Heir of Troy: The Third Son

The summons came from Ampelos at the seventh hour, but Lysander had been expecting it for days.

The message was brief—a single strip of leather, sealed with the diplomat’s personal mark. The Argolid king is ready to meet. He will speak only to you. Come before the moon is full.

Lysander read it twice, then burned it in the lamp’s flame. The ashes drifted into the clay dish and were gone.

He went to find Hector.

The war room was empty except for the maps and the cold braziers. Hector was at the window, looking out at the harbour. He turned when Lysander entered, and something in his face said he already knew what this conversation would be.

"Ampelos received word from the Argolid," Lysander said. "Diomedes wants to meet. He’ll only speak to me."

"Alone."

"Yes."

Hector was quiet for a moment. "It could be a trap. Agamemnon’s reach is long. If someone in Argos has been turned—"

"Ampelos’s contact has been reliable. Diomedes has been asking questions for months. If he’s ready to meet, it means he’s ready to break."

"Or ready to deliver you to Mycenae." Hector shook his head. "I don’t like it."

"Neither do I. But if we can pry one of the minor kings away from Agamemnon’s coalition—if we can show the others that resistance is possible—it changes everything. The coalition fractures. Agamemnon’s grip weakens. We gain time."

"We also risk losing you."

"I’ll be careful. I’ll take a small escort. I’ll be back before anyone knows I’m gone."

"And if something goes wrong."

"Then you’ll know within the week. And you’ll continue without me." Lysander met his brother’s eyes. "The city is prepared. The fire ships are ready. The militia has taken their oath. If I don’t come back, nothing changes. The walls still hold. The plans still work."

Hector was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded. "How long."

"A week. Maybe two. The meeting is in a neutral port, two days’ sail from here. I’ll leave tonight."

"Who else knows."

"Ampelos. Arsini. You. No one else." Lysander paused. "While I’m gone, Arsini will speak for me in the council. She knows the supply numbers. She knows the settlement. The nobles will try to push through something while I’m away. She’ll hold them."

"Arsini. She’s not a councillor. They won’t accept her."

"They don’t have to accept her. They just have to listen to her." Lysander almost smiled. "She can be very persuasive."

Hector looked at him. "You’ve thought of everything."

"I’ve tried."

Arsini was in the supply office, reviewing the grain allocation reports, when Lysander found her. She looked up as he entered, and something in his face made her set her stylus down.

"You’re leaving," she said.

"Tonight. The Argolid king wants to meet."

"How long."

"A week. Maybe two."

She nodded slowly. She did not ask if it was dangerous. She did not ask if he would come back. She simply said: "What do you need from me."

"The council. While I’m gone, someone needs to speak for the supply office, for the settlement, for everything we’ve been building. The nobles will try to use my absence to push through something—budget cuts, restrictions on the militia, rollbacks on the refugee provisions. You know the numbers better than anyone. You know the arguments. I need you to be my voice."

"I’m not a councillor. I’m a soldier’s daughter who reads too much."

"You’re the person who built seven schools from nothing. You’re the person who organized the knowledge catalogue. You’re the person who has been running the settlement’s supply chain for a year. You have more right to speak in that chamber than half the men who sit there."

She looked at him, her dark eyes steady. "You trust me with this."

"I trust you with everything."

The words hung in the air between them. Neither of them looked away.

"When you come back," she said, "we should talk. About the lamp refills. About the training repetitions. About whatever this is between us."

"I know."

"Good." She picked up her stylus. "Now go. The sooner you leave, the sooner you come back."

He turned to go. At the door, he paused.

"Arsini. If I don’t come back—"

"You will."

"If I don’t. The map. The one I drew. Everything I built—it’s not finished. But it’s enough. It’s enough for you to continue without me."

She stood and crossed the room to him. She did not touch him. She just stood close enough that he could feel the warmth of her, the steady presence of her.

"I’ve been counting your lamp refills for two years. I’ve been watching you wear yourself down, night after night, trying to hold this city together. And I’ve never seen you fail. Not once. Not against the black ships. Not against the plague. Not against the council. You’re not going to fail now."

He looked at her. "How do you know."

"Because you’re too stubborn to die." She almost smiled. "Now go. I’ll hold the council."

He left the supply office and walked through the quiet palace corridors. The winter night was settling in, the torches being lit, the guards changing shifts. Somewhere in the royal chambers, his father was sleeping, his mother beside him. Somewhere in the barracks, Hector was preparing for another long night of command. Somewhere in the west, Paris was sailing toward freedom with the woman he loved.

And somewhere on the sea, a ship was waiting to carry him to a meeting that might change everything.

The ship left at midnight—a small, fast galley, stripped of anything that might mark it as Trojan. Ampelos had arranged everything: the crew, the route, the safe harbour where Diomedes’s representative would meet them. Lysander stood at the stern as the lights of Troy faded behind him, the harbour barrier pilings shrinking to dark lines against the water.

He did not know if he would come back. He had told Hector and Arsini that he would, and he had meant it. But war was not a calculation. Preparation was not prophecy. He had done everything he could to make sure the city would survive without him. The fire ships. The militia. The supply caches. The map of connections that would hold whether he was there or not.

Whatever happened now, the city would endure.

He turned from the stern and looked ahead, toward the dark sea and the distant shore where a king was waiting to decide whether to break with Agamemnon. The wind was cold, and the stars were sharp, and the ship cut through the water with the steady rhythm of oars.

Behind him, Troy was sleeping. Before him, the unknown.

He was ready.

Troy – The Next Morning

The council chamber was cold despite the braziers. The councillors sat in their usual seats, their robes arranged, their faces composed. Akastos was at the centre, his hands folded on the table, his expression one of mild concern.

Hector sat at the head of the table, Priam’s chair empty beside him. He had been in the war room since dawn, and the weight of command was visible in the set of his shoulders.

"Prince Lysander is absent," Akastos said. His voice was smooth, carefully neutral. "We were not informed of his departure."

"His mission is a matter of state," Hector said. "He will return within the week."

"Of course. But in his absence, the supply office has no representation. The refugee provisions, the militia funding, the allocation of resources—these matters cannot wait for his return."

"They will wait."

"With respect, Prince Hector, they cannot. The settlement consumes more grain every month. The militia requires weapons and training grounds. The fire ships have drained our bronze reserves. These are urgent matters. Someone must speak for the supply office."

"Someone will." Hector nodded toward the door. "Let her in."

The guard opened the door, and Arsini entered the council chamber.

She was not wearing the robes of a councillor. She had no title, no position, no official standing. She carried only her tablet and her stylus and the quiet, unshakeable confidence of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.

The councillors stared. Akastos’s expression flickered—surprise, quickly masked by disdain.

"This is highly irregular," he said. "A woman. In the council chamber. With no official standing."

"The supply office is under my supervision," Arsini said. She did not raise her voice. She did not need to. "I have the supply figures. I have the settlement reports. I have the authority of Prince Lysander to speak on his behalf. If the council wishes to discuss the refugee provisions or the militia funding, I am prepared to do so."

"Prepared." Akastos’s voice dripped with contempt. "By what right does a soldier’s daughter—"

"By the right of competence," Hector said. His voice was flat, final. "She knows the numbers. She knows the arguments. She has been running the settlement’s supply chain for a year. If anyone in this room has a better claim to speak for the supply office, let them stand."

No one stood.

Akastos’s jaw tightened. "This is an insult to the council. A woman has no place—"

"A woman has been feeding this city for a year," Arsini said. She met his eyes without flinching. "A woman has been organizing the schools, managing the settlement, and making sure the supplies reach the people who need them. I am not here to debate my place. I am here to discuss the grain allocation. If Councillor Akastos has nothing to contribute to that discussion, he is welcome to remain silent."

The room was very quiet. One of the younger councillors—a man named Phaedrus, who had supported Lysander’s reforms in the past—made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh.

Akastos’s face went red. But he said nothing.

Hector allowed the faintest trace of satisfaction to cross his features. "The supply office is represented. The council will proceed."

Arsini took a seat at the far end of the table, her tablet open, her stylus ready. She did not look at Akastos again. She did not need to.

The meeting continued. The grain allocation was discussed. The settlement provisions were reviewed. The militia funding was approved. Arsini spoke when the numbers required it, and her voice was steady and precise, and no one interrupted her again.

When the meeting adjourned, Akastos was the first to leave, his robes swirling, his face like thunder. The other councillors filed out more slowly, some of them glancing at Arsini with expressions that ranged from curiosity to grudging respect.

Hector remained at the table as the room emptied. Arsini gathered her tablets and stood to leave.

"You handled him well," Hector said.

"He’s a bully. Bullies don’t know what to do when you refuse to be afraid of them."

"He’ll try again. He’s been waiting for an opportunity like this. Lysander’s absence, the council’s uncertainty—he’ll try to push through something else before your authority is established."

"Then I’ll be ready." She paused at the door. "Lysander told me that the map he drew—the connections, the people—was what would survive. Whatever happens. I intend to make sure he’s right."

Hector nodded. "So do I."

She left the chamber and walked through the palace corridors, her tablet under her arm. She did not feel triumphant. She did not feel victorious. She felt tired, and steady, and certain.

She had told Lysander she would hold the council. And she had held it.

The rest could wait until he came back.