stay away. The palace guards were watching the entrances. Fylon’s spies were everywhere—he could feel them, even if he couldn’t see them. The prince who did not pray was closing his net.

But the goddess was patient. She had waited centuries for this city to return to her. She could wait a little longer.

The priest rose, his joints cracking. He walked to the small chamber behind the sanctuary where his personal correspondence was kept. The letters from Akastos, from the merchants, from the councillors who had secretly supported him, were all burned now. The evidence was ash. The acolyte who had carried his messages was dead. The net was closing, but it had not yet found its target.

He knelt again, this time before a small chest beneath his writing table. Inside, wrapped in linen, was a knife. Not the crude blade of an acolyte—a ceremonial dagger, its hilt inlaid with lapis lazuli, its edge honed to a razor’s sharpness. It had been blessed in the sacred flame. It had been anointed with oil and prayer. It was meant for a single purpose.

The priest did not touch it. Not yet. The time was not right. The prince who did not pray was protected now, surrounded by guards, watched by spies. But the woman—the Spartan queen who had brought the war to Troy’s gates—was not so well guarded. She walked the corridors of the palace unprotected. She worked in the supply office, surrounded by tablets and grain sacks and the false security of her usefulness.

The priest closed the chest and rose. He would wait. He would pray. And when the time was right, the goddess would have her blood.

Not Paris. Not yet. The woman first.

The priest walked back to the altar and knelt before the flame. His lips moved in silent prayer. The shadows danced on the walls. Outside, the city was sleeping, unaware that the goddess was still hungry.