Perseus: Excidium Troiae

by TripleHomicide

Perseus. That was his name. Or at least, that was the name he was given. The Destroyer. When war comes knocking on his doorstep, Perseus is more than ready to aid his best friend Prince Hector, and lead the Trojan forces into battle against the Greeks. The Fate of his home and people lies in his hands. Will he succeed in his quest for greatness?

31. Thirty

A/N: So, here we have arrived at the final chapter. This story was very, very hard to write, and I almost dropped it more than a few times. There were a lot of positive reviews and a few admittedly valid concerns and disagreements. First, with the way Perseus forgave Apollo so quickly in the first few chapters, which I hope to be able to rectify someday, and second, in my attempts at trying not to make the Trojans seem so dumb as the story progressed. Personally, I always thought the Trojans were stupid for bringing that horse in, and writing that bit of the story in a way which doesn't make the characters seem just as stupid as the stories say was hard, and I'm not entirely sure I was successful in that. However, the 'bad plot' some of you are moaning about is literally beating off the original myths so go complain to Homer and Virgil if you can't take it.

Again, I really don't like saying this and sounding rude, but if you have a problem with the story, why bother yourself to read it at all up to 30 mf chapters? I don't get some of you ngl. Save yourself the trouble and let those who love it keep reading? If you don't have a nice review or some constructive criticism for me, don't say anything at all? Like, it's not so hard lol. I write because I enjoy it and I love storytelling—this story wasn't meant to please any of you, keep that in mind.

I hope you all enjoyed the story so far. In hindsight, writing this from a Trojan perspective when they were so obviously going to lose and trying to make the characters seem competent was a headache I brought on myself. However, I'm still learning, and if I do happen to continue writing any more fanfictions, I hope both my writing and I would be better. I love that I got to share this with you guys and I hope you all enjoy reading this chapter the same way I enjoyed writing it [not really, it's so long ugh]

Happy reading!

The night had descended like a shroud, thick and suffocating. The walls of Troy—his beloved city, the pride of his fathers—now lay in ruin, torn apart by the ruthless fury of the Greeks. Smoke billowed from every corner, blotting out the stars, the air heavy with the stench of burning flesh and charred earth. Aeneas moved through the streets, his armour battered, his limbs weary from the endless battles and the effort of carrying his son through the haze. His mind was a storm of confusion, his heart heavy with grief, but still, his feet carried him onward.

He had been fighting with everything he had, his every strike filled with the weight of his duty, his every breath a reminder of how much there was to lose. But as the cries of the dying filled the night and the flames of Troy consumed the very bones of the city, something within him broke. He had already lost so much. He didn't know the whereabouts of his father, his comrades had fallen, and now, the Achaeans were still sweeping through the city, penning the survivors in.

No place was safe.

In the distance, he saw the Nothern gates—broken, smouldering. His heart raced with a desperate need to find his family, to find Creüsa, his beloved wife, if she was even still alive. No. He refused to entertain even a second of that. The thought of her, their son Ascanius, and the life they had had just a few hours prior was all that kept him moving. He had to find a way out. Somehow.

Beside him ran Briseis, huffing and puffing with every turn they took. They had tried three of the four gates and if this one also proved impenetrable…Aeneas didn't want to think of it.

They came to a stop next to a broken fountain and crawled behind the wall of a broken building, on the street which led up to the Northern gates. This was the nearest and easiest exit to the Mountains, where his brother Perseus had promised to find him with their father and any other survivors he might find.

His eyes caught sight of a scattered battalion of Greeks, laughing merrily around the gates, ploughing through burning houses and murdering the Trojans that had managed to escape their first wave.

"Father," Ascanius' voice was low in his ears. He was shaking so badly. "Father, I'm scared."

Aeneas ran a hand through the boy's hair and kissed the top of his head. He hated this. He hated that his son would have nightmares of this day for the rest of his life. "I know, Ascanius," He whispered back. "I am too."

Briseis sent him a pitiful look. "It's not safe," She moaned in distress. "We'll be caught before we're even halfway to the gates. Even if we do manage to pass through, we'll be chased down."

She was terrified, and rightly so. The night had been the longest in all of Aeneas' long years. He had never wanted to wake up from a nightmare so badly. The siege had stretched out for what seemed like days, but he knew that not even two hours had passed since the Achaeans had invaded. "Keep your head on, Briseis," He told her sharply. He didn't like how she was scaring his son. "I'm going to scout ahead. Watch Ascanius, alright? And scream if you need help."

Both she and his son looked like they wanted to protest. But then the woman thought better of it and nodded sombrely. Aeneas gently passed his child into her arms. He tried not to feel as though it was the last time he might see them both. Ascanius' lips wobbled, but he blinked back his tears furiously. He tried to smile reassuringly, and then he was gone.

The demigod crept along the debris and the ruins. He needed statistics. He knew he could take them and fight his way out the gates if they were just foot soldiers and few in number. But what then? They would just chase them down. The Achaeans were here to massacre them, and it would be foolish to believe that just by getting out the gates, they would be safe.

"Aeneas," a voice whispered, barely audible above the roar of the chaos, but unmistakably familiar.

He froze, his heart skipping a beat. He turned sharply, searching the smoke-filled air, but there was nothing. His eyes darted, scanning the ruins for a sign. "Creüsa?" he called out, his voice rough and raw, trembling with a mix of hope and dread. He knew calling out was like sending out a flare of his location. But if she was here…

"Aeneas…" The voice came again, softer this time, like a wind brushing through his soul. And then, through the haze of smoke and flame, he saw her.

She stood before him, both of them hidden by the fallen buildings, a pale figure, her form flickering like a candle in the wind and the haze of the glaring fires. It was Creüsa—his Creüsa, safe and sound. Alive.

But as he looked, he felt his gut drop. Aeneas stood.

It was his Creüsa, but not as he remembered her. Her hair, once fair, now shimmered silver, like moonlight caught in a storm. Her eyes were distant, wide and filled with sorrow. Eerily familiar. But they were not the eyes of the woman he had loved. They were the eyes of something beyond, something lost between life and death. A line of blood trailed down the side of her head. His eyes moved to the blood staining the side of her peplos.

"Creüsa…" He whispered her name like a prayer, stepping toward her out of his hiding place, his chest tight with emotion. His hand reached out, trembling, desperate to touch her, to hold her again, but his fingers passed through her like air, like smoke. Something broke inside him.

"Aeneas…" she said again, her voice like the softest of sighs, but her tone firm, unyielding. "You must listen to me."

"Creüsa, no…" His voice cracked, the weight of his grief threatening to collapse him. "No. Tell me this doesn't mean what I'm thinking."

Her answering smile was sad, but reassuring, and he felt his insides rot. "No…I failed you. I couldn't save you. I couldn't save you from the crowd, from the Greeks—"

Her form flickered again, a sharp, painful light dancing around her figure as she spoke, "There was nothing you could have done. It is not your fault I was lost in the stampede. The gods had already decided, Aeneas. You must not dwell on what cannot be undone. I… I have accepted it."

Aeneas's breath caught in his throat. He reached for her again, his hand trembling with the need to hold her, to feel her warmth, to somehow make sense of the agony that clutched his heart. "But I could have saved you," he choked, his voice breaking under the weight of the loss. "I should've been faster, stronger. I promised I'd always protect you… and now, you're gone. Alone. I couldn't keep my promise." He could feel the tears, threatening to break forth and reduce him to nothing.

Her gaze softened with a sorrowful understanding, yet there was a strength in her presence—an otherworldly strength that held him in place, forcing him to confront what he did not want to accept. "No, Aeneas," she said gently, her voice as soft as the wind in the trees. "You are not to blame. The gods have their plans. My death was part of it. It is my time. But it is not yours. Your journey is not over."

He shook his head violently, his tears falling freely now, streaking down his grimy face. "My journey… my journey was here, Creüsa. With you, with Ascanius. With Perseus and Hector. How am I supposed to leave this behind? How can I go on without you?"

Her form flickered again, her presence growing fainter as the wind swirled through the broken gates of Troy, carrying with it the bitter scent of burning. "You must go, Aeneas. You must leave this place. Troy is lost. Our people are lost. There is nothing left here for you."

He stumbled back, his heart shredding in his chest. "I—we're trying. But there's no way. We hoped to cut through the mountains and get home, to Dardania but—"

"It is gone, Aeneas," she interrupted, her voice now a steady force, clear and sharp, cutting through his denial. "Dardania is no more. The Greeks have destroyed it all before they came here. They left no survivors. There is nothing left of our city, nothing but ruins and memories." He took in a sharp intake of breath. It was all too much—losing two cities in a single night. And he hadn't been there for his people either. How much more would he have to endure? "Do you not see it, Aeneas?" Creüsa said, gently, "You must find a way. You are not abandoning your people, for they are already gone—you are saving your son. You must save him."

Her words crashed over him like waves against the shore, tearing apart the walls he had built around his heart. For a long moment, he said nothing. The weight of it all—of Troy's destruction, of his wife's death, of his own failure to protect them—nearly crushed him. He could feel the bitter sting of betrayal from the gods, the loss of everything he had fought for. Her words pulled forth another memory, words, exchanged with his mother on a balcony months ago.

"But what about you?" he whispered, his voice breaking. "What about us?"

Her eyes—those hollow, ethereal eyes—seemed to soften with an infinite sadness. "I am no more, Aeneas. But you, you must live. For me. For Ascanius. For the future. There is a kingdom waiting for you in Hesperia. A new life. A new purpose."

Aeneas's heart trembled at the thought. A kingdom. A new life. Could he truly leave behind all he had known, all he had loved? Could he step into the unknown just because the gods decreed it to be so?

"You will find your destiny from there, Aeneas," Creüsa continued, her voice now a soothing balm against the raw pain of his heart. "You will find a new queen. And in her, you will find a new life—one that will honour Troy's legacy. But you cannot do this if you remain here, drowning in the ashes of what was. You must go."

Aeneas closed his eyes, his head spinning, his heart breaking anew. He wanted to scream, to fight against this fate that seemed to be pulling him away from everything he had known, but there was no denying it. No escaping it. "There will be no other Queen for me but you."

She smiled. "You must live again, Aeneas. And to live, you must first learn to love."

Everything hurt. He couldn't bear to hear her words. Not so soon. "You must go," She said, again. "Get to the Temple of Poseidon. Perseus will find you there. So will your salvation."

He nodded, numbly. He had to go. And yet… he could not find it in himself to let go.

"I… I don't want to leave you," he whispered, his voice ragged. "I don't want to leave you, Creüsa." He paused, the memories of the city, of their love, of their son all flooding his mind.

"You are not leaving me, Aeneas," she whispered back. "You are carrying me with you. In your heart, in your soul. And I will always be with you. But your future lies ahead, not behind."

Her form began to fade, flickering like a dying flame, and Aeneas's heart screamed at the sight. "Creüsa! Don't leave me. Please…"

Her smile was sad, but it was there—faint but strong, like the flicker of a dying star. "You must go. For him. For Ascanius." She exhaled, "I love you."

And with that, she was gone, her presence dissipating into the smoke and the flames, leaving Aeneas standing alone in the ruins of Troy.

For a long moment, he stood still, his chest heaving with the weight of what had just occurred, the weight of everything he had lost. But then, slowly, he straightened, wiping his tears with the back of his hand. "I love you, Creüsa," He murmured. "And I'm sorry." The son of Aphrodite drew in on some inner strength and made his way back to Briseis and his son. Aeneas looked down at Ascanius, eyes blown wide with fear and anticipation, and then at Briseis, who stood at his side, trepidation and sorrow still painted on her face.

With a deep, ragged breath, he whispered, "We leave now. I've found a way. Let's get to Poseidon's temple." Briseis didn't argue. Aeneas bent and swept his son into his arms, and they backtracked the way they had come.

But as he walked into the night, a single tear slid down his cheek.

BREAK

In the midst of the chaos, Perseus found himself standing alone in the sacred temple of Poseidon. He had just arrived less than a second ago, still burning with anger, and grief over Athena, and Cassandra, and the looting, pillaging and murdering going on around him. The temple walls were broken and burning, and he could not even feel his father's presence in the ruins.

The air was thick with the echoes of destruction, and he felt an almost overwhelming sense of loss weighing on his heart. As he lingered next to the front steps in contemplation, the sound of hurried footsteps interrupted his solitude. Perseus turned, readying his sword to strike, but then sagged almost instantly. Relief filled him to the brim and then he was dropping his weapon and sweeping the newcomers in bone-crushing hugs.

It was Aeneas, his brother; he was alive and safe, and Perseus felt his heart swell as he laughed through the tears threatening to spill down his face. His brother looked broken, but happy to see him, and he crushed him into another embrace so tight Ascanius began to squirm between them. They both laughed, and Perseus pulled away first.

"Thank the gods you're okay," He murmured.

"You don't know how worried I've been," Aeneas said, sniffing.

The immortal's eye flickered to Briseis, standing a few ways behind them. "Thank you."

She nodded numbly.

Perseus glanced around worriedly. The siege was still in full swing and nowhere was safe. They couldn't be standing in the open like this. "Come on," He took Ascanius' hand and squeezed. Perseus could feel the younger boy shaking. Whatever had happened in Troy that night was something no child should have to witness. Aeneas nodded and they made their way through broken pillars and statues, going deeper into the ruins of the temple. Perseus looked his brother over. He looked worse for wear. Wrecked.

"Where's Creüsa?" A worried expression settled onto his face. Something flickered on Ascanius' face, and Perseus' heart dropped into his stomach.

No…if she wasn't here, that meant—

Perseus met Aeneas' eyes, and his brother shook his head morosely. He seemed to shudder with sorrow.

"I'm sorry," He said honestly, reaching out to squeeze Aeneas' shoulder. His brother nodded in silent understanding of their shared grief.

"I never thought it would end like this," The son of Poseidon murmured, his voice low, almost to himself.

Aeneas nodded, his gaze distant, staring at the ruins around them where the flames of Troy were now nothing but embers, scattered in the wind. "None of us did. But what's done is done."

The words hung heavy in the air, neither of them daring to speak of the city's fall more directly. It was a bitter truth Perseus could yet accept.

They came to a stop beside his father's altar, and the demigod touched the ornate carvings, before letting out a sigh. It felt cold beneath his fingertips. "We have to find—"

He was cut off by a sharp gasp from Briseis. The raven-haired man glanced towards her in worry and then recoiled in shock when he noticed what stood before her. Or rather, whom.

It was as though he had been conjured by the very sorrow that lingered between him and Aeneas. The air grew cold, and the shadow of his best friend materialised from thin air. Aeneas took a step back in surprise, almost bumping into his son. Ascanius dove behind Perseus' legs, eyes open wide in terror.

Hector.

The greatest prince of Troy, their best friend, stood before them, his spectral form bathed in an ethereal light. His face was as noble and proud as ever, but his eyes… those eyes were hollow as he looked around them, taking in the manifestation of their failure to protect the home he had entrusted into their hands—the ruins. His body was no longer the mortal one they had seen fall on the blood-soaked sands of the battlefield, but the ghost of a warrior, at peace yet bound to the ruins of the city he loved.

Aeneas took a step forward, and Perseus felt his dam break. A single tear slid down his face through the grime and blood. His legs wobbled, threatening to send him to his knees. Briseis looked terrified, cowering behind the altar.

Aeneas broke the silence first, voice shaking, "Hector... Is it truly you?"

Perseus, too, staggered forward, his heart in his throat. A whirlwind of emotions stirred up in him. His breath misted as it left his lips. "Hector. I'm so sorry, I couldn't—"

Hector's ghost smiled, a sadness in his gaze. "Yeah, it's me. I have come to say what I could not in life. And to give you both the peace you need." Perseus wanted to sob. How could the fates toy with them in this way? How could they be so cruel?

The two men, warriors and brothers who had bled for their city, stared at the shade of their friend, their prince, their brother. Aeneas choked on the words he could not speak, and Perseus felt the weight of his own failures press down on him.

Hector had always been the soul of Troy, the anchor that kept them all together, and he was gone. He had been gone for so long, and seeing him again, here, dredged up in him feelings and emotions of grief, loss, and anger at his friend's death and the destruction of his city.

"We failed," Perseus whispered. "We failed you, Hector. We couldn't save Troy. We couldn't save you."

Hector's ghost shook his head softly, his voice a balm against their guilt. "Don't be silly, Perseus. You did not fail me. You never did. Troy's fate was sealed the moment the gods turned their eyes away from us by allowing that horse to stand. And my death was not your fault, nor was it a defeat." He floated forward, wisps of smoke peeling off his spectral body. Hector looked on the verge of tears. The prince gave them a watery smile. "Gods, I miss you guys so much."

"We miss you too," Aeneas croaked. "So much that it hurts. I'm so sorry, Hector."

Hector stepped closer to them, his presence a gentle force that calmed their raging hearts. "My death was my destiny," he said. "It was always meant to be. And in the end, it is not failure to die for a cause you believe in. It is an honour. Troy may fall, but our deeds live on, as do our memories. I do not blame you, nor should you blame yourselves." He reached out, and his ghostly hands tried to hold onto both Perseus' and Aeneas' faces. The son of Poseidon shuddered as he felt the ghostly presence. "You avenged me. That was enough."

The brothers were silent for a long moment, the weight of Hector's words sinking deep within them. There was no solace in the fall of Troy, no comfort in the ruins that surrounded them, but there was something else—a truth that Hector's spirit brought with him, something they had not dared to consider.

"Then what are we to do?" Perseus finally asked, his voice shaky. His prince's words resonated deep within him. He wanted nothing more than to hug him, hold him, and listen to him say it would all be alright again. "Troy is dead. The gods have forsaken us. Fate has forsaken us."

Hector's eyes softened. "You must live, Perseus. You, Aeneas, and all who remain. Troy may fall, but her blood flows in all of us. You cannot mourn her forever. Move on, find new lives. Lead the survivors. Help them rebuild; save our city's dreams, not its ashes."

Perseus bowed his head, his chest tight. The night had taken so much from him. He had been a hero, but now, in this moment of loss, he felt nothing but emptiness. Yet Hector's words stirred something deep within him—an ember of hope that he did not know he still had.

That was the wonder that was Hector, his best friend, the oasis in every desert. He was always the rock they stood upon—always there to tell them there was a way out. Another tear escaped his eye. Aeneas nodded and smiled through his tears at the fallen comrade.

"Wait," His brother started, eyes widening in horror. "Andromache and Astyanax—I—have you seen them, in the Underworld?"

Hector shook his head, his tone growing quieter, "No. No, I haven't. I've been searching."

"It means they're still alive," Perseus said, his tongue feeling ashen. It meant Hector's family was still somewhere, mixed in all this chaos.

"Then we have to find them," Aeneas said solemnly. "It's the least we can do."

"The Greeks are not merciful," Hector agreed, "I would like nothing more for them to live. But—"

"Hector," Perseus reached out to take his hand, but it sailed right through. He winced, hands falling limply to his side. "If Andromache and Astyanax are alive, I will find them. I swear it."

"If it is their fate to—"

"We don't know that," Aeneas shook his head. "We can't know without trying."

Hector swallowed. "Alright." He nodded, "If you cannot…please, don't blame yourselves. But…I trust you."

Perseus nodded, a solemn promise in his eyes. As much as Hector was trying not to build up any false hope, Perseus could tell that he wanted his family to live. It didn't matter if the prince would see them should they fall. His son was a baby, and he deserved a chance at life—a life better than this. Hector would wish to spare his wife from the horrors the Achaeans would inflict on her before finally killing her.

His best friend exhaled, "I just—I don't want them to suffer. Any more than they already have."

Hector's words seemed to fuel him, lighting up a burning fire within the one-eyed soldier. "I swear, Hector. I will see to it that they are safe." He clenched his fists, his resolve hardening. Andromache and Asytanax should have been among the ones he sought out first but in the chaos of the evening, he had forgotten about them. He was a horrible friend. All he had been worried about was finding Aeneas and his father and getting his own family out when Hector's should have also been a priority. He had sworn to protect them after the prince's death, and he hadn't been able to.

Not when they needed him most.

Hector's ghost looked at them both with gratitude, his form beginning to fade into the night. "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you. Troy may fall, but its spirit will live through you both. You are my brothers, my family, and I am so grateful I got to share this life with you." He glanced at Aeneas, and said, "I will wait for you, Aeneas. However long it takes you to get here, I will wait." Perseus ached all over. It hurt, knowing he would not be reunited with them ever; not in a death he could not have. Hector smiled at him knowingly, and Perseus smiled back. "Be strong, Perseus." He nodded, numbly. The appearance of their dead brother had reduced him to a mess. But Hector was right. He had to be strong. Because wherever Hector or Aeneas went, he would carry them in his heart and his memories, forever.

The fallen prince leaned down and beamed at Ascanius, who had been looking up at him wide-eyed the entire conversation. "Goodbye, nephew. Be brave. Take care of your dad and uncle for me, alright?" Ascanius nodded, still in awe. "Be good so you can get out safely."

"There is no way to escape the city. Every exit is blocked," Aeneas spoke up. "We've tried."

Hector straightened and glanced around, his form beginning to flicker and vanish in the wind, "You have another visitor and I do not wish to keep her waiting. She's here to help with that. Remember, I will be with you." He beamed at them, a tear falling from his left eye. "Always and forever."

And then he was gone.

Perseus felt a sense of overwhelming loss settle over him. But amid that was also the unmistakable feeling of peace. He glanced at Aeneas, and slung his arm over his brother's, giving him a slight squeeze. The fall of Troy could not be undone, but they had each other. Together, they would carry on the legacy of their city, and the spirit of Hector would live on through their actions.

"Well, that was simply beautiful," A female voice echoed through the darkness, pulling him out of his thoughts. A woman materialised right where Hector had been, beside the altar of Poseidon. Perseus reached for his sword but then relaxed when he noticed who it was. Red hair fell around her in ringlets, and even in a simple black cloak with gold trims, the goddess Aphrodite still looked breathtaking.

"Mother," Aeneas moved forward to meet her, extracting himself from Perseus' arms.

"Oh, my son," Her eyes softened. "I'm sorry I took so long. It took a lot of effort for us to convince Jove to let us interfere and help out." Ascanius looked up in wonder at his grandmother. She waved at him and blew him a kiss, making the boy hide his face further behind his uncle's legs.

"Us?" Perseus questioned gruffly. If she was referring to Athena, Perseus did not think the wisdom goddess had done much helping. And she had still been meddling, even during Jove's ban. Surely, the other gods knew that.

Aphrodite looked him over, and smiled wryly, "Yes, us."

Then he heard it, the sound of hooves, the tell-tale nickering, and the huff of a very excited and familiar horse. The black stallion burst through the debris and into the ruins, cantering towards them, "Hey, boss! Miss me?"

Perseus had never been happier to see an animal. Blackkack came to a stop beside his father's altar and neighed. Ascanius let out a surprised yelp and Briseis took a few tentative steps back. Perseus beamed, wiping away his tears and approaching the horse. "Gods, yes. It's so good to see you, Blackjack." He patted the horse's flank and turned to Aphrodite for an explanation.

"Your father sends his regards," The love goddess shrugged. "And this gift with a few…modifications."

Blackjack neighed again and leaned forward. Perseus heard the signs of bones shifting and then recoiled, swearing as a pair of midnight black wings sprouted from the horse's side. Briseis cried out, and Ascanius went, "Whoa."

"What—"

"Looks like I'm a Pegasus now, boss!" Blackjack cantered around excitedly. "I can fucking fly!"

Perseus glanced at his father's altar and smiled to himself. Of course, he would pull something like this. Thank you, he mentally said to Poseidon. He felt a warmth inside him in response. A pegasus. That was crazy. But Poseidon was a god, and this wasn't beyond him.

"Andromache and her son are in the topmost tower of the castle," Aphrodite told him. "The horse will get you there quickly. If there are no other interruptions you'll be there in time to save them."

"Thanks," Perseus nodded. He glanced at the altar. "Both of you."

"What about me?" Aeneas questioned. "How do I help?"

"Help?" Aphrodite snorted in the most dignified way possible. "I told you once that was Troy to fall I would get you out. I am here to do just that."

"You know a way out?" Briseis asked in a small voice.

Aphrodite looked at her once, smiled to herself as though she knew a secret, and then nodded. "I do. I can lead you there, Aeneas. It will take you to the mountains and out of this place. If you follow the mountain path you should come to the other side of the island, where a ship will be waiting on the beach. But you have to come with me now."

"But—"

"Aeneas," Perseus stepped in front of his brother. His mind whirred at the implication of the goddess' words. She could get them out. She knew an exit. He did not trust the Olympians, but right now, there was no other option. He would have to give Aphrodite the benefit of the doubt, and he knew she would go to any lengths to ensure Aeneas and Ascanius were safe. "Please, go with her. I can deal with this."

His brother looked between him, then his son, who looked on with intelligent eyes and wise silence. Then his gaze flickered over to his mother. Aphrodite, for the first time since Perseus had met her, spoke with a sense of urgency, "Your father is currently unable to move, but I know where you can find him. He's in my temple with a whole crowd of people. That's the only temple left standing, and everyone in the city still alive is making their way there now or is already in hiding behind my altars. Should the Achaeans reach it before we do, they will slaughter all of them, good Anchises included. If you dally here, they will slaughter you too." Her frown deepened, but that did nothing to mar her beauty. "I made you a promise, Aeneas. I need you to listen to me so I can keep it."

He stared into Perseus' face, and the son of Poseidon nodded at his brother. If Aphrodite could get his entire family out safe, he would be in her debt forever. She cared for Aeneas, and Perseus knew she would protect him. He looked at Aeneas pleadingly, his eye begging the curly-haired idiot to listen, for once and let him do the grunt work, "I'll find you. I promise. Just get Father out of here."

Aeneas shuddered under the weight of the decision, and then finally nodded, lips downcast. He didn't look too happy to be separating again, but Perseus knew his brother was aware he could take care of himself. His father and any other survivors were paramount. Perseus sent him a reassuring smile and pulled Aeneas into an embrace. The other man hugged him back fiercely. The son of Poseidon made a silent oath to himself; he would do all he could to make sure this would not be the last time they saw each other. He would fight tooth and nail to find them again.

The immortal demigod ruffled Ascanius' hair, then moved to the horse.

"Are you sure you'll be okay?" Aeneas' voice was tinged with worry.

"I am," He climbed atop Blackjack. "Stay safe, okay?"

"You too," Aeneas bent and swooped Ascanius into his arms. He turned to look back at Perseus. His eyes said everything his lips could not.

"This isn't a goodbye," Perseus told him, trying to assuage his anxiety. "Just a see you later."

"Alright," His voice was soft. "See you later, then."

Perseus leaned forward and whispered into Blackjack's ear, "Come on, bud. Let's go." With one last wave at the rag-tag group, he turned upon his horse. They galloped through the ruins and the burning city and then lifted off the ground.

BREAK

The air was thick with smoke, acrid and clinging to Aeneas' lungs as though the dying breath of Troy itself sought to drag him down as he ran. Around him, the city fell in screams and shudders, the great walls crumbling under relentless fire and Greek fury. His steps faltered as exhaustion gnawed at his limbs, but a weight far heavier than fatigue pressed on his chest.

Troy was a graveyard now, and so many people he knew were among its dead.

A clap of thunder shattered his thoughts, splitting the night with a roar so primal it stilled the wailing for one fleeting moment. Aeneas froze, his blood cold and his body trembling with the effort he'd been exerting on it for the past hour. Above, the heavens opened, a rift in the black clouds revealing a single, piercing star—a bolt of lightning. It shone like a beacon, unyielding against the inferno. An omen. Jove was not happy about something.

Before he could draw another breath, Aphrodite had turned and was motioning for them to hurry. Even as she ran ahead of him, she seemed ethereal, her radiance untainted by the filth of the world she dashed through. She turned again, and her gaze locked onto Aeneas, and his heart seized at the divine force in her eyes—ancient, powerful, yet filled with a mother's concern. She was a vision of both salvation and command, her presence undeniable.

And she had come. She had come for him.

Beside him Briseis huffed, and holding on to his hand Ascanius tried to keep up wearily.

They reached her temple, its grand columns now fractured and its sacred fires dimmed to embers. But it looked mostly intact, and far, far away, he saw his home—the palace—wrecked beyond recognition. The demigod squinted towards the burning sky, hoping maybe he could make out the flying black steed which carried his brother. He prayed Perseus would be safe. He was immortal, yes, but there were far worse things than death, and he did not wish any on his brother.

They followed his mother through a side entrance, and Aeneas felt something inside him melt as he took in the sight—the people, nearly forty of them, huddled around the altar and statues.

Forty people.

That was all that was left of his city, when before they had been hundreds of thousands strong.

He felt a sour taste on his tongue but pushed back the feeling and began to walk inside, eyes roving across the entire temple.

Within, a huddled group of survivors clung together, their faces streaked with soot and fear. Sailors, soldiers, women, children. Aeneas saw some of the mighty nobles of Troy sat shoulder to shoulder with trembling commoners, stripped of all pretence in the shadow of death. He recognised a few of them—Achates stood warily at the front, looking exhausted but still clutching a spear. He passed Aeneas a small welcoming smile, a light in this dark situation. Aeneas also saw Misenus, his Dardanian trumpeteer, and Sergestus, another of his men. There were Ilioneus and Nautes, a palace courtier and a priest respectively. And there, at the centre of the group, leaning against a cracked altar, was Anchises, his dear father. His chest caved in.

Aeneas staggered at the sight of his father. The old man's face, once so strong and unyielding, was pale and drawn, his eyes dulled with pain. His crippled legs were stretched before him, useless in this hour of need. Yet he held himself upright, clutching a staff in one hand and reaching out with the other as Aeneas approached.

"Father…" The word escaped Aeneas like a sob, and he fell to his knees beside Anchises. He was aware of his mother hanging about at the entrance of the temple, unseen so far. There were twitters and murmurs of surprise and shock from the crowd of people around. The sight of his father, his confidant, his mentor, broke something in him anew again as they embraced. For the first time that night, the weight of everything—of Creüsa, of Troy, of his own loss—pressed so heavily upon him that he thought he might break. He bowed his head, his hands gripping Anchises' shoulders as though his father's presence was the only thing anchoring him to life.

Anchises' hand found his son's face, trembling but firm. "Aeneas," he rasped, his voice rough yet steady, "You've come. My son… you're alive, thank the gods." He smiled as tears poured down his face. "Oh, and Ascanius, my boy!" Anchises kissed the top of his grandson's head, and Ascanius beamed. The old man looked up, his smile falling, "Where—where are Creüsa and Perseus?"

Tears spilt down Aeneas' face, leaving streaks in the grime. "Perseus has gone to find Hector's wife and son. And Creüsa…I failed her, Father," he choked. "She's gone. I couldn't…" His voice broke, and he pressed his forehead against Anchises' shoulder, his body wracked with silent sobs. The crowd around them was watching, but Aeneas didn't care. He tried to remember the words of both Hector and Creüsa's ghosts. But it was just so hard to stop crying.

Seeing his father again, alive and safe, amidst all this chaos, had done things to him, unravelling the bandages Hector and his wife had tried to place around his internal wounds. The son of Aphrodite felt a hand on his shoulder, then a squeeze, and he glanced up—it was Achates, and Aeneas' own sorrow was reflected in those eyes that had seen too much—lost too much. Aeneas managed a sad smile.

Anchises cupped the back of his son's head, his own eyes misting. His gaze moved back to his father. "You carry the burden of a city, Aeneas," Good Anchises said softly. "Do not let grief devour you. Troy may fall, but our blood must endure. Creüsa's sacrifice should ensure that."

Aeneas nodded, though his heart felt torn asunder. His gaze fell to the boy at his side—Ascanius, his son, his only hope now. He pulled the child close, brushing soot from his tear-streaked face. The boy clung to Aeneas' arm, his small body trembling from exhaustion.

"We need to move. I know a way out," Aeneas said hoarsely. His eyes moved back to the way they had come, where Aphrodite had been watching their reunion with unveiled interest. No one else seemed to notice her, yet. Aeneas wondered if their party were the only ones who could see her. "But we need to move now. The Achaeans are coming."

"Tell us what we need to do," Anchises said.

Aeneas scanned the crowd, all looking fearful, scared for their lives, expectant.

Then he turned to Achates, his former bully, now his longtime companion. He had saved Aeneas' life once, and he was the most capable warrior amongst the soldiers present. He picked up his son, rising, and turned to the blond warrior. "Can you take him? Carry him along?" Achates looked thrown off for a second but then nodded in confusion. He placed Ascanius into the other man's arms, brushing a hand over the boy's hair one last time. "Protect him. No matter what happens to me. Promise me."

Achates nodded solemnly. "I will keep him safe," he vowed, his voice steady.

Aeneas turned back to Anchises, his resolve hardening. "Come, Father," he said, his voice stronger now. "I will carry you."

"What—," Anchises protested weakly, "No—" but Aeneas was already moving. He knelt, bracing himself under his father's weight, and hoisted Anchises onto his back. The old man gasped, his hands gripping his son's shoulders tightly. Aeneas gritted his teeth against the strain, his knees nearly buckling, but he refused to falter. Achates looked on in understanding, adjusting Ascanius on his hip. Aeneas smiled at his son, and the child smiled back.

"You are my strength now," Anchises whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He patted Aeneas' shoulder.

The demigod swallowed and then staggered beneath the weight towards his mother. Aphrodite looked on, eyes sparkling with something—pride. "I've had many children in my long life, Aeneas." She beamed at him. "You are by far my favourite."

"Thanks," he grunted. Whatever that meant now. The surrounding crowd finally noticed the goddess, and there were sparks of conversation and gasps. The people bowed and Aphrodite positively glowed, motioning for them to stand.

His mother adjusted her cloak and Aeneas shifted beneath his father. He looked her dead in the eye. "Alright, Mother. We're ready to follow."

BREAK

The son of Poseidon gripped the black mane of the pegasus tightly, his knuckles pale as the wind howled in his ears. The world below blurred—a tapestry of orange, red and black, smeared like paint across the earth. If only he had been able to do this when Troy had still stood. It would have been a breathtaking view.

It hurt that he was already referring to his home in the past tense.

Perseus' heartbeat thundered louder than the wind, louder even than the rhythmic beat of Blackjack's new wings. Each stroke lifted him higher, away from the safety of the ground and deeper into the storm-ridden realm of Zeus; closer to the tower where the last fragments of his best friend hid.

He shouldn't be here. The skies were Jove's domain, an air charged with danger and warning. The clouds crackled with latent energy, the faint scent of ozone filling his nose. A rumble echoed in the distance—not quite thunder, not quite wrath—but close enough to set his nerves on fire. Each instinct screamed for him to turn back, to descend before he dared offend his uncle further.

But he had been daring gods since he was four. He wasn't about to stop now.

The exhilaration was intoxicating, a siren song too sweet to resist. He could feel the connection to Blackjack in his bones, like the pull of the tide. He could feel the horse's heart beating beneath him. The stallion's movements were an extension of his own, a rhythm he instinctively understood. It was as though the sea itself had sprouted wings, defying the heavens.

Perseus could not help but smile, despite himself. Despite the loss, and the chaos. He had never felt more…free. A laugh escaped him.

The sound was raw and defiant.

Too much. This night had been too much, and flying atop Blackjack felt like it had all been a horrible nightmare and he was about to wake up any moment now. The air tasted sharp and wild, like freedom. Poseidon's gift had made him a trespasser, yes, but he felt unstoppable. Beneath him, Blackjack let out a triumphant whinny, his breath forming steam in the heat of the burning city.

Then a bolt of lightning tore through the sky, searing bright and furious, a reminder of the danger. It was so close, just a hair's breadth, really.

Zeus was watching. Perseus swallowed hard, his grip tightening. But the high god would not strike him down—not today.

Below, the city crumbled under the onslaught of Greek forces, its streets a labyrinth of flames and despair. The cries of the helpless rose like a dirge, guiding his sharp gaze to a young boy trapped beneath a fallen beam. Blackjack dove without hesitation, Perseus leaping from the horse mid-flight to heave the beam aside. "Run to Aphrodite's temple!" he commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos, before lifting back onto Blackjack and taking off again.

Moments later, he spotted a mother clutching an infant, cornered by armed soldiers. Perseus descended like a thunderbolt, his sword flashing in arcs of silver as he dispatched their attackers. Without a word, he helped her to her feet, his expression steeled with urgency. "Aphrodite's temple," he said firmly, pointing to the path. Before she could thank him, he was aloft again. His final rescue came as he spied an elderly man struggling to climb a crumbling wall to escape the blaze. Perseus and Blackjack dove down and he reached out, snatching the man off the walls and lifting him onto the horse. They settled away from the flames, and he said, "Aphrodite's temple is your only sanctuary now. Go!" The old man babbled some thanks and ran.

Perseus turned his gaze back to the inferno, determined to save whoever he could before the city fell entirely. But he was even more determined to save his sister-in-law and his nephew.

He could see the tower in the distance, and Perseus leaned down to whisper in Blackjack's ear, "You set me right down, then you fly high into the skies, got it? Hang around. I'll whistle if I need you."

"Sure thing, boss."

The pegasus surged forward, his wings slicing through the smoke with a power that blew the flames in the other direction. Then he dove down.

The courtyard was a storm of chaos and fire when Perseus landed, Blackjack's hooves scraping against the blood-slicked stone. His smile fell, the smell of death and blood filling his nostrils and reminding him that no, this horror show was far from over, and his temporary pleasure had been just that—temporary.

The immortal's sword gleamed in the flickering flames as the din of screams, clashing steel, and collapsing stone filled the air. The acrid stench of burning wood and flesh assaulted him, but Perseus pressed forward, his senses sharp despite the carnage surrounding him. The place was swarming with Greek soldiers, carving their way through what remained of the inhabitants of the palace, pulling the very building off the ground.

Above him, the tower swayed.

Perseus swore, promptly slid off his pegasus, and dove into the fray. Blackjack swooped into the sky.

He fought like a demon, his talk with Hector and the gift from Poseidon filling him with a new drive, chasing away all his exhaustion. Perseus tore through the animals that had invaded his home, cutting a path towards the tower where he knew Hector's family was being assaulted. He would have flown directly to it, but there was no landing space, and he would have to climb up nearly a hundred steps to get to the room at the top.

The word of his arrival spread like wildfire. Before he had taken ten steps he was surrounded by several Achaeans, screaming for blood.

His skin glinted under the blood-red sky. Perseus tightened his grip on his sword, the blade gleaming with the savage light of his fury, dripping with blood he had already spilt. He was outnumbered, but he had no intention of retreating. He shuffled on his feet, eyes darting up to the tower. Someone had set fire to the base. He heard a scream. He had to be quick.

The first wave of Achaeans struck like a tide. Perseus ducked under the arc of a spear and slammed his fist into the wielder's face, shattering bone. He spun, his word cutting a wide arc, and two more Greeks fell, their armour splitting like ripe fruit. The weight of their bodies slowed their comrades, giving Perseus a precious heartbeat to advance. He drove forward, his fist battering another soldier off balance, his blade finding a gap in the next man's cuirass.

The battalion pressed harder, attempting to encircle him. Perseus' sharp eye caught the glint of a spear aimed at his side. He pivoted, letting the tip glance off his tunic, and drove his sword upward into the attacker's exposed neck. Blood sprayed hot across his face, but the immortal did not flinch. They were fools, for even attempting their luck against him, when everyone and their mothers knew he could not be killed. Another Greek came at him with a wild swing. Perseus sidestepped and countered with a savage slash, the force of his strike cutting through the man's shield arm.

The Greeks began to falter. They were men from various cities—he saw some with different insignia's; Ithaca's, Thrace, Phthia, Mycenae, Sparta, and Athens. None of them stood a chance. Their tightly packed formation was breaking apart under the sheer ferocity of Perseus' assault. They were crying out as they met his blade, and he was a blur of bronze and crimson, his movements fluid as a river yet as unyielding as a hurricane. Perseus parried a downward slash, locked the attacker's blade with his own, and twisted, sending the weapon clattering to the ground before driving his sword through the man's chest.

A spearhead grazed his thigh, drawing a line of gold. Perseus grunted but didn't slow. He grabbed the shaft and yanked it forward, pulling its wielder into range. A swift knee to the gut sent the man sprawling, and Perseus ended him with a yell and a downward stab.

Adrenaline pumped through his veins and the demigod narrowed his eye as shields locked together, spears bristling outward. Another scream resonated through the courtyard, bringing Perseus' attention to its source.

Through the smoke and flame, two figures emerged, trembling yet defiant, being herded like cattle to the centre of the courtyard for execution. Hecuba, the once-proud queen of Troy, her face streaked with ash and tears, stood clutching Laodice, her daughter. The girl's wide, tear-filled eyes locked onto Perseus from afar, desperate for salvation. Something thundered in his chest. The fight had been going on for too long. He had to be quick, or else—

"Please!" Hecuba rasped, her voice hoarse from screaming. "Perseus, help us!"

Before he could answer, a thunderous crash echoed from the tower above. A wailing cry carried over the destruction—Andromache and her son, Astyanax, surrounded on all sides by marauding Achaeans. He saw Andromache's face appear in the window, only to be yanked back. Then a man toppled through the glass, screaming.

Perseus swore, then dove into the fighting again. In minutes he had made quick work of the contingent around him and was diving for Hecuba and the princess.

They were equally just as surrounded, with the men leering and preparing to end their lives. Charging into their formation would be suicide for a lesser man.

But he was Perseus.

He looked around quickly and spotted a fallen javelin as he ran. With a burst of speed, he scooped it up. An Achaean commander had thrown Laodice onto her knees and was unbuckling his belt. A surge of anger seared through Perseus and he hurled the javelin. The weapon sailed true, piercing through the Greek wall and striking the man right in the chest. There was a ripple of confusion and indignation as he slumped to the ground. Laodice screamed as blood spurted onto her face.

A wave of Greek soldiers swarmed like a tide of death. With an earth-shaking roar, Perseus charged. His blade danced like silver lightning, cleaving through armour, flesh, and bone with supernatural precision. The pockets of Trojan soldiers still locked in battle around them screamed in support. Shields splintered, helmets caved, and the courtyard became an altar of vengeance. One by one, they fell. Perseus fought like a man possessed. Blood slicked the ground, turning it into a treacherous slippery battlefield. His own wounds bled freely but he barely felt them. As he neared the two women he grabbed Laodice by her arm and hauled her to her feet. Then he was pushing both of them away from the fighting, towards the base of the tower. Achaeans pursued them hotly. A head landed at his feet, from the top of the tower—A greek soldier.

There were Trojan guards up there, fighting to protect Hector's family. Good. They would have to buy him some time. He prepared to whistle and call for Blackjack to haul the women away.

Laodice clung to Hecuba, her sobs echoing through the growing carnage as they came to a stop. "Mother," she choked, "there's no escape. No hope. Troy is gone. Everything is gone!"

"No," Hecuba hissed, her voice trembling with rage and sorrow. Her nails dug into her daughter's shoulders. "We are not gone. We cannot be gone!" He had never seen the queen not put together before—dishevelled. It was unnerving.

Perseus turned and drove his sword into the nearest Greek. A shrill whistle escaped his lips. The demigod stiffened as he felt a vibration surge beneath him, and turned. The ground beneath them trembled; Laodice's knees buckled. A deafening crack split the air. Perseus recoiled in shock as the earth groaned like a wounded beast, and before his horrified eyes, the stones beneath Hecuba's daughter began to crumble. He struggled to take the reins of the earth beneath him—to tell it to stop, but it resisted even his push. He let out a gasp. "Mother!" Laodice screamed, her hand clawing at the empty air as a chasm opened beneath her. Hecuba lunged, her fingers grazing her daughter's hand—then she was gone, swallowed by the earth.

"No!" Hecuba's scream tore through the courtyard, louder than the clamour of battle. Perseus winched, and his own shock threatened to pull him under. The Achaeans were closer now, and he blocked another strike that would have taken his Queen's head, quickly overcoming his surprise. Her cries warped into something inhuman, a guttural howl that chilled even the immortal demigod to the core. He could see a dark shadow hurlting for them from the sky—Blackjack. Perseus turned in time to see Hecuba's body contort, her form twisting unnaturally. Her limbs lengthened, black fur sprouting where the skin had been. Her face stretched into a monstrous snout, and her eyes burned red with unholy fire.

The Queen of Troy was no more.

In her place stood a massive hellhound, its jaws slavering, its growl shaking the stones beneath it. The Greeks froze, their weapons trembling in their hands. But before they could react, the air grew colder, and shadows gathered like a storm. Perseus backed away, more in shock than in fear. He couldn't make sense of anything he was seeing. His eyes widened.

Behind the hellhound, a giant figure materialized. She was more shadow than flesh, her three heads shifting in and out of form—one wreathed in flames, another pale as the moon, and the third a black void that consumed the light around it. Then she was a horse, a dog, and a lion all at once. Then it shifted into a girl, a woman and a crone. Her name popped into his head immediately, and Perseus slid into a fighting stance. Hecate. The goddess of witchcraft, night, and crossroads loomed over the battlefield, her presence suffocating. In her right hand, she held two torches, lit with purple flames.

In the sky, Blackjack reared backwards and took off in the other direction.

The Greeks faltered, stepping back as fear rippled through their ranks. The hellhound—Hecuba—lowered her head and vanished into the shadows, leaving only silence in her wake. Perseus' heart broke and a cry escaped his lips. But she was gone. There was nothing left for her here. Hecate's three ever-changing faces turned toward Perseus, her gaze piercing through him. She lifted a hand and he clenched his jaw, prepared for the worst. But then the screaming came from behind him, and he whirled on his heel to find the Greek men, burning in purple fire, screaming and wailing and turning to ash. He turned back to the goddess in shock. The three heads smiled eerily at him.

Then as swiftly as she appeared, the goddess melted into the darkness, leaving the courtyard drenched in blood and dread.

Perseus panted. And then he jerked as another scream resonated through the courtyard. A baby's wail pierced the night.

Astyanax.

The son of Poseidon spun his sword and bolted up the flight of stairs, heart heavy.

BREAK

Aphrodite led them into the south side of the palace. The building was already crumbling, and in ruins, and they had had to dodge and backtrack and slip away from so many Achaeans it felt like they were in a horror play. But his mother was steadfast, and Aeneas followed resolutely behind her until they finally came to a stop beside the entrance into Priam's audience chamber.

Behind him, the people were wary, frustrated and exhausted. But he was their last hope, and they had all followed diligently and without question. Ascanius was tucked into Achates' side, his eyes fixed on his grandmother, and the other man himself could not take his gaze off the beauty goddess. Aeneas did not care what the people thought, or how they were looking at his mother like she was a saviour descended from the heavens. She was basking in the attention, and Aeneas grunted, shifting beneath the weight of his father and signalling her to move on. The sounds of fighting and laughter, amidst celebration and screaming were filling the air around them.

Aeneas hated that he could not save more people. Already about twelve more had joined them on the way. But it would never be enough.

Aphrodite waved a hand and a grinding noise filled the air. The wall beside the door began to shudder. The stone trembled, and Aeneas watched pensively as it shifted every-so-slowly, until a gaping dark hole stood before them. The goddess turned, and said, "This is another entrance to the royal crypts. Follow me."

The people shifted behind them. Aeneas could sense their hesitation, and he felt his father tense on his shoulders. The weight was crushing, but he gritted his teeth. He would carry Anchises until they got to safety, or he died from exhaustion. He would make sure his father escaped this nightmare. He would make sure they made it out—for Creüsa, for his son, and for Hector. "Come on," Aeneas growled. "We don't have any time to waste."

Aphrodite plunged into the dark passage, and Aeneas darted in after her. Briseis was right on his heels, then Achates, and then the others were piling in, walking in twos and hurrying after the immortal deity, hands around the little household statues of the gods they had managed to escape with. Aeneas' heart thrummed in his chest as he followed, anxiety and anticipation eating away at him, his head aching from all the crying and screaming, his body begging for respite. But he forged on, although every step felt like he was walking through cement. His feet felt like lead, and his father's weight pressed him down, drawing beads of sweat onto his forehead. His armour was hot, and sticking to his body. His hair was matted, and his sweat mixed with the blood, ash and grime covering his body, adding to Aeneas' displeasure.

But still, he followed. Still, he pushed on.

Because there was nothing he could do now except that. Because he had to go, and he felt horrible for leaving his city behind, but he had to go.

Troy was gone. Troy was gone and it was time to say goodbye.

Every step felt final; agonizing. Every grunt took something from him.

Behind them the wall slid back into place with the same grinding noise.

The passage was dark, but Aphrodite's figure was glowing, lighting up the path. The walls were lined with urns, the ashes of Troy's kings watching in silence, as though giving them strength, urging them on. Behind each pot of ashes was a giant stone statue of their owner. Aeneas' gaze flickered past the most recent one—Paris'. The prince's eyes seemed to follow him as he went. And then there was Hector, large and imposing, warm and dead. The statue did not do his friend much justice. But Hector seemed to smile down at him, and Aeneas got the strength to carry on. He tried not to look at the urn holding his friend's ashes. He tried not to remember what it had been like coming down here every day after his death, and weeping till he had nothing left to give.

It was a tragedy, that Priam himself, and his other children would not have the chance to join their family in their crypts. And these ashes would remain hidden here until the end of time. He wanted to pick Hector's with him. But his best friend had loved the city, and he deserved to rest with the place he had died defending.

Vaguely, Aeneas wondered where his mother was leading them. The crypts were sealed; it was a long path leading from the statues of the most recently dead and ending at the feet of first king of the land. There was only one entrance he knew of—a small room behind Priam's throne in the audience chamber, which opened up right where they'd come from—in front of the statue of Paris. Only members of the royal family knew of the crypt's existence. He didn't know how Aphrodite had made a doorway into the same position at a different side of the palace, but he wasn't about to question her.

She had not failed him so far. She had come, albeit a bit later than expected. Aphrodite was his mother, and despite how much time it had taken him to forgive her initial neglect, he trusted her with his life.

They continued walking, and everyone was silent, as though stricken dumb by grief. The tension was thick in the air, and Aeneas gripped his father's thighs tightly as he led them. Finally, after what seemed like hours of walking, the sound of the fighting and wailing seemed to fade, bit by bit, until it was no more. The city seemed too distant, and Aeneas had never felt so separated from it before. Aphrodite came to a stop and raised her hand. The people stilled behind him. Aeneas turned. He could see the emptiness of their eyes, reflecting the horror of everything witnessed that night, even little Ascanius.

His mouth tasted bitter.

The air was damp and cold, carrying the scent of roses and vanilla, a wide disparity from the blood and death they had just come out of. But still, Aeneas did not feel safe. Not until he could not feel it anymore.

His body screamed for respite, his heart ached with loss, and his mind reeled with the enormity of what he had lost—what they had all lost. Yet he would carry his father and his people out of Troy. He felt as though he bore the weight of the world itself—a weight he could never abandon. The fate of the last blood of Troy rested in his hands.

He met his mother's eyes one more time. Behind her towered the largest of the stone statues—the first king of his beloved city, ancient, resolute, solidified with age. Aphrodite waved her hands and the stone creaked. The grinding noise filled the cavern again. The statue was shifting, moving to the side behind the urn of ashes, until it finally ground to a stop. Another gaping dark hole opened up in front of them. A cold breeze wafted through.

Aphrodite held up her hands and twin torches appeared in her grip. Her face was majestic as she said, "The royal family had this passage made for a moment just like this, a very, very long time ago. Over time that knowledge was lost to them because it was never used—no enemy that faced Troy ever got in." She paused. "It will lead you directly out of the city and into a cave atop Mount Ida, far away from here. Once you are safe, descend the mountain down to the other side and get to the beach; there will be a ship waiting, to take you away."

Aeneas nodded, and stood to the side, calling, "Alright, you heard her. Let's go." Briseis went in first, taking one of the torches with a bow. Then the others were following, swiftly and full of murmured thanks, until Achates took up the rear. Anchises grunted from atop Aeneas, "Thank you, Aphrodite."

The goddess looked up, at the man she had denied since the morning after she had bedded him. She had no love for his father, he knew. But still, she was grateful that the end result had been him. She nodded, then focused back on Aeneas.

"Go," she said, voice tinged with pride. "This is the path the fates have chosen for you. Carry your people forward. Let Troy live in your blood."

Aeneas nodded. His hands shook, but he inhaled, trying not to think about the weight of it all. This was it—this was the end; or rather, a new beginning. Aphrodite leaned forward and handed the other torch to his father. She planted a kiss on Aeneas' cheek. "I love you, my son. And I will be with you, always."

"Always," He repeated. His throat felt tight. He could envision the ruins of his home above them—the flames licking at the sky, the echoes of battle growing distant. Aeneas stepped into the darkness.

Atop his back he was carrying his father.

In his hands he held his son's future.

In his heart he held his wife's sacrifice.

In his will he held the hope of his brothers.

And within him he held the shattered pieces of his soul.

Aeneas walked away from Troy.

And he did not look back.

BREAK

Perseus staggered through the crumbling corridors of Troy's dying palace, his breath laboured and ragged. Ahead of him raced Andromache, clutching her wailing baby to her chest and trying not to fall. He had gotten her out of the tower, but before he could summon Blackjack again, the Achaeans had swarmed, crazy for blood. They had been forced to run, and he needed to get them to a balcony or something so the flying horse could get to them.

The air was thick with ash and smoke, carrying with it the acrid stench of fire and the metallic tang of blood. The world was falling apart—Troy had already fallen apart—and he was running out of time. Behind him, the shouts of Achaean soldiers rang out like hunting horns, growing louder with every breathless second.

Ahead of him, Andromache clutched Astyanax tightly to her chest, the boy's small face pressed into her shoulder, muffling his terrified sobs. Her hair was wild, tangled with ash and sweat, but she moved with desperate purpose, her eyes fixed on the broken path before them. Perseus followed, his grip tightening on the sword in his hand, ready to end any life that impeded their movement.

He turned a corner, and the floor beneath him buckled violently, nearly throwing him into a collapsing column. Dust filled the air, choking his lungs, and for a moment, he could barely see. A window shattered beside him.

And then he saw her.

Through the newly created jagged gap in the palace wall, the scene below blazed into focus: Polyxena, bound to a blackened stake in the middle of the courtyard. Her white nightdress was stained with dirt and blood, her dark hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. Around her, the flames licked hungrily at the base of the pyre, glowing orange against the bruised sky.

A ring of Achaeans surrounded her, their spears raised like the teeth of a cage. At the centre of it all was Diomedes, standing tall with a torch in his hand. His face was grim, his jaw set—his eyes alight with cruelty and resolve.

Polyxena did not scream. She stood silently, her head held high, though her shoulders trembled. She was looking up—not at the heavens, but at him, through the broken wall. Her gaze pierced through the chaos, finding Perseus where he stood above her, frozen. Her lips moved, forming silent words that he could not hear but felt deep in his soul.

"Remember me."

His heart clenched. He recalled stolen kisses in dark passageways, brushes of skin against each other as they walked opposite ways in the days of his youth when life had been simpler. It had been after Cass, but before Briseis and Selene.

"Perseus!" Andromache's voice cut through the moment, sharp and urgent. She had stopped at the end of the corridor, Astyanax still clinging to her like a lifeline. "We have to go!"

He tore his eyes away from Polyxena, his chest heaving. The walls groaned around him, and a massive crack split the floor between him and Andromache. The Achaeans were pulling the castle to the ground. The flames were consuming everything. She reached out for him, her face pale with fear. "Perseus!"

But the pyre below roared louder, the flames rising higher. Perseus turned back to the gap, his breath caught in his throat as the firelight danced across Polyxena's face. She was no longer looking at him; her head was bowed, her eyes closed as if in prayer. The smoke curled around her like a serpent, and the heat shimmered in the air, distorting her figure.

And then came the war cries.

Neoptolemus and his men burst through the collapsing corridor, their swords and shields gleaming with the blood of Troy's defenders. Behind them was Odysseus, moving with calculated precision, his gaze sweeping the scene like a predator sizing up its prey. Perseus tightened his grip on his sword, his body tensing as the first of the Achaeans charged toward him.

Andromache screamed as Neoptolemus' men surged forward, their blades raised. Perseus met them head-on, his sword slicing through the air in desperate arcs. He fought with everything he had, every strike fueled by rage and desperation, but the numbers were overwhelming.

He turned back toward the gap in the wall. Polyxena was still there, the flames now licking at the hem of her dress. Her lips were moving again, and for one agonizing moment, he thought she was calling his name.

He wanted to jump down and save her. He wanted to fight these bastards off and protect his best mate's family. But he could not be in two places at once.

The gods were cruel, so cruel, to put him here, now, in this moment where there was no right answer.

He could turn back to Andromache and Astyanax, fight through the ambush and try to lead them to safety. If he didn't, they would be cut down, and the last heir of Troy would die screaming in his mother's arms.

But Polyxena—innocent Polyxena—was being consumed by fire, her sacrifice the final insult to a city already bleeding out. He could leap into the courtyard, fight his way through Diomedes' men, and free her. He could save her.

But he couldn't do both.

"Perseus!" Andromache's voice was raw now, her free hand reaching for him as Astyanax cried out in terror.

Below, Polyxena opened her eyes, and they met his one last time. There was no blame in them, no accusation. Only quiet acceptance.

He plunged into the fray, his sword slashing through Neoptolemus' men as he fought them off, preventing any access to Andromache. But his eyes kept darting back to the courtyard below, where the flames were rising higher, and Polyxena's figure was becoming obscured by the smoke.

"No!" he shouted, his voice breaking.

But it was too late. The pyre erupted into a pillar of fire, swallowing Polyxena whole. Her scream finally came, a sound that pierced through the chaos and seared itself into Perseus' soul.

The walls shuddered again, the palace groaning under its own weight. Perseus stood frozen between the two worlds, his heart tearing itself apart. His feet moved on instinct, carrying him backwards—toward Andromache, toward Astyanax, away from Polyxena, and the bloody encumbrance of it all. He let lose a sound of defiance, of heartbreak, of fury at the gods who had placed this burden upon him.

Andromache's cries pulled him from his thoughts. He turned to see Neoptolemus advancing on them, his blade gleaming. Astyanax clung to his mother, his small body trembling.

Perseus cried out again, his voice raw, and moved faster. He grabbed onto her hand and hauled her forward, and then they were racing, away from Odysseus, away from Neoptolemus, away from the ruinous and disastrous complexity of it all. They bounded up a flight of crumbling steps, towards where Aeneas' old chambers had been—he would get to the balcony from there. He would call for Blackjack. He would save them. He had to. But Polyxena's face burned in his mind, her final plea echoing in his ears.

He could not save them all. The gods had made sure of that.

But he would try until he released his fading breath.

BREAK

The palace shuddered with a deafening groan, stone splitting and splintering as Troy's death knell echoed through its ancient halls. Perseus ducked under a collapsing beam, his heart pounding, sweat and ash streaking his face. Andromache's screams tore through the chaos, louder than the collapse of walls, louder even than the cries of the Achaeans around him. Astyanax sobbed in her arms as Neoptolemus surged toward them, his bloodstained sword raised high.

He didn't know how they had caught up. He didn't know how they'd been cut off just when the chambers were a walking distance away. Part of the wall had fallen, and the wind blew ash and blood into the crumbling passageway. Behind them were boulders and debris, collapsed from the ceiling above, blocking any sort of escape.

Perseus hurled himself into the path of the brute, his blade meeting Neoptolemus in a clash that reverberated up his arm. The force of the blow sent sparks flying, but Perseus stood firm, his face twisted with rage.

"You won't touch them!" he snarled, his voice raw.

Neoptolemus grinned, cruel and confident, his muscles taut as he drove Perseus back with a flurry of strikes. The son of Achilles fought like a predator, every blow relentless, every step pushing Perseus closer to the edge of frustration. But Perseus held his ground, blocking and countering with precision. He would not let a child hinder his mission. He would kill them all. He could kill them all.

But even he knew that he was one man. He could not hold them off long enough. If even one got past his guard, Andromache was dead. They had their backs to the blocked boulders, and short of fighting and killing all the soldiers, there was no other way out.

Behind him, Andromache stumbled till her back was to the collapsed wall, clutching Astyanax tightly. But the Achaean soldiers closed in. "Perseus!" she screamed, her voice fractured with terror.

The battle was chaos—a blur of blades and shouts. Perseus lunged, his sword carving a shallow gash across Neoptolemus' arm. The boy roared in pain and anger, his next strike wild and powerful, and Perseus dodged the blow effectively, backhanding the child and sending him stumbling into the walls.

He crossed swords with Odysseus, hacking, slashing, and dodging. He blocked a strike on his gauntlet and hurled the man away. Perseus let out a yell and he felt a familiar tug in his gut. The blood on the stones rose, and several spears shot into the crowd, tearing through armour and throats. But still, they kept coming.

A scream from behind him drew his attention—Neoptolemus had gotten behind him while he'd been distracted, and grabbed Andromache. She fought like a cornered lioness, her nails raking at her captor's face, her cries a cacophony of rage and desperation. Astyanax screamed, his small hands flailing toward his mother. She punched him in the nose and the man went stumbling backwards into his guards.

The palace trembled violently, the floor beneath them cracking as massive stones rained from above. Perseus barely managed to dodge a falling column, his body aching.

"You're too late, Perseus," Neoptolemus hissed, his voice dripping with venom as he regained his footing. "Troy is ash, and its people are nothing. You are nothing." He heard a wail from the baby, and the son of Achilles laughed again, mockingly, "Oh, Princess Andromache. Your city is gone, your husband is dead. Surrender yourself to me and you will not have to die alongside it. Your son will not have to die with it."

Hector's widow clutched the baby tighter, and spat, "You're going to have to kill us first."

Perseus was panting, his chest rising and falling with the effort it was taking to simply breathe in the chaos. Beside him, the wall was crumbling, and a hole larger than he was had opened up. Perseus positioned his sword in front of his body and took a step backwards, standing staunchly in front of the family of his best friend.

"And if you want to get to them you're going to have to kill me first," He bared his teeth. "And we all know how that'll end up for you."

It was a staring contest between Perseus, Neoptolemus, and Odysseus, with Andromache and her baby behind him, and an army of Achaeans behind the other two. He wasn't ready to budge, and neither were they. Perseus' fingers danced on the hilt of his sword, and he clenched his jaw. His immortality didn't mean he was omnipotent or had eternal stamina. Sooner or later, he would tire. They were numerous. They could dance around him until daybreak if need be. Until he collapsed from exhaustion.

Perseus was about to attack when he heard it— a cry from below, familiar, loud, and in so much pain.

"Perseus!" His name, agony present in the voice—a voice he had grown up with. Aeneas. No—how? "Help!" Then mocking laughter.

His brother's voice drew his attention, and for a split second, Perseus' head snapped to the side, towards the hole in the wall, the source of the sound.

It was the only moment Neoptolemus needed.

Before he knew what was happening he felt hands on him, precise and targeted, a forceful push, and then he was stumbling forward. "What—" His surprised cry was cut off by another set of hands on him—larger, and burlier, Odysseus, taking advantage of his disorientation. Before Perseus knew what had happened he'd been grabbed and hurled through the hole in the wall.

Perseus heard Andromache's scream, cutting him out of his shock, and a yell escaped him. He glanced down, and saw the fast approaching floor, the fires and the soldiers, the dying and the wounded, looking up from below in surprise. Swearing in panic, Perseus tucked and rolled as he landed on the ground, his body absorbing the impact, and then he rose to his feet instantaneously, searching, anywhere, for Aeneas.

Before he could react or form a coherent thought, he was surrounded by a contingent of Greek soldiers, and the son of Poseidon looked up to the hole when he heard another scream, which chilled him to his very bones.

"My son! No! Please—" Andromache was cut off and Neoptolemus suddenly stood in front of the hole, holding on to Astyanax by the foot. The bay flailed and wailed, and Neoptolemus laughed. Perseus felt horror crawling up his spine, and he bellowed, "Don't you dare—"

"Let all of Troy watch," Neoptolemus announced with a grin, "As its future falls!"

He breathed sharply.

A rush of wind swept around him.

Time seemed to slow.

Perseus vanished into mist the moment Neoptolemus released Astyanax.

The baby's scream tore through the night like a death knell, silencing even the chaos of the battle below, sending shockwaves of defeat to every Trojan still alive. The boy fell, his cries resonating across the entire palace grounds, and Andromache's answering shriek followed right behind him. Perseus appeared right beneath the window, his body solidifying from the spray of water. Everything happened so fast, yet at a snail's pace, and a cry tore itself out of his throat as he reached out to grab the baby, his desperation transcending thought, his hands reaching—too late. No!

His fingers were still reforming into solid when Astyanax sailed through them and crashed onto the ground in front of him, and he coagulated beside the dead infant on the blood-soaked ground. The cries abruptly cut off. The sound of Astyanax's body striking the ground was a final, brutal punctuation to the destruction of Hector's bloodline.

The world stilled.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze.

He stumbled forward, his knees hitting the ground beside the lifeless body of the boy. His hands trembled as he reached out, taking hold of the boy and cradling Astyanax in his arms. The child's wide, unseeing eyes stared up at the sky, and Perseus felt something inside him shatter.

Perseus stared at the broken body of Hector's son, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. He knelt, his hand trembling as it hovered over the body. A roar of anguish erupted from him, shaking the earth beneath the Greeks' feet.

The immortal surged to his feet, his grief turning into unbridled fury. The ground beneath him trembled as his power erupted, sending cracks spiderwebbing through the earth. The palace shifted.

Astyanax was dead.

"Hector's bloodline has ended!" Achilles' son roared. There was an answering cry of victory from the assembled Achaeans.

Perseus vanished into mist almost immediately and reappeared behind the bastard prince, swinging. A bronze sword connected with his, and Odysseus pushed back with a grunt. Tears leaked out of his single eye as he regained his footing and slashed again. "How could you?" He snarled. "He was a baby!" He swung again for Odysseus, his sword slashing across his chest, but not deep enough to cause any substantial damage. The Ithacan stumbled aside and Perseus launched himself for the son of Achilles. "A baby!" His sword cleaved into Neoptolemus' gauntlet, and the prince let out a cry of pain. Perseus was about to swing for his head when he darted aside, just as a tide of soldiers swarmed him.

Beside the wall Andromache was on her knees, sobbing pitifully, shaking in her bloodied robes. Odysseus called, "It had to be done, Perseus! Lest the boy grow and try to avenge his father's death."

The demigod spat at him. He shook in fury. "You bastard! He was a baby. He was just a baby!" The soldiers closed in.

Perseus fought like a man possessed, cutting through the ranks with reckless abandon. His sword found flesh again and again, but the Achaeans seemed endless, their bodies closing around him like vultures circling a dying beast. He saw Odysseus, beside Achilles' bastard, and then Andromache was just a few feet away from him, sobbing into her hands.

The son of Poseidon fought faster, whirling all the blood around him in tandem with his sword, like a very sharp rope, cutting down the endless army of men.

The walls of Troy's palace groaned again, the ceiling above him crumbling. A massive stone beam crashed down inches from where he fought, flattening two men.

Andromache was crying, and Neoptolemus' laugh bounded through the passageway.

It sparked an anger inside Perseus.

Heat seared through the passage.

The flames had reached them.

The demigod was aware of the crying mother behind him. He was aware of the Ithacan king raising his sword to join the fray. He was aware of Diomedes below them, leading men up a column of stairs to serve as reinforcements. The whole palace shook again. Perseus roared, power thrumming through his veins. He felt the blood coursing through Neoptolemus' body and jerked his wrist, sending the man flying and slamming into the wall with a sickening crunch.

And then he heard another shriek and spun.

In the chaos of the fighting, Odysseus had crept behind him and the men. Athena's favoured held Hector's bride close to him, his sword at her throat. His eyes glinted, but a frown marred his face. Perseus huffed, his heart falling. No.

Why couldn't he—why did nothing ever work out? He had just wanted to save them.

"Stand down, Perseus," Odysseus called, voice flat and emotionless. "Hector's son might be dead but that does not mean his wife has to join the boy."

"You…" He shook, bringing his sword down. Perseus scanned the situation. He could mist travel. He could fight. But it wouldn't matter. Before he got there Odysseus would have cut her throat. Andromache would be dead. The Ithacan began to move, against the wall, and Perseus moved alongside, keeping him and every man in the room in his sight. Odysseus inched against the stone until he stood beside Neoptolemus. Perseus shifted on his feet and Andromache gasped as the blade dug into her neck, drawing blood.

"I know you're thinking you can take us all," Odysseus taunted. "But your immortality doesn't mean you are invincible or infallible, Perseus. We have the numbers and the weapons and the hostage. You can be slowed and restrained. Do the statistics. You aren't all-powerful. Before you take half of us down she'll be dead." He paused, looking Perseus dead in the eye. "And your strength means nothing if you cannot protect the ones you love."

Perseus felt desperation claw at him. His heart began to thunder, and his chest rose and fell with fury, and agony, at the situation they were in. "Get out of Troy, Perseus," Odysseus advised. "There is nothing left for you here."

Andromache's eyes flickered everywhere, the fear in them latching at his heart. He couldn't leave her. He couldn't leave her to them. Not after Astyanax. He couldn't fail at that too.

Perseus watched as Odysseus and his men began to inch away. He panted, as slowly, they crept back through the passage, Andromache shaking in Odysseus' arms, and he met her eyes one final time.

"I'll find you!" Perseus roared, "I'll find you, Andromache!"

The Achaeans began to run as the ceiling started to fall. Perseus launched after them just as Odysseus pushed the widow into Neoptolemus' arm, and they took off down the burning passageway. "Stop him!" The Phthian called to the men.

The weight of his failures pressed down on him but he couldn't think about that or the fact that beneath them, his godson lay dead in the ashes, and barbarians were carting away his sister-in-law. Odysseus and Neoptolemus disappeared into the chaos, taking Andromache with them. Several of their men stood behind and tried to impede his path, but Perseus leapt at them, ferociously tearing through their ranks. He fought on, his roars shaking the battlefield, but the Greeks didn't aim to kill him. They pinned him down, their sheer numbers threatening to overwhelm his strength. But he pressed through until they all lay dead at his feet.

Perseus huffed and stared down the path Odysseus and Neoptolemus had taken.

He swung his sword and plunged into the flames after them.

BREAK

He was exhausted.

He was grief-stricken.

And he was furious.

The demigod followed the trail of destruction throughout the palace. When the veil of ash and fire began to thin, Perseus emerged from the wreckage, his chest heaving, his muscles burning with exertion. The ground beneath him was a mosaic of shattered stone and blackened timbers, a battlefield painted with the blood of his people. His ears rang with the chaos of Troy's final night—the clash of steel, the cries of the dying, and the crackling of flames devouring everything in their path.

Ahead, a path of carnage stretched into the palace grounds, littered with the bodies of Trojans who had dared to stand. Perseus recognized the savage efficiency of the slaughter—it was Neoptolemus' handiwork. The young warrior carved through the remnants of Hector's city with a brutality that rivalled his father's, leaving ruin in his wake. Perseus pressed on, his hands clenched into fists, his eyes aflame with wrath.

"Andromache," he muttered his voice barely a whisper but carrying the weight of a thousand promises. "Hold on."

The trail led deeper into the heart of the palace, where the destruction grew even more savage. Here, the Greeks had made their final stand, overwhelming the last defenders in a frenzy of bloodlust.

Perseus stepped over the broken body of a Trojan soldier, his heart pounding as he spotted a fragment of fabric snagged on the splintered edge of a beam. It was torn from Andromache's dress.

His breath caught, and for a moment, the overwhelming tide of grief threatened to drown him. But then the rage took hold, surging through his veins like molten fire. He would not let her be lost—not her, not Hector's last living legacy.

The sounds of the Achaeans drew him forward, their jeering laughter echoing off the palace walls. When Perseus reached the clearing, the sight that greeted him stopped his heart. Andromache was there, struggling in the iron grip of Neoptolemus, her hair dishevelled, her face streaked with soot and tears. The prince dragged her forward with one hand, his other gripping a bloodstained sword.

Perseus roared, the sound splitting the air like a thunderclap. Every head turned toward him, and for a moment, the battlefield seemed to still.

"It's him," one of the Greeks murmured, his voice tinged with both fear and awe.

Neoptolemus, however, was unshaken. He grinned, his teeth bared like a wolf savouring its prey. "You're too late, Perseus," he called out, his voice carrying across the expanse. "Your strength won't save her now. Troy is mine, and so is she."

Perseus moved like a storm, his feet pounding the ground as he charged. The first line of soldiers scrambled to intercept him, their weapons raised, but it was like trying to stop an avalanche. His fists shattered shields, his strikes sent men flying, and his presence alone turned courage to dust.

But for every man he felled, two more took his place. Odysseus barked orders, his voice sharp and commanding. The Greeks closed in, their spears and swords gleaming in the firelight. Perseus fought like a man possessed, his every motion a testament to his divine bloodline, but even he could not be everywhere at once.

"Stop him!" Neoptolemus shouted, dragging Andromache toward the far side of the clearing. "He cannot save her if he's buried beneath a mountain of soldiers."

Perseus surged forward, his gaze locked on Andromache, but the Greeks swarmed him. Spears struck his immortal flesh, glancing off but slowing his advance. Blades nicked at his arms and legs, the sheer weight of numbers threatening to pull him down. For every soldier he defeated, more poured in from the shadows. Diomedes', Menelaus', Nestor's, Ajax's, even Agamemnon's. They were uncountable.

In the distance, Andromache screamed his name, her voice cutting through the din. Perseus roared again, his power spilling out in waves that shook the ground beneath their feet. The palace trembled, stone cracking under the force of his fury, and for a brief moment, the Greeks hesitated.

But it was enough for Neoptolemus. He turned and disappeared into the labyrinth of the palace with Andromache in tow, leaving only the echoes of his mocking laughter behind.

BREAK

As the first pale fingers of dawn stretched across the sky, the city of Troy burned. The flames roared like wild beasts, devouring stone and wood alike, their crackling fury drowning out the cries of the dying. Perseus stood amidst the wreckage, a solitary figure of defiance, his chest heaving as smoke and ash filled his lungs. Every inch of his immortal body was marked by the long hours of unending combat—scratches and wounds marred his tan skin, blood stained his hands, and exhaustion weighed down his every movement. Yet he fought on, the determination in his eyes brighter than the fires around him.

His frame was battered, his spirit burdened. The once-proud city, with its towering walls and golden halls, was now a smouldering graveyard. Fires licked at the shattered remains of homes and temples, and the cries of the dying mingled with the triumphant shouts of the Achaeans. Perseus found himself drowning in the weight of a thousand failures.

His hands gripped his sword with a strength that belied the cracks forming in his resolve. He had fought for hours without pause, cutting through countless Greeks like a storm unleashed. Each swing of his blade was a declaration of defiance, each enemy felled a small retribution for the horrors inflicted on his people. Yet for every foe he struck down, a dozen more surged forward, their spears and arrows raining upon him in an unrelenting tide.

His body bore the toll of the battle. His breaths came ragged and uneven, each one searing his lungs like fire. His muscles screamed for a reprieve, his movements slower than they had been at the night's onset. Blood—his golden one and that of others—streaked his tunic, turning its grey sheen into a grim testament to the slaughter.

Troy, the city of legends, had fallen. Its proud walls—walls that had withstood ten years of siege—had crumbled under the relentless assault of the Achaeans. The streets ran red with blood, and the anguished screams of its people rose like a dirge to the heavens. Perseus, sword in hand, had fought through it all: the burning palace, the collapsing towers, the unceasing tide of enemies. Every strike of his blade was a silent promise to those who had fallen. He would not let them be forgotten. He would avenge them all. He would fight until the number of Greek dead equalled the Trojan lifeless.

But even he was beginning to falter. His strikes, once precise and devastating, now carried the weight of exhaustion. Each movement felt slower, as though the very air around him resisted his efforts. His breaths were laboured, rasping against the unyielding pressure in his chest. He could not remember the last time he had stopped to rest—or if he even could.

His resolve to kill every Achaean in the city still burned in his mind, pushing him forward, and filling him with the strength he needed. He couldn't give up.

This was what he had decided to do once he'd accepted there was no way to stop the invasion. He had tried to save so many along the way—people that mattered to him—and had failed miserably. And now he could do nothing else but try to avenge them.

By now, Aeneas and whatever survivors he had met should have escaped the city. Aphrodite had promised. But he didn't know. He had heard his brother back in the palace. He'd been in pain, and when Perseus had fallen he hadn't even had the time to check for Aeneas's presence—whether he was being attacked or already amongst the numerous dead. Astyanax's fall had distracted him and everything else after had confused and jilted him so much that the son of Poseidon hadn't even had the time to think of anything else.

By now, Andromache was being tied up in chains, the prize of a war he had lost, and a city he had failed to protect.

By now, Selene's and Helios's path to non-existence was building gradually, and he did not know when it would stop or when they would leave him. It had been his job to prevent that, and he had never felt more useless.

Perseus fought his way down the smouldering palace grounds, cutting down any Greek soldier who dared to challenge him. His blade moved like a vengeful storm, slicing through shields and armour as though they were made of parchment. But for every man he struck down, ten more seemed to take their place.

Perseus gritted his teeth and raised his sword, cutting through the soldiers with an almost mechanical precision. It was as though every single king in Achaean ranks had sent their men to fight him. Hundreds of thousands of men swarmed him from all sides.

His strikes were less graceful now, more desperate, fueled by a grim determination to take as many of them with him as he could. He was no longer fighting to save Troy; Troy was gone. He fought now for vengeance, for the slim chance that his wrath might carve some measure of justice from the ashes.

First, he would tear down the armies. And then he would find the big players—Agamemnon and his brother Menelaus, Odysseus, Nestor, and Diomedes. Neoptolemus. Wherever they were hiding, or pillaging, or killing, he would find them. Then he would rip them apart.

With a growl, he swung his sword and attacked.

As he fought, he clenched his jaw. He could see the cowardice in their eyes, the fear that kept them from closing the distance. He swung his sword again, the force of the strike sending a nearby soldier sprawling, but his arm trembled with the effort. His strength, once boundless, now felt like sand slipping through his fingers.

He thought of Selene, her luminous presence like a distant star in his memory.

He missed her.

He had failed her.

But even still, he could feel her, like a phantom hand on his shoulder, lending him her strength, filling him and keeping him from crashing. Because even though Troy was gone, he was hers, no matter how long they had left. Selene, wherever she was, was pushing him on, lending her support, like always. The thought tore at him as much as the loss of Hector's family. How could he even take from her, knowing that he had not even been able to prevent whatever Phoebe's prophecy meant for her? How many more could he fail before even his godlike endurance crumbled under the weight?

He wished he was with Selene, then. But she hadn't shown up that night, even though she had meant to before the chaos. He was starting to think something was already wrong.

And then, through the chaos, a sound pierced the air—a child's cry. Perseus' heart tightened. He turned toward the source for a brief second, slicing open a throat as he did so, eye scanning the rubble until it found a collapsed section of the palace wall. Flames danced across the stones, and beyond them, he saw a woman, clutching a child to her chest. She was surrounded, her back pressed against a fragment of the wall as Ancaeus, the King of Arcadia, strode forward with his men.

The scene sparked something in him, the memory of his best friend's baby being hurled from the palace walls into the flames below.

Perseus lunged toward them, but his path was blocked by a sudden deluge of Greeks. He roared in frustration, his sword cleaving through the first of them, but they pressed in closer, their sheer numbers threatening to overwhelm him. Above the din of battle, he heard the old man's mocking voice.

"Take the girl, and kill the child," The king sneered, his voice dripping with cruelty. Perseus's chest tightened. He knew what would happen to any of the stragglers. He knew how war slaves were treated, and how the women would end up, and the despair of the situation drove him forward as the men surrounded the dirt-streaked woman.

Perseus fought harder, his desperation lending him strength. He was so close—he could see the fear in her eyes, the way her son clung to her, too young to understand what was happening. It reminded him too much of the family he had lost just hours prior. He struck down another soldier, then another, his path slowly clearing. But just as he was about to break through, a blinding light exploded around him.

The demigod stumbled, disoriented, as the light consumed his vision. The Achaeans around him cried out in surprise.

Apollo—he could feel the god's presence in the way the air seemed to hum with power. "No!" Perseus roared, swinging his sword wildly, but it met only empty air. The voice came next, loud and clear.

"Your fight is not here, Perseus," Apollo said, his tone calm and infuriatingly detached. "You cannot change what is destined."

The god's power wrapped around him like chains, pulling him away from the wall, away from the men. He fought against it, his feet digging into the ground, but it was like trying to stop the tide of the ocean. The haze of light grew brighter, hotter, almost burning, and a scream ripped up out of his throat.

As quickly as it had come, the light suddenly vanished, and Perseus' vision cleared.

He stood alone outside Troy, atop a nearby hill, the city's burning silhouette rising against the horizon like a cruel mockery of what it had once been.

Perseus staggered forward, his sword slipping from his grasp to land with a hollow thud in the sand. He fell to his knees, his hands clutching the earth as though it could anchor him to reality. His heart thundered in his chest, a tempest of rage, grief, and despair. He had been pulled from the fight—not by the Greeks, not even by any of the gods who supported the demons from across the sea, but by something deeper, more insidious —one he had called friend.

"Apollo," he whispered, his voice hoarse with fury. The god's blinding light had robbed him of his chance to fight, to take down the enemies amidst the ruins of the city he had sworn to defend. He could feel an explosion coming, the anger building inside him, the grief overwhelming him, the pain chasing away any semblance of rationality.

The breeze lifted his hair as he looked back toward Troy, its walls crumbling beneath the relentless onslaught of the Achaeans. Somewhere within those flames, Hector's bloodline was extinguished, and Andromache was lost.

Somewhere in that bloodlust, Aeneas and his father were probably dead.

Somewhere in that chaos, Selene's fading had been set in motion, each ember a whisper of her diminishing essence.

He screamed, a sound torn from the depths of his soul, raw and unrelenting. The heavens seemed to shudder under the weight of his anguish, but no answer came. He had fought the will of the gods, defied fate itself, and battled men and monsters, and yet, it had been for nothing.

Troy had fallen.

The people he had sworn to protect were gone. His strength, his immortality, had been nothing but hollow gifts—tools that could not overcome the inevitability of destiny.

He felt the sun god when he materialised in front of him, golden and resolute.

Apollo appeared before him, his golden form untouched by the destruction. "It is done," the god said simply.

Perseus looked up, his eye burning with tears. "You let this happen," he said, his voice a broken whisper. Something had cracked, somewhere deep within him, and he could feel his very self unravelling. "You let them die. Your city." He swallowed. "Why did you take me away?"

Apollo's gaze didn't waver. "Troy's fall was always written." His words slammed into the demigod like a battering ram. "You should have guessed that by now. You are a force, Perseus, but even you cannot stand against fate."

Perseus closed his eyes, the weight of his failures pressing down on him like the ruins of the city he could not save. As the sun rose higher, its light banishing the shadows, he knew one truth: Troy was gone, and so too was everything he had fought for. Yet within the ashes, his rage simmered, a spark that refused to die.

"You should have left me to avenge them," He rasped.

"Don't be foolish, Perseus," Apollo said, his voice sharp but laced with pity. "Did you mean to waste your immortality there, buried beneath mortal rubble and squabble?"

Perseus looked up, his face streaked with tears and soot and his body shaking with anger. "Why did you make me abandon them, Apollo? I could have saved—"

"There was no one left to save!" Apollo snapped. He stalked forward. "This was not abandonment, Perseus! It was survival. You are Troy's legacy now, and you must carry it forward!"

"Legacy?" He snarled, standing. "Our legacy died with Astyanax! Our legacy died with Andromache! My brother is somewhere in the city, when Aphrodite promised to lead him out! Our legacy died with him and all the people he was supposed to find and escape with!"

"Aeneas isn't dead," Apollo shook his head. "He's very much alive and very much safe. He wasn't in the city. It wasn't him you heard."

The realisation hit him then, sudden, immediate and hard, like a hammer to the head. Perseus staggered back, running a hand through his hair. "It was you?" He hissed. "You tricked me so Odysseus could push me. Why?" The anger in his voice was laced with the pain of betrayal. His wounds from the battle had already closed, and healed.

"Because, Perseus," Apollo gestured with his hands. "You have a greater role to play in this world's future. Beyond Troy. You are not a saviour, Perseus—you are a herald. Troy had to fall so something greater could rise. Your purpose was not to save this city but to ensure its soul lives on. The bloodline of Troy had to end with Hector's son or the great Empire would never rise." Perseus felt the anger and the shock pouring into him, as Apollo continued, his expression laced with pain and pity, as though begging for him to understand. "You can't fight fate, Perseus. I delayed your actions because the future demanded it."

Perseus launched himself at Apollo before he could process what he was doing. An anguished cry escaped him as he raised his fist to slam it into Apollo's face. But the god vanished and Perseus punched empty air, staggering into the grass.

Apollo's voice came from a few ways behind him. "Your wrath serves no purpose now, Perseus. The city's fate was sealed the moment Paris chose love over reason. Fate demands this ending, and no amount of power will change it. The Fates and the gods have spoken, and even you cannot defy us."

"Fuck you!" Perseus snarled. He whirled and leapt for Apollo again, tears blurring his vision. But once again, Perseus punched empty air. He let out a wretched sob, "I made an oath to Hector. I failed, Apollo! Because you couldn't stop interfering!"

"You think this failure defines you?" Apollo barked back. "No, Perseus, it frees you. Troy's light is gone, but you and your brother remain to bear its memory. To fall with it would have been a waste of all that you are meant to become. You should be thanking me."

"What I'm meant to become?" He let out a laugh, a sick, choking, thing, amid his tears, and Perseus shook his head, roaring, "WHAT I'M MEANT TO BECOME?"

He stepped forward until he was chest-to-chest with Apollo, a hand poking into the god's sternum. "I was meant to be Troy's protector! But you took that away from me! You took everything away from me! You're just a sick fuck who thinks taking away my choices since I was four is something to be grateful for! You cursed the first woman I ever loved! You made me immortal and told me it was to save my life and now you interfere again to kill my nephew and you think I should be THANKING YOU?"

Apollo scoffed, "It always goes back to that apple doesn't it?" He bared his teeth, eyes glinting gold. "Yes, I cursed Cassandra even though I knew you loved her, just the same way I knew you would forgive me eventually. Yes, I gave you the apple. Why do you think I did that, Perseus? For myself?" He stepped aside. "Even I am not that selfish."

"Then tell me why, you bastard," He wiped his tears and snarled. "Tell me the fuck why!" Perseus flicked his ring and his sword flickered into existence. "Or else our swords can do the talking because I am sick of you!"

"Everything I did, I did to keep you tied to the mortal realm, because that is where your strength is most needed!" Apollo yelled.

"Oh, because making me immortal is the best way to keep me human!" He raged back. "You're going to have to do better than that or so help me—"

"You are a unique force among demigods, Perseus," The sun god positively glowed. "From the moment the fates washed you upon our shores I saw what you would do—who you would become. I told you this, all those years ago. I told you I knew your future, and I would keep doing what I was doing to ensure it played out exactly the way it was supposed to. I saw how you would balance the whims and flaws of the Olympians with the struggles of mortals."

"That gives you no right!" He screamed, voice hoarse. "A vision you had when I was four gave you no right to screw me over the way you did, Apollo!"

"I am a god," Apollo barked back. "I make the rights!"

Perseus swung his sword blindly, but again, the sun god vanished and appeared behind him.

Apollo raised his hand and Perseus went flying into the grass. "Cursing Cassandra ensures you would remain disillusioned with the celestial. I told you it was because she insulted me, which she did. But that was never the main reason. The emotional scar made you grow up exactly the way you were supposed to. Tricking you into eating the apple bound you to eternal life—but not to Olympus. Unlike us, you retained your mortal emotions, empathy, and your ability to relate to humanity. So you would always be present to act as a mediator between gods and men, even as mortal empires rise and fall. So you would always be there to guide the mortal realm and defend the world in the same way you led the defence of Troy."

Perseus stumbled to his feet, shaking his head and letting out a laugh, "I never wanted this, Apollo! I never asked for any of it! You Olympians play with mortals like we are pieces on a game board. You interfere for your own gains and call it fate. I hate you."

"I made you who you are," Apollo snarled at him, frustrated that he wasn't seeing it from his point of view. "I made you because I saw, Perseus! You will guide this world into a golden era! I saw how you would be the bridge between gods and mortals. Olympus needs you, even if we fear you. Humanity needs you, even if they curse you. I saw that you are not a weapon of the gods, but a guardian of men! So attack me all you want but I did what I did so the entire world would be better off! So You would be better off!"

He continued, like a crazed man on heat, "Your immortality and suffering were not punishments, Perseus, but preparations! I interfered, I saved your life, I broke you down, and I built you up. I made sure you went through trials and I gave you resources to make sure you would pass through them and come out greater. Gold owes its brilliance to fire, for only through flames can it be refined. So too did I forge you by the trials that sought to consume you, so you would emerge stronger and purer with each blaze."

Perseus shook his head, the shock, the grief, the horror of everything filling him at once. He wanted to sob. He wanted to scream. And he wanted to run Apollo through.

"Why do you think Selene was on Delos that day?" The god stated.

Perseus stiffened. Apollo shook his head, frowning, "I saw, Perseus. I saw how much you two would come to mean to each other. I saw her fading when the new empire rose. I saw how much it would drive you to be your own person, and tread the path the Fates set for you. I saw how everything I did for you would shape you into a protector of humanity rather than a meaningless pawn of the gods."

"Pawn of the gods?" he repeated, shock rippling from his entire body. "No, you just want a pawn for yourself!" Apollo was a great actor.

Apollo had tricked him for years. He had helped him and torn him down and Perseus hated him, more than anything.

Everything they had been through, everything they had done together, and he had never once suspected—this.

"It is your destiny, Perseus," Apollo exhaled. "I am simply a hand that carries out the will of the Fates and allows humankind to peek into their plans. You cannot defy them."

"I can damn well try," Perseus bared his teeth and attacked. He hadn't gotten three feet when his body seized. Apollo flicked his wrist and Perseus dropped to his knees like a sack of rocks. Fury raced through him. He struggled against invisible bonds as Apollo approached, and Perseus felt hatred, and abhorrence like he had never felt before, rush through him from his head down to his feet.

"I did it for you, Perseus," The golden god raised a hand. "And the world is better off for it. If you listen to me, you'll see—"

He laughed, tears springing at the corner of his eye again, "You told me once that there were different futures. You told me the choices we made determined which one came to pass. And you took all those choices from me, Apollo. You didn't do anything for me. You did it for yourself." In the god's mind, he had done it for the good of the world. In his mind he was right, and Perseus was being stubborn. But after Troy, after the war, after losing everything, after all the meddling of the Olympians…he didn't care if the world was better off. He didn't care about whatever Apollo had seen.

The god's face softened, "Perseus—"

He just hated him. Perseus spat at Apollo's feet. "Fuck you."

Apollo was about to speak when a blast of air lifted him off his feet and hurled him away like a ragdoll. Perseus felt the binds loose as Selene and Helios appeared in front of him, her dark hair glowing with silver light and his flames shrouding his body. Selene's voice sent a surge of relief and hope through him.

"Leave him alone, Apollo. This foolishness must end."

Helios stalked towards Apollo, eyes blazing with the power of a thousand suns, and instantly, Selene had dropped down beside him, a worried expression on her face. She reached out to cup his cheek and Perseus leaned into her touch, trying not to break down at the enormity of everything that had gone down that evening and morning alone. "Are you alright?"

"How—" He swallowed, still shaking. "Yes. I—"

"Perseus!" Apollo called, rising from the grass. "You have to listen to me! I don't mean you any harm!"

"Step closer and you'll be leaving here with more than a few shattered bones, Apollo," Helios barked.

Selene exhaled, "I would have come sooner, I'm sorry. I could hear you calling my name and all I wanted to do was come down and help you. I couldn't when you were in Troy—Apollo called in a favour with his father and Zeus had us kept on Olympus. I couldn't find you or zero in on your location."

"He knew," Perseus shook his head, throat bobbing in anguish. "He knew that if you were with me I could have stopped the Achaeans. You would have fought by my side."

He clutched her hands in his. "Troy is gone, Sel. I failed and you'll fade—"

"Hey," She squeezed his hands. "Not now, Perseus. That'll only burden you. I'm still here, now, and I'm not going anywhere."

"But—"

"A lot has been placed on your shoulders tonight, Perseus," Selene's voice was soothing. She pulled him into a hug. In front of them, Apollo circled Helios like a hawk, desperation clawing its way onto his face.

"Perseus—"

"Get out of here before I get angry, Apollo," Selene said flatly, her voice resonating across the entire terrain. Apollo scanned the situation and swallowed, "This isn't over, Perseus. You cannot avoid this conversation forever."

His eyes burned gold, then he folded in upon himself and vanished in a blast of golden light.

Perseus exhaled, body trembling under the weight of everything that had transpired. "Thank you," He murmured into Selene's hair.

The battle was over. Troy had fallen, and with it, everything he had fought for—the city, his comrades, and his own sense of purpose. His immortal form bore no physical wounds anymore, but the scars etched deep into his soul rendered him broken. He clenched his fists against her dress and stared at the green earth, untouched by the horrors of the city just a few miles away, his shoulders shaking as he fought back the tears that clawed at his throat.

Selene's dark hair caught the pale, fractured light of the sun. She pulled him closer, her arms wrapping around him in a protective embrace, a fragile shield against the encroaching despair. Perseus didn't resist. He couldn't. She whispered his name—soft, steady, and full of unwavering love—and again, the dam burst. A raw, guttural sob tore from his lips as he buried his face into her shoulder, his tears soaking the fabric of her cloak.

"I tried," he choked, his voice breaking. "I tried so hard, Selene. I thought I could save them. I thought I could save us." The enormity of it all pressed down on him—the weight of promises he could not keep, the haunting echoes of the dead, and the bitter truths Apollo had revealed. "Apollo… he said it was all meaningless. I would never have been able to stop it. I was meaningless."

Selene's hand moved gently through his dark, matted hair, her touch grounding him even as his world spiraled. "You are not meaningless," she said firmly, though her voice quivered. "You are not what he says you are. You are more than Apollo's games, Perseus. You always have been."

Nearby, Helios stood silently, his golden gaze fixed on the ruins of the once-great city. His presence, radiant and sombre, carried a quiet understanding of the weight Perseus bore. He said nothing, his pensive demeanour speaking volumes. He had seen ages of triumph and tragedy, but even he could not dismiss the profound cruelty of this moment.

Perseus looked up at him, his vision blurred with tears. "Was there ever any hope?" he asked, his voice hollow. "Or was it all doomed from the start?"

Helios' expression softened, though his answer did not come immediately. "Hope," he said slowly, "is not a promise of victory. It is a light you carry through the darkest paths. And even in defeat, Perseus, you carried it well."

The words, though kind, did little to ease the ache in Perseus' chest. He clung tighter to Selene, his sobs softening but not ceasing. For now, all he could do was grieve, held together only by the woman who refused to let him fall completely apart.

A/N: Watch out for the epilogue. Sorry for the delay, and Happy Holidays, guys! ️