A/N: For those of you with endless and frankly annoying issues with my writing or characterisation, please (not really) gtfo. There's the door. No one's forcing you to read this lol. For the rest of you, have fun.

PERSEUS woke up in his bed.

His entire body ached, and a groan escaped his lips. Daylight filtered through the curtains, lighting up his chambers. He could hear the tell-tale sounds of battle, which meant that however long he had been out, the cease-fire was over, and the siege of Troy was back in full swing.

"Hey," A voice said from beside him. Selene. Perseus shifted in his bed, eyes flickering to his side, where his lover lay. Her dark hair cascaded down her shoulders, and her silver eyes were full of relief. "Feeling alright?"

Perseus exhaled, "Good enough, I guess. What happened?'

"Odysseus and Athena did," Selene's voice was hard and tinged in anger. "Python poison." He remembered the pain, the knife in his back. Perseus gritted his teeth. That meant he had failed.

"Shit."

"Shit is right," Selene agreed. "Neoptolemus and Odysseus got away."

The sounds of fighting seemed to intensify. Perseus shifted once more beneath the covers. It felt awkward being in bed with his girlfriend when his soldiers and friends were fighting for their lives just outside of the city walls. "How's the fight going?"

Selene hesitated, "Well…they're having a harder time than usual. Neoptolemus has joined the fighting—killed your ally Eurypylus."

"Is Memnon not at the front lines any longer?" His brow creased.

Selene pursed her lips, "Deiphobus holds the fort for now. It seems Memnon and your brother went on an expedition of their own to retrieve the bones of Pelops from Pisa."

Perseus' frown deepened. "What? My brother is supposed to be in bed recovering."

"I think I've had enough time to, don't you?" The voice came from the door. Perseus and Selene glanced up, and he felt a surge of anger and indignation fill him. Aeneas trudged in, looking for all the world as though he had just crawled out of the depths of Tartarus. He was dressed in a cloak and covered in soot. "Hello, Selene." The Titaness acknowledged him with a nod of her head.

"Aeneas," Perseus said. "What the Hades?"

His brother winced. "Please, brother, not today. I came to check if you were back. It seems we are both very weary, and both had very sour missions."

"You weren't supposed to have any missions," He said, scowling at Aeneas. "You almost died, Aeneas. You lost a hand. You should be resting. I told you I would handle it."

The other man snorted. "Did handling it include getting bedridden? What ever happened to you?"

"You first," The immortal demigod folded his arms. Beside him, Selene also looked at his brother expectantly.

Aeneas sighed and then collapsed in one of the cushioned chairs in the room. "Memnon and I took a small battalion to retrieve the bones. It was going quite well. We exploded their ship with Greek fire. And most of the bones were destroyed. But there was one piece which survived—a shoulder blade. Triton got to it before I could. I assume he got it back to the Achaeans."

Perseus felt his blood run cold. He ran a hand through his hair. "Triton?"

"You're sure you saw him?" Selene inquired. "From my understanding, Poseidon has banned further interference from the seas."

"He has," The Polemarchos agreed. This was disturbing. It meant Amphitrite and her brood were still actively fighting him, still searching for a way to bring him down. "He forbade interference in my life. Aeneas' mission had nothing to do with me. Not directly." They had found a loophole. Help the Achaeans win, Troy was destroyed, and so, essentially, was he. The aching in his body seemed to intensify.

"Well, he got away, and the Achaeans have a bone of Pelops from Pisa," Aeneas dropped his face into his hands. "We were so close." Perseus watched him. His brother was a fool. Why did he have to keep endangering himself like that? Finally, Aeneas sighed. "Your turn."

"He was stabbed by a knife poisoned with the venom of the Great Snake Python," Selene answered for him. "Neoptolemus escaped."

"What?" Aeneas sat straighter. "Brother, are you quite alright?"

"Been better," He shrugged. "Selene and Helios handled it." The Titaness nodded in agreement.

"So," Selene looked between the two brothers. Something was off about her. He could see it in the stiffness of her back, in the way her right hand was running through his hair more than usual, and the way the fingers of her left were drumming on her thigh. She was nervous about something. He filed it in the back of his head for enquiry when Aeneas was gone. Perseus hated seeing her worried—especially when he was the source of her anxiety. "What I'm hearing is…" Selene continued, "Both of your missions were failures, and now the Achaeans have a bone of Pelops from Pisa, and Neoptolemus, the son of Achilles, fights on their front lines."

The son of Poseidon looked at her again. Selene looked almost…afraid. Impossible. Perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him. Selene was never afraid. He took her hand, stilling her bouncing fingers. "Hey, you alright?"

The woman smiled, but it looked more like a grimace. Perseus' lips pulled down in a frown. The Titaness beside him leaned down and planted her lips on his. When she pulled away, her smile looked lighter—real. "I'm fine."

Aeneas cleared his throat from his seat in his chair. "I'm going to order an increase in security around the Palladium. Then see my family, and join the battle before it ends. Maybe I can help turn it around." He stood and marched to the door.

"Aeneas," Perseus' voice was hard. "I don't want you on the battlefield."

"I said I'm fine, Perseus," His brother was insistent on being stubborn.

"No, I don't think you are," Perseus leaned forward. "Aeneas. You jumped out from one life-threatening situation to another. Achilles almost killed you. Bastard took your hand."

"And he took your eye," Aeneas helpfully pointed out.

"I'm immortal, you idiot," The raven-haired man told him. "Losing my eye would not, and did not, kill me. Losing your hand almost did. I spent a week not knowing if you'd ever wake up. Your wife and son slept at your bedside for more than that, waiting for you to open your eyes. Apollo and I orchestrated Ajax's death so you wouldn't be in danger when you rejoin the fighting. And the first thing you do when you're awake is go off on a journey to some deserted Island and almost get killed again?"

Aeneas stopped at the door. He turned to glance back at his brother. Perseus allowed some of his worry to show on his face. Beside him, Selene tilted her head to the side, "You should listen to your brother, Aeneas. The war is far from over. Your son and your wife are always waiting anxiously for your return. You should go be with them for now."

He could see the gears turning in his brother's head. Aeneas hesitated, then nodded, "I suppose you're right."

"I am."

"The war can wait a couple of days, can't it?" Perseus said, gently.

"I guess," Aeneas sighed. "I just…I want to be useful."

"Go be useful to your family, brother," The son of Poseidon gave him a ghost of a smile. Aeneas nodded, and with a wave, he vanished through the doorway.

Perseus turned to glance at Selene once more. The sombre expression had settled on her face again, as though his brother leaving had drained everything out of her. "Selene," He murmured. "I know something is bothering you."

The deity beside him sighed, and flopped into his pillows, grumbling, "Sometimes I hate how well you're able to read me."

A laugh escaped his lips. "And here I thought I was doing a good job."

Selene smiled, but it did not last long. She squeezed his hands. "I didn't want to put any more pressure on you. You have enough on your shoulders as it is."

"I can take it," His expression mirrored hers, chasing away all signs of laughter. Something was bothering her, and he'd be damned if he didn't get to the bottom of it. "You know I'll keep digging until you tell me." He poked her side.

Her hand in his hair stilled, and then she sagged against him. His free arm went to wrap around her. Selene licked her lips. "When my brother and I came for you, we took you to our Aunt Phoebe."

"Phoebe? Apollo's grandmother? The Titan of—"

"Yes, Prophecy and Mystery, yes," Selene nodded. "The very same. She told Helios and me something once you were out of danger." Selene hesitated, and then ploughed on, "It was a prophecy, of sorts. The fall of Troy would lead to the rise of a new empire from its ashes. Helios and I will fade from existence when this new empire is birthed."

Perseus felt his blood run cold.

For the first time in his life, it seemed he did not have anything to say. His brain seemed to have short-circuited. The son of Anchises blinked owlishly, once, twice. Perhaps he was hallucinating. His lips peeled open but he could not form any words. Selene looked apologetic. "I should not have told you. It would only bring more worry—"

"What?" Perseus regained the ability to speak. His voice was hoarse. "Tell me you're joking."

His lover shook her head sombrely. "I wish I was."

Perseus could hear his heart hammering in his chest. No. Phoebe was lying. Immortals didn't just fade out of the blue. Kingdoms had risen and fallen into ashes, and Selene and Helios had survived through them all. What made this new one any different?

"We were supposed to have an eternity," He rasped. Suddenly the aching in his body seemed to deepen.

"We do," Selene took his other hand in hers. "We will. All you have to do is win." Perseus swallowed. This was serious now. It had never been a joke before, admittedly. But now Selene and Helios were on the line. He could not let that happen. He had to end the war as soon as possible.

"I will," He promised. "Just give me a few days. None of them will survive." A fiery sort of determination and a cold sense of fear seemed to barrel into him simultaneously. He pulled her down into a bone-crushing hug. "I am not losing you, Selene."

"I know," She hugged him back just as fiercely. "I love you, alright? Whatever happens—"

"Don't you dare finish that statement," He said in the crook of her neck. Selene chuckled lightly.

When they pulled away, Perseus reached out and gently brushed away some of the hair from her eyes. She looked beautiful. He was so lucky to have her, and he would be damned if anyone thought they could take her away from him. He had sacrificed being with his family when he'd been made immortal. The one silver lining was that they got to be forever. If he lost that, too—then there really would be nothing worth living for.

"Besides," Perseus frowned. "Apollo told me something about there being many possible outcomes and futures. Phoebe probably saw just one."

"Right," The Titaness of the moon smiled. Perseus kissed her, then, as though their entire world was about to come crashing down. As though it would be the last time he felt her lips on his. Because now nothing was certain. Because it just might be.

BREAK

AENEAS gazed up to the sky a few days later, pursing his lips and trying to tune out the sounds of the battle outside. There was a strange feeling inside him—a tension he felt, roiling and weaving in the pit of his gut and making him want to heave its contents into the bushes. Was this how they felt? The people of Troy, each day, waiting, watching, not knowing what was going on outside, as the Greeks continued to lay siege to their ports and their beach and their livelihoods—not knowing if the brave men fighting for their survival outside their god-built walls would hold out for just another day?

He didn't like it.

Perseus and Selene had been right, of course. He needed to be with his family for a bit.

But it felt selfish, all the same, walking now with them through the streets of the city, ambling through the nearly-empty roads, passing groups of scared citizens offering prayers to gods who had taken sides in this war…he hated being on the other side of the wall. Not when they needed him out there. He hated the itchy feeling in him, the pulse of warning, the racing heartbeat, just waiting for something bad to happen or for the men to return with good news.

Deiphobus, Memnon and Antianera led their soldiers from sunrise to dusk against the devils from across the oceans, pushing back on the Achaean lines until they broke, forcing them back towards their encampment. But still, every day it was not enough.

"I know you wish you were out there, father," Ascanius spoke up, and Aeneas glanced down at his son. He smiled to himself. The boy was growing rapidly. He was almost past Aeneas' waist now, and he still could not tamp down the pride he had felt since the night before when he'd decided to humour Ascanius in a mock battle and see how far he'd come. He would be the finest of warriors, someday.

"I do," Aeneas ruffled his hair. "I wish I was helping. But you're important too." He glanced sideways at his wife. "Both of you." Creusa smiled, then leaned her head on his as they continued walking. Her fingers around his bicep tightened. Behind them trailed Helen, arm-in-arm with Andromache. A bevy of soldiers and ladies-in-waiting took the rear. One closest to Andromache held baby Astyanax in her arms.

Aeneas glanced around at the street their little party had arrived on. A few more turns, and they would be back safely in the palace. They had just left the city square, where the Palladium was safely guarded by a squadron of Trojan soldiers.

The roads of their beloved city, a once vibrant tapestry of life, were now overshadowed by the harrowing spectre of siege. The sun hung low in the sky, its light filtered through a haze of smoke and despair, casting an eerie glow over the stone buildings that fought to retain their dignity against the looming threat of destruction. The cobblestones, once polished from the hurried steps of merchants and children, now cracked and deserted, stained with the grime of desperation.

The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning wood and the metallic tang of blood from the battlefield across the walls. Each breath felt like an intrusion, a reminder of the suffering Aeneas was currently hiding from. In the distance, he could hear the melancholy cries of women lamenting losses too great to bear, their voices threading through the harsh sounds of distant clashing swords and the anguished roars of men locked in battle. Amidst the mourning were cries of worship and appellations to the gods of Olympus.

To Aeneas' left, a fountain that once danced joyfully with crystal clear water now stood still, its basin murky and filled with the remnants of discarded vows – coins, flowers, and tokens of hope, all left to succumb to decay. The statues that adorned this square, ever watchful, had become grim sentinels to their plight; their stone gazes rendered sorrowful by the passage of time and destruction. Market stalls, which were once vibrant with the colours of fruits and wares, stood eerily abandoned. Everyone was indoors.

Everyone was afraid.

The only times the streets were full these days were when a Prince died and they were in mourning. Too much of that had been happening lately. Aeneas's heart ached for Paris and his father.

The sweet smell of ripe figs and bread had long since vanished, replaced by the sharp odour of smoke from nearby fires and the earthy scent of churned-up dirt.

As they kept walking, he caught the fleeting figures of desperate souls slipping through the shadows and women closing their shutters quickly. Beggars appeared sparsely at different vantage points, although there were barely any people out and about to beg from. With every distant sound of clashing bronze and iron, Aeneas felt a deep constriction in my chest, knowing his people fought for survival just beyond his sight. His heart ached for them—they were brave, but no doubt they were afraid. There was a symphony of courage and fear echoing in their hearts. The clamour of battle was a cacophony of resolve and desperation, dampening even the spirits of the usual dancers on the streets and chasing them away from their very livelihood.

He had not realised how bad the fighting had affected the people.

In this beleaguered city, hope flickered like a dying flame, wavering in the breeze of despair. Yet, amid this chaos, there was a glimmer of strength within their walls—a determination to stand firm, to defend their home, and to kindle that flame even in the darkest hours. As he gazed around upon the battered streets, Aeneas felt a surge of resolve. He could not let this city fall. It was a fortress of the spirit, and beneath its scars lay the heart of a people who refused to surrender.

But it had been going on for far too long.

The war had drained everything from their city. All he wanted, more than anything, was to give it life once again.

They continued walking down the streets, and from beside him, Creusa spoke. "I miss when things were simpler. When all we had to worry about was when the next forest adventure would be."

Aeneas chuckled, although there was not much mirth in his laugh. "Right. Those were good times." Behind them, Helen and Andromache were murmuring something quietly.

He hated how much things had changed. He hated that his son had been born and grown up in this version of Troy—all he had known since were death and war.

The demigod sighed to himself. He just wanted a better life for his son. For all of them. They turned another corner, and it was the same story—barely empty streets, beggars, low melancholic musicians. They were almost at another bend when Aeneas heard a hoarse voice call, "O, son of Aphrodite, blessed by all the gods," it was one of the beggars, wrapped in a dirty old cloak and slumped against the wall of a shut-down bakery. He looked as though a gust of wind would blow him deeper into the wall. Beside him was a similarly dressed beggar, covered in clothes and leaning on a wretched-looking staff against the wall. "Have mercy on your humble servants," The first continued, "Spare some coins for us, Lord Aeneas."

Aeneas exchanged a glance with his wife. He glanced behind him, and one of the servants rushed forward, hands outstretched with a pouch of gold seated between her fingers.

Aeneas plucked the pouch from her hand and glanced back at the men. One of them raised his head, and Aeneas caught a wisp of curly brown hair and a scruffy beard before the hood of the man's cloak covered him again. A sharp gasp erupted behind him—from Helen.

He turned to glance at the newly-wed woman, but then Ascanius was tugging at his sleeve. Aeneas looked back down at him, and his son said, "Let me, father." With a smile, he obliged, handing the bag of coins to Ascanius. The curly-haired prince bounded over to the beggars, "Here." He dropped it into the second man's outstretched hand. "Get yourselves something to eat. Remember the graciousness of the House of Aeneas and Aphrodite."

"Thank you," The second man's voice was deep and gruff. "Your s—servants shall forever be in your debt."

Aeneas nodded and then they were on the move again, turning corners, and traipsing down streets. The palace grew nearer and nearer.

It was only moments later that Helen let out another gasp.

This time everyone turned. Their moving train paused, and Aeneas passed Helen a questioning glance. Diomedes' new wife—a surprise when he'd returned, definitely—smiled shakily. "I—I'm sorry, I seem to have lost my bracelet."

"Oh?" The demigod frowned. "You have several more, surely—"

"No, no," Helen shook her head. Her voice shook, and she met his eyes, "It—it was a gift from Paris, see. I can't leave without it."

Aeneas pursed his lips. He exchanged a glance with Creusa and then looked up again. Andromache nodded slightly. Aeneas looked around them, "Surely one of the servants can—"

"Oh, it's no bother, really," Helen gave him a watery smile. "I'll just backtrack a street and look around."

The king sighed. Helen was unhappy. She'd been tricked by his mother into running away with Paris and abandoning her loving husband. She'd been taken to a foreign land and had started a war as a result. She had the blood of millions on her hands. Then her new husband had died and his brother had immediately stepped in to take his place, as though she was some object to be passed around. He pitied her.

"Alright," Aeneas conceded. "But do try to be quick to catch up with us."

"I'll come along," Andromache said, "Help you look." Aeneas saw a brief flash of hesitation on Helen's face, but then she was nodding and it was gone.

"Alright, then." The pair broke away from the party, and four guards trailed a respective distance behind them.

Aeneas frowned to himself again, and they continued on their path towards the palace. After what seemed like ages, he heard footsteps hurrying towards them. Once again, Aeneas paused. Helen and Andromache were back. The former waved her wrist, showing off a beautiful silver-gold bracelet. She seemed relaxed, but Aeneas could still read the worry in her eyes. She was under a lot of pressure.

"Great," Aeneas gave her a small smile. "Let's get going."

He continued walking, and the others followed. Finally, the palace gates came into view. Aeneas shifted to the side and allowed the women and children to pass, then the servants and lastly the guards. As he was walking through the gates last, his thoughts began, once again, to dance in his head.

Aeneas couldn't shake the feeling that something tragic loomed over the city. They had already lost a bone of Pelops and failed to assassinate Neoptolemus.

His thoughts drifted to Helen, the woman whose beauty had ignited the war that now battered their city. As she walked in front of him, the Princess turned to glance outside the palace gates, craning her head as though searching for something. Her expression was a haunting mixture of worry and despair. She seemed to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders, burdened not only by the guilt that came with the chaos surrounding her but also by the strained relations among the Trojan families. From what Aeneas had heard, the fighting that had ensued after poor Paris' death had been brutal.

Aeneas could see how the fear of everything going on gnawed at her, even as her resolute spirit struggled to maintain composure. The city around them was crumbling from the Achaean's pressure, and the King of Dardania could not help but feel like everything was slipping away. Aeneas tightened his jaw, recalling the beggars he had seen just a few minutes ago. They had crouched in the shadows of the bakery, their ragged forms a stark contrast to the majestic city—the remnants of what life once thrived here. He felt an acute pang of sorrow for them—people who had already lost so much in the turmoil of war, their displacement a constant reminder of the fragility of life. After the Greeks had taken control of most of the territories around the city, all the refugees fled to Troy, and most of them ended up on the streets.

The couple of coins he'd given them were a poor consolation for the suffering they endured.

As he walked, Aeneas mused about the dissonant notes of fate that wove through the streets of Troy like a vengeful spirit. Each stone he'd seen held stories of glory and loss, of lovers torn apart and families shattered. So many people had lost brothers, fathers, and lovers to this war. The once proud city had become a ghostly reminder of what it had been, and he lamented the loss of not just lives but the very essence of what it meant to be Trojan. He pondered what lay ahead. The whispers of treachery floated in the air, mixing with the acrid smell of smoke from the distant fires of war. Aeneas knew that the struggle was far from over. The pain etched into Helen's features reminded him that despite the violence and discord, hope flickered like a candle threatened by the wind—fragile yet persistent. Perhaps, in the end, it would take more than warriors on the battlefield to salvage their home; instead, it would require the courage to stand together, to uplift and heal what had been broken. His heart ached with unspoken determination.

He would fight for Troy, for his family, for the future that hung in the balance. The empty streets may now echo with silence, but he was resolute that they would one day resound with life and laughter once more.

Those beggars on the streets would one day be able to return to their homes, without—

Aeneas stopped with a small gasp as the realisation dawned on him. Curly hair. Dark eyes. That beard.

Those beggars. Home.

A cold unsettling feeling descended on him and Aeneas swore loudly, pivoting on his heel. He suddenly remembered where he had seen them before, and another string of colourful curses escaped his lips. His eyes widened. The beggars. Curly-haired, dressed in rags. Helen's gasp. Shit.

Great gods, he was a fool.

"Soldiers, with me," Aeneas yelled. "Sound the alarm, we have intruders—"

"What?" Creusa called. "Aeneas—"

The palace whirred to life. Around him, soldiers and guards converged. Aeneas darted to his wife and planted a kiss on her forehead, "Get the kids inside. No time to explain! Stay hidden, and stay safe!" In the distance, he heard the rumbling sound of an explosion, then shouts and screams. He grabbed hold of a running guard and barked, "Get a message to my brother Perseus. Tell him to get to the citadel. It's an emergency."

Then he was going again, racing through the gates.

Because he had been a fool, and he should have seen it earlier. The sound of fighting seemed louder now—it wasn't outside the walls but in the city. In the streets.

They had been right under his nose, and he had given them a bloody sac of coins. He'd passed them, and it hadn't even occurred to him and he was going to be the reason they got whatever it was they'd come for.

Aeneas drew his sword with his one free hand. He had to stop them. He had to get to Odysseus and Diomedes before they got to the Palladium.

BREAK

WHEN AENEAS descended on the street, half of his soldiers on guard duty at the citadel were bleeding out on the cobblestones. He saw the two beggars, no longer dressed in their rags and cloaks but sporting their usual armour, and tearing through the Trojan soldiers like they were rag dolls. Aeneas' blood boiled, and again, he mentally facepalmed at how daft he had been.

"Odysseus!" Aeneas snarled, drawing his sword. As the King of Ithaca slashed through the breastplate of the nearest soldier, Diomedes hurled back another. The Achaeans turned, and the son of Anchises swore loudly as Odysseus passed him a shit-eating grin from the square's steps. The palladium, marble and gleaming in the sunlight, was right behind him. Diomedes tipped the small statue with his elbow, and the other Greek king grabbed it before it could hit the floor.

The statue was so minute it fit right under Odysseus' arm. Aeneas surged forward as their reinforcements swarmed the citadel.

When he got to the centre of the square, the two kings, cloaked in rags and cunning, with the Palladium under Odysseus' arm, were fighting through the battalion of soldiers Aeneas had brought along. When he got closer he slashed at Diomedes' neck, but the King quickly drew back and raised his own sword to counter the blow. As his soldiers surrounded Odysseus, Aeneas exchanged quick blows with the Thracian.

The demigod, amidst the fighting, heard the thundering of horse hooves. His brother and BlackJack reared into the city centre, sword drawn.

"Shit!" Odysseus hissed. Aeneas, with an expert manoeuvre, slashed across Diomedes' gauntlet and jabbed at his side. The beggar-king barely had any time to react before he darted forward again, slamming the pommel of his sword into the Thracian's nose. Diomedes stumbled into Odysseus, but Athena's favoured grabbed him by the arm before he could fall. Perseus thundered down the street.

Before Aeneas could move to intercept them again, Odysseus had pivoted on his heel and was dragging Diomedes through the squadron of soldiers attacking them. The two kings were fast and skilled, and they ploughed through the Trojans and killed like a battering ram. Aeneas cursed and sped after them.

"Stop them!" he roared.

A glance at his brother revealed a shared determination, but Aeneas felt the weight of hopelessness bear down on them like the heavy air before a storm. They charged forward from opposite sides, but the narrow streets were teeming with unsuspecting Trojan soldiers, and Perseus' horse and their soldier's presence was more of a hindrance than an advantage. The more he tried to get closer to the fleeing Greeks, the more injured and dead soldiers they left in his path.

Odysseus moved with a predator's grace, while Diomedes acted as his shield, pushing through the throng as if they were ghosts. Aeneas felt the eyes of the city upon him, a mixture of fear and fury flooding his veins. He ducked and weaved, but the soldiers were a wall, and the two crafty Greeks slipped past like shadows against the sun.

"Aeneas, we can't lose them!" Perseus shouted, slipping down from his horse and bolting into the fray, but Aeneas was already aware of the futility.

They were too late.

With one final burst of speed, he reached the corner of the street just in time to see the Greeks vanish into the alleys beyond.

The Palladium was gone, and with it, the last shred of hope that Troy might withstand the wrath of the Greeks. The weight of their failure settled heavily within him as he turned to Perseus, and a bitter taste filled his mouth.

Perseus' eyes filled with silent resolve as he caught up with his brother, "We can still get them." He raced past Aeneas and down the alley. Aeneas panted with frustration. He couldn't believe it. He ran a hand through his hair, swearing colourfully. How could he have been so dumb? How had two mortal men fought against about twenty soldiers and won? He pursed his lips as Perseus reappeared again, looking thunderous. He shook his head. Aeneas' heart fell.

They would have to regroup and find another way to protect their city. But for now, defeat stung like a bitter poison. He pinched the bridge of his nose and walked to meet up with Perseus. His brother had a pained look on his face, and Aeneas felt bad because his brother was supposed to be healing, and he had brought him out of the infirmary to watch them fail in live-action.

Perseus placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Aeneas huffed, "It's all my fault. I saw them. I let them—"

"You did your best," His brother shook his head. "Now we have to get back, reground, scour the city. They couldn't have gone far.."

Aeneas nodded, pursing his lips, "Alright, let's get back to the soldiers." Something was roiling in his gut, and he felt as though his breakfast was about to come rushing up. The Greeks were planning something. Things were getting bad. Really bad.

BREAK

PERSEUS marched across the dunes two days later, burning with determination.

They had failed.

It was past midnight, and as he stalked through the tents and towards the Greek encampment, he felt his blood boiling within him. Apollo had sent a message via hawk from Olympus—a simple piece of parchment that had combusted in his hands upon reading— just the day before, informing him that Zeus had banned further interference in the war once again. None of the gods or Titans were supposed to directly do anything to implicate the turn-out of the war, and although the High god had only helped them in the past, Perseus was annoyed at his sudden rash decision.

But they had been successful in the past without the gods, and he prayed they would be able to do it once again.

He tried not to think about the fact that all of Helenus' prophecies had come to pass. They had retrieved the arrows from Lemnos, but they had lost Paris in the process.

They had nearly succeeded in destroying the Bones of Pelops, but Triton had interfered and gotten a shoulder blade to the Achaeans.

He had almost killed Neoptolemus, but Odysseus and Athena had interfered once again.

And again, Odysseus and Diomedes, who seemed to have taken Achilles' thorn-in-his-side position in his life, had managed to steal the Palladium from right under their noses, with help from Helen, if Aeneas' suspicions were true. She had seen them and refused to say anything. Perseus bared his teeth. For two days, the fighting had been going on nonstop, and for two days, he and Aeneas had gone back to the frontlines. The Achaeans fulfilling the prophecies had been a morale boost for their side because they had been fighting more ferociously than ever.

They were at a stalemate now, and nothing short of a miracle could tip the scales in Troy's favour once more.

And he was nothing if not a miracle-worker.

Apollo's words were ringing in his head as he continued walking, towards the hastily built wall.

'Don't trust anyone, nothing is as it appears.'

He could not help but hope that the next time he crossed paths with his unrequited benefactor, it would be under better circumstances.

Perseus knew he had to do something. He had to end this endless tirade before the Greeks actually succeeded in harming his city. For two days, he had been fighting, and from the way the Greeks had suddenly picked up their spirits, he knew they were planning something. They had been planning something ever since they had tried to get Philoctetes and the arrows. He just wished he knew what it was.

But it did not matter now. He was tired of this. He had to end this before something horrible happened.

Perseus did not know what he would do with himself if he lost his city. And the thought of losing Selene as a result of that…it made him feel as though a serpent had crawled through his pores and was silently snaking up inside him and spewing venom on all his organs. Enough was enough. He had the power to end this now, and if his father's family tried to interfere again, he would just keep pushing, until one of them tired out and gave up.

Perseus gritted his teeth. Selene was his world, and he would be damned if he allowed something to happen to her.

He stopped just a few feet away from the Achaean wall.

It was enough.

He was done, and so were the Greek invaders.

Perseus stood, watching the giant wall protecting the sprawling Greek camp which had grown like a rash on his home for these many years.

The sounds of the crackling of campfires echoed in the distance, a painful reminder of the threat looming over his beloved Troy. His heart raced, caught in a tumultuous whirlwind of determination and doubt. He was the son of fair Anchises, and noble Sally, and Leto the eternal mother.

But he was also the son of Poseidon—he wielded powers that could alter the very fabric of the earth. The responsibility that came with such gifts weighed heavily on him tonight. He inhaled the cool night air, grounding himself as he wrestled with the urgency of his mission. The cries of his people reverberated in his mind, calling him to act. Selene's words rattled in his head. This meant so much more now. There was more than just his city at stake.

There was no moment spent deliberating. He could not let the Achaeans gain the upper hand with the fulfillment of Helenus's prophecy; he needed to protect his home and the love of his life, no matter the cost. Closing his eyes, Perseus reached deep within, feeling the energy of the earth pulse beneath him. It thrummed with potential, alive and beckoning him to tap into its ancient power. He envisioned the camp before him—the soldiers preparing for battle, their excitement oblivious to the impending disaster that he was about to unleash. The thought of the chaos he was about to create made his heart thump. If he lost control he could end up levelling his city too.

But this was the only way.

The energy swirled within him, intertwining with the essence of the land. It was both invigorating and terrifying. He needed to focus, to channel the power coursing through his veins without hesitation. His gut clenched and a gasp escaped his lips as he felt the vibrations resonate through the ground. The soil beneath him responded, trembling as he concentrated. With every breath, he gathered the energy until it coiled tightly within him, urging him to release it. With a resolute heart, Perseus unleashed the earthquake.

The ground convulsed violently, sending shockwaves rolling outward. The very earth beneath the Greek camp erupted, rising and falling like a beast awakening from slumber. As the tremors shook the camp, Perseus felt a visceral mix of exhilaration and dread. If this failed again, they were screwed. But he could do it. He had to do it.

For Selene.

He let out a yell as the earthquake drained the power out of him and he called for chaos. Behind him, he could hear surprised gasps and shouts from the Trojans' camp.

The demigod's face contorted with rage, and he stood resolute against the backdrop of a dark sky. This was enough. These people had taken enough.

Brandishing his sword with another shout, Perseus struck the ground with a forceful thrust, channelling his fury into the very earth beneath him.

The minor tremors evolved rapidly into violent shakes. The earth groaned and heaved, and fissures opened, swallowing entire sections of the camp. He could see it all in his mind's eye—tents, once neatly aligned, crumpling like paper, their wooden stakes snapping like twigs. Campfires were extinguished as cauldrons of boiling water overturned, adding steam and confusion to the chaos. Sentries, running helplessly, their cries drowned out by the rumbling deafening noise of the shifting earth, supplies being buried, and weapons scattered, making defence impossible. Even the mightiest of warriors, powerless, clutching at anything stable as the ground betrayed them.

It was a different kind of satisfaction, knowing what was going on behind those walls.

Those walls…Perseus gritted his teeth. Rage filtered in, quickly replacing his momentary glee. This would be their end.

The earthquake, relentless in its destruction, surged to a crescendo with Perseus at its epicentre. Boulders rolled like marbles across the uneven terrain, crushing anything in their path. The once solid ground now seemed liquid, undulating with waves of seismic energy. His rage was an unstoppable cataclysm, a vivid testament to his divine heritage and unyielding power.

His eyelids fluttered closed, and Perseus exhaled.

For Selene.

For Troy.

His ears ached as the earthquake rumbled loudly. The walls thundered down.

Perseus' eyes flew open.

The Greek camp, now a ruin of splintered wood and torn canvas, lay in stark contrast to the calm, raging figure of the son of Poseidon, who had summoned the very earth to convey his wrath.

Perseus grinned. It was done.

BREAK

AENEAS slid off the horse mere seconds after he pulled it to a stop. His surprise was immediate, and his eyes flickered to his brother, standing in the ruins.

The entire Greek camp lay before them in waste.

He had heard the earthquake from the Trojan camp across the plain, and instantly, he knew who was responsible. When it had subsided, he and the others had thundered across the sand to see what was going on.

As Aeneas approached the desolate site where the Greek camp once thrived, he was struck by a profound sense of shock and disbelief. The scene before him was one of utter devastation. Tattered remnants of tents flapped in the gentle breeze, and shattered weapons lay scattered across the ground like the broken dreams of warriors long gone. The air was thick with the heavy silence of abandonment, amplifying the eerie stillness that had settled over the beach.

But it was not his brother or the total anarchy that caught his attention.

It was the bodies—or rather, the lack of.

The Greek camp was empty.

The earthquake should have killed them all. There should have been blood, and body parts and disembowelled and dismembered men strewn around like straw dummies. But it was just…nothing.

They had left. They had left before the moon had crested high in the sky. There were no ships on the shore.

There was no single sign of life or death.

Aeneas was yet to decide if that was a good thing.

He came to a stop beside Anchises' other son, and his breath caught in his throat.

Amid this ghostly panorama, something loomed large, its wooden body casting a long, dark shadow over the ruins. It stood there, an ominous and solitary sentinel, seemingly untouched by the chaos that had consumed everything else. The thing's presence felt almost mocking, a chilling reminder of the cunning of the Achaeans they had fallen prey to many times before.

It looked like a horse.

It was a masterful feat of craftsmanship, standing tall and imposing against the ruins of the camp. Its towering frame was carved from the finest timber, each plank meticulously shaped and fitted together to create a sturdy structure. The wood, weathered by time and elements, bore intricate carvings that depicted scenes of legend and victory, dazzling yet simultaneously filling him with trepidation.

The horse's head was sculpted with remarkable precision, its eyes wide and expressive, gleaming as though they held secrets within. The mane, made from tightly bound lengths of rope, flowed down its neck in a series of graceful waves, adding to the lifelike appearance of the beast. The ears were pricked forward in a display of alertness and cunning, capturing the essence of a noble steed ready for battle.

The body of the horse was colossal, its broad chest and powerful haunches designed to convey an image of strength and invincibility. Large, sturdy wheels were hidden beneath its hooves, granting it the mobility to be moved anytime.

It looked like something which had formed right out of the mind of the great Pallas Athena.

Every surface of the horse was carefully adorned with subtle decorations—scrolls of ivy, engravings of vines and blossoms, lending an air of artistry and reverence to the construct.

Like the wisdom goddess, it appeared both majestic and menacing.

Breathtaking.

Aeneas's heart raced with unanswered questions as he cautiously stepped forward, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of life. How had this horse escaped Perseus' earthquake? He could hear the murmuring and whispers from the host of Trojan soldiers. What was going on?

It was then that he noticed a lone soldier standing near the remains of what might have been a command tent. The soldier's armour was weathered, and his face was etched with the weariness of someone who had seen too much. Holding his spear with a weary grip, he appeared to be the last vestige of a vanished army.

The soldier's presence, stark and solitary against the backdrop of ruins, only deepened the mystery. Aeneas couldn't fathom what had transpired here — how the formidable Greeks had seemingly vanished, leaving behind a desolate landscape of destruction and a single, haunting reminder of their skill, which had sought to use to bring his home to its knees. He felt a chill run down his spine as he took in the scene, realising that the answers he sought might be as elusive as the ghosts of the past battles that lingered in the air.

The son of Aphrodite watched, still in shocked silence, as Deiphobus and a couple of men surrounded the soldier. The questions hung in the air. How had this man survived? Where had their enemies vanished to?

Just hours before they had battled the Achaeans.

They had fought more earnestly than ever.

What had changed?

Perseus' eyes were wide beside him. Aeneas and his brother exchanged a glance.

"It seems our friends left us a present," The immortal demigod cleared his throat. They stood in the shadow of the construction, and Aeneas couldn't find it in him to respond. He swallowed.

As though on cue, they both turned to look at the immaculate horse.