Heir of Troy: The Third Son

The galley limped into Troy’s harbour two days after the pirate attack, its hull scarred, its crew battered. Lysander was at the rail, one arm wrapped around his injured ribs, his face grey with exhaustion. Arsini was the first to reach him as he stumbled onto the dock.

"You’re hurt," she said.

"Cracked ribs. I’ll live."

"What happened."

"Pirates. An ambush. We lost three men." He looked at her, and something in his eyes made her go still. "The pirates knew our route. They knew where to find us."

Her face went pale. "Someone told them."

"Yes. Someone in Troy. Someone who knew about the mission." He straightened, gritting his teeth against the pain. "I need to speak to Fylon. Now."

Fylon was in the small room above the wine shop, the same room where they had met to discuss Echelos and Rethon and all the other shadows that moved through the palace unseen. He listened without interrupting as Lysander described the attack—the pirate galley appearing out of the fog, the precise timing, the knowledge of their route.

When Lysander finished, Fylon was quiet for a long moment.

"The mission was known to five people," he said. "You. Hector. Daidalos. Theron. Myself. Theron is loyal. He lost his brother to the black ships. He wouldn’t betray us."

"Then the leak came from someone who overheard. Someone who was watching. Someone who pieced it together from fragments." Lysander paused. "Echelos. The guard. He’s been carrying messages for Rethon. Could he have known."

"Echelos knew there was a mission. He didn’t know the details. But he might have heard something—a crewman talking, a supply requisition, a change in the harbour schedule. Enough to guess the route."

"Then Rethon passed it to Teles. Teles passed it to the pirates. Or to someone who hired them." Lysander leaned back, the pain in his ribs flaring. "We’ve been feeding Rethon controlled information for months. But we didn’t control this. This was real. And it almost got me killed."

Fylon’s face was grim. "What do you want me to do."

"Find out who told the pirates. Follow the trail from Echelos to Teles to whoever hired them. And Fylon—" Lysander met his eyes. "Be careful. Whoever this is, they’re not just passing information anymore. They’re trying to kill."

Fylon nodded and left.

The Council Chamber – Three Days Later

The councillors were already seated when Lysander entered. His ribs were still wrapped, his movements stiff, but he walked to his place at the table without hesitation. Akastos watched him with the careful, measuring gaze of a man who had been hoping for a different outcome.

"Prince Lysander," Akastos said. "We are relieved to see you recovered from your journey. There were rumours—"

"Rumours are rarely accurate." Lysander took his seat. "The mission was successful. The Argolid king has given his private pledge. Argos will not contribute troops, ships, or supplies to Agamemnon’s war effort."

A murmur moved through the council. Akastos’s expression flickered—surprise, quickly masked.

"A private pledge," Akastos said. "Not a treaty."

"A private pledge is a beginning. Treaties come later."

"A private pledge can be broken. A private pledge can be denied. It is worth nothing if Agamemnon chooses to ignore it."

"It is worth something to Diomedes. It is worth something to the other minor kings who are watching to see what he does. It is worth something to every kingdom in the Peloponnese that is tired of being bled dry by Mycenae’s tribute demands." Lysander looked at Akastos. "You’ve spent this entire war doubting what we’re building. You’ve opposed every reform. You’ve questioned every alliance. And yet the walls are still standing. The supplies are still coming in. The allies are still with us. At some point, Councillor, the evidence outweighs the skepticism."

The room was silent. Akastos’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Hector spoke from the head of the table. "The mission is concluded. The alliance stands. The council will move to other business."

The meeting continued—supply numbers, patrol reports, the ongoing preparations for the siege that everyone hoped would never come. But Lysander could feel the shift in the room. The councillors who had been wavering, who had been listening to Akastos’s whispers, were recalibrating. The mission had succeeded. The alliance was real. The prince had come back alive.

Akastos’s position was weakening. And he knew it.

That Night – The Training Ground

Lysander found Miros at the training ground, running through his own drills long after the militia had retired. The quiet soldier moved through the forms with the fluid precision of someone who had been doing this his entire life.

"The pirates who attacked my ship," Lysander said. "They knew our route. Fylon thinks the leak came from inside the palace."

Miros stopped mid-form. "Rethon."

"Or someone connected to him. Fylon is investigating."

"What do you need from me."

"Nothing yet. But if Fylon finds proof—if there’s an arrest, or a confrontation—I want your men ready. The traitor won’t go quietly."

"They never do." Miros resumed his drill, his sword cutting the cold night air. "I’ll be ready."

Lysander nodded and turned to leave. At the edge of the training ground, he paused. "The militia. I heard they held the line during the last patrol exercise. No one broke."

"No one broke. They’re ready."

"Good. Keep them that way."

Paris and Helen – The Aegean Sea

The island was called Saria, a speck of rock and scrub in the southern Aegean, and it was not where they were supposed to be.

Phaidon stood at the helm, his weathered face creased with worry. The storm had damaged the Kalliste worse than he’d first thought. The rudder was cracked, the hull taking on water faster than the crew could pump it out. They had limped into the island’s small harbour at dawn, and the local shipwright had taken one look at the damage and shaken his head.

"Three days," he said. "Maybe four. The rudder needs to be replaced, and I don’t have the timber. I’ll have to send to the next island for it."

"Three days," Paris said. "We don’t have three days."

"You don’t have a choice. You sail with that rudder, you’ll be at the bottom of the sea before you clear the harbour."

Paris turned away, his jaw tight. Helen was waiting on the beach, her cloak pulled around her against the cold wind. She had recovered from her seasickness during the days at sea, but she was still pale, still fragile. The journey had taken more out of her than she wanted to admit.

"Three days," he said, sitting beside her on the sand. "The rudder needs to be replaced."

"Three days. And then Troy."

"And then Troy."

She leaned her head against his shoulder. "I’ve waited years. I can wait three more days."

He put his arm around her. The island was quiet, the only sound the waves on the shore and the distant cry of gulls. It was not the garden behind the temple, with its olive tree and its silver moonlight. But it was safe. For now.

"I keep thinking about Menelaus," she said quietly. "What he’ll do when he realizes I’m gone. Whether he’ll send ships after us. Whether he’s already sent them."

"If he has, they’re looking for a merchant vessel bound for Crete. They’re not looking for us here."

She was silent for a moment. "You’ve thought of everything."

"Not everything. But enough." He looked at her. "We’re going to make it. I promised you that."

"I know." She closed her eyes. "I believe you."

They sat together on the beach, watching the sun set over the Aegean. Somewhere to the east, Troy was waiting. Somewhere to the west, the king they had fled was drinking wine and raging at his advisors. But here, on this small island, there was only the quiet, and the waves, and the promise that in three days, they would sail again.

The Palace – Night

Fylon came to Lysander’s chambers after dark, his face more troubled than Lysander had ever seen it.

"I found the leak," he said.

"Who."

"Not Echelos. He’s been carrying messages, but he didn’t know about the mission. The leak came from someone closer. One of the harbour guards. A man named Pelion. He overheard Theron discussing the route with his first mate, the night before they sailed. He passed it to a merchant in the lower town, who passed it to a contact in the islands. The pirates were hired with Mycenaean silver."

"Pelion. Does he work for Rethon."

"No. He works for Akastos."

The name hung in the air. Akastos. The old councillor who had opposed every reform, who had questioned every alliance, who had been waiting for his moment to strike.

"He didn’t just want to stop the mission," Lysander said. "He wanted me dead."

"It appears so."

"Do we have proof."

"Enough to bring before the council. Pelion confessed when my men confronted him. He’s terrified. He didn’t know the pirates would attack—he thought they were just going to intercept the ship, steal the cargo. When he heard about the attack, he wanted to come forward. He was afraid."

"Afraid of what Akastos would do to him."

Lysander stood and walked to the window. The harbour was dark, the sea calm. Akastos had tried to have him killed. Not Rethon—Rethon was a collaborator, a coward who sold information to the highest bidder. Akastos was something worse. An enemy within the walls. A man who had smiled at him across the council table while plotting his death.

"We bring this before the council," he said. "Tomorrow. Hector needs to know. And Akastos—" He paused. "Akastos needs to answer for what he’s done."

Fylon nodded and slipped out into the darkness.

Lysander stood at the window for a long time, looking at the sea. The web of shadows was finally unraveling. But something told him that this was only the beginning. The real enemy was still out there, gathering his fleet, preparing for war.

And when he came, the shadows inside Troy would be waiting for him.