The first light of dawn crawled over the camp, and I was already up, stretching my stiff muscles, letting the cool morning air chase away the remnants of sleep. I ran along the perimeter, careful not to wake anyone, my shoes sinking slightly in the damp earth. From a distance, I watched the camp stir—smoke rising from fires, horses shifting in their stalls, the blacksmith striking his anvil.
I made my way to the horse keeper first, a wiry man brushing down a chestnut mare. "Morning," I said.
He looked up, wary. "Morning."
"How long have you been tending these beasts?" I asked, crouching to inspect the mare's hooves.
"Three campaigns. Came for the pay, mostly," he said. "But the army's not kind. Better to stick around than wander alone."
So fear drives them as much as greed. Could be useful… to know who's desperate enough to make mistakes, I thought.
"Rations tight?" I asked casually.
He nodded, eyes flicking to the tents. "Hunger's always here before battle. Horses feel it first."
If the animals go hungry, men get restless. That's one more thing to watch if I want to avoid trouble—or stay alive.
At the forge, the blacksmith was hammering bronze slowly, methodically. "Armor's brittle," he said without looking up. "Shields dent, swords bend."
I ran a hand over a shield. Not much protection. Could be fatal if I get careless. Better stick to the shadows, avoid the front lines… or find a way to snag better gear if it arrives.
"Bronze from where?" I asked.
"Traders, spoils from raids… more ships coming from Athene soon. Men, bronze, supplies," he said.
Reinforcements… could be chaos, or opportunity. More hands around means I could blend in easier—or get lost in the crowd. If they bring food, maybe there's a chance to stock up.
Near the cook's tent, the smell of bread and onions made my stomach growl. She stirred a pot, then looked at me. "Why follow the army?" I asked.
"Coin… or fear. Fear keeps us moving," she said, shrugging.
Fear, hope, need. That's all that matters. Everyone here is just trying to survive, like me. Good to know.
I stepped back, letting my mind churn over what I'd seen. Rations, armor, reinforcements—they were all just numbers I needed to know for me. The rest of it? Let the Greeks fight over glory. I only had to worry about keeping myself alive.
By the time I caught up with Nikandros, Dorian, and Theron, the sun had climbed higher, brushing the camp with pale gold. Breakfast was laid out on a long bench outside the mess tent—flatbread, goat cheese, watered wine—but I barely touched any of it. Conversation was always more revealing than food.
Nikandros leaned back, scratching at his arm. "Morning's already half gone," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
I caught the attention of two soldiers nearby, slicing bread and stirring their bowls. "Tell me," I asked casually, "why leave home to follow kings into a foreign land?"
The older one, scarred along his jawline, laughed softly. "You mean why we march so far from hearth and kin? For glory, for gold, or for a woman? Sometimes all, sometimes none. Some of us don't even think—we just go because the man in front commands it."
Ease and fear. Predictable patterns. Good to know. Survival is reading the human map.
A younger man, barely out of boyhood, leaned in. "I follow because the stories of heroes call to me. Whether they're true or not, it doesn't matter. Life's short—every spark counts. And maybe, somewhere, a queen's promise to a king's champion."
I kept silent, letting him speak, storing every detail. Love, ambition, and promise—they drive men beyond reason. If I understand that, I understand how they'll act under pressure.
Another, quieter soldier scraped the bottom of his cup. "Some hope to be remembered. Name carved on stone, stories passed down. Truth or lies, memory is what matters."
Memory and glory… irrelevant to me. But predicting their obsession, that's leverage. I can stay a step ahead if I keep my focus.
I chewed a piece of bread slowly, letting my companions chat quietly among themselves. "And the kings?" I asked casually, glancing at Nikandros and Dorian. "Do they care about us, or is it always about women?"
They laughed in unison. "Women. Always. Everything else is just smoke."
Theron frowned, muttering something under his breath about being sold for ambition, but I didn't press. It was enough to know the pattern existed.
When we finally stood, ready to move toward the training grounds, I carried with me a patchwork of motives, fears, and hopes. Not for glory, not for honor—only for survival. If I could anticipate whims, obsessions, and human frailty, I could carve a path for myself and my companions, one careful step ahead of the chaos.
Kleon, the noble commander, watched from a distance, silent and imposing. I didn't approach him—yet. There would be time. For now, the real map was human, not political.
The morning air was cold, the mist clinging to my tunic as I jogged through the camp, stretching my arms and legs, loosening joints before anyone else had stirred. By the time the sun rose enough to cut through the fog, Nikandros and Dorian were still yawning, clumsily tying their sandals, while Theron was already squinting at the horizon, trying to look confident—but it was mostly nerves. None of us were soldiers by trade, and it showed.
We started some basic drills near the edge of the camp—lifting spears, swinging them awkwardly, staggering through shield formations. There was no rhythm, no discipline, only clattering metal and the occasional curse when someone tripped over a strap or dropped a spear. I noted each misstep silently, cataloging what could be useful, what would fail instantly in a real fight.
The sound of hooves came suddenly, a dull thud growing sharper, and a scout galloped into the clearing, mud spraying from his horse. His eyes were wide, and he panted out a warning before even dismounting.
"Trojan movement!" he gasped. "They're moving on the plain! Archers, infantry… larger numbers than we expected!"
A ripple of panic spread through our small group. Nikandros nearly dropped his spear, Dorian cursed under his breath, and even Theron's face went pale. I felt the old coil of anxiety tighten in my stomach—the kind that comes when danger is real, not theoretical.
We froze, half-ready, half-fumbling, as men and women from the camp stopped whatever they were doing to watch the dust clouds in the distance. The normal morning bustle—horses whinnying, cooks clattering pots, the clink of metal—died down. Every heartbeat sounded loud in my ears.
I walked among my companions, studying them. Nikandros was trembling, fidgeting with the strap of his shield; Dorian's eyes darted back and forth, as if the movement on the horizon was both fascinating and terrifying. Theron straightened his back, trying to look steady, but the slight shake of his hands betrayed him. I realized, not for the first time, that this company was a fragile, inexperienced thing—cannon fodder if the Trojans hit us here.
The murmurs grew, whispers spreading from one soldier to another. Some talked about where they had come from, others speculated wildly about what the Trojans might do first. I listened, picking up small details—how many were spotted, which formations were mentioned, what the fears and hopes of these people were. This knowledge, I decided, might be the only thing keeping me alive.
Then Kleon appeared, riding up with his usual calm, imperious presence. Even from a distance, he exuded authority. "Enough fearmongering!" he called, voice cutting through the tension. "Your duty—this company—is camp defense. Shields on the gates, watchposts manned. Do not leave your posts. The fighting is not yours today."
Relief washed over me and my companions, but it was tinged with frustration. We wouldn't see the battle today, wouldn't measure ourselves against the heroes whose names would echo through history. Instead, our lives were tied to the camp, to mundane yet vital tasks—guarding supplies, watching for stragglers, keeping the perimeter intact.
I walked slowly along the camp's edge, eyes scanning tents, carts, and makeshift stables. Each detail mattered—broken wheel, loose rope, a horse skittish at noise. I made mental notes: who could hold a watch, who would panic, where weaknesses might appear if the Trojans broke through. I had no command, no authority, but I could understand the web of the camp, and that understanding was power.
Fear lingered like a shadow, but it was sharpened now by calculation. This wasn't glory. It was survival.
The morning had burned away the mist, leaving the plain ahead shimmering under a rising sun. From our perch near the camp's edge, I could see the lines of the Greek army stretching across the field. The ground trembled faintly beneath the weight of marching men, the pounding hooves of horses, and the clatter of armor. Even from here, the sound carried a sense of inevitability, as though the earth itself knew it was about to be trampled into memory.
I drew in a deep breath, tasting the dust and sweat in the air. My stomach twisted with anticipation and a strange mix of awe and fear. These were men who bore the weight of destiny, or so the tales would call them in the songs to come—Achilles with his ferocity, Odysseus with his cunning, Agamemnon with his kingly pride, Menelaus with a fury sharpened by personal grievance. I had no right to these stories, no stake in them, yet I found myself watching with a near-reverence, trying to trace the lines of motion, the rhythm of warriors moving toward their fates.
Beside me, Nikandros and Dorian shifted nervously, whispering about the names they had heard, trying to imagine what it meant to face such men in battle. Theron remained silent, his eyes narrowing, but even his usual composure could not disguise the tension coiling through him.
I thought about our company—our small, ragged, barely disciplined group. We were not heroes. We were cannon fodder, men who would follow orders and hope to survive. And yet, knowledge, observation—these could be weapons just as sharp as any sword. I scanned the formations, noting the spacing between units, the placement of cavalry, the archers along the flanks. Every detail mattered. If the Trojans broke the lines, if the battle shifted closer to the camp, I would need every piece of information to navigate the chaos.
And still, a part of me wanted to step forward, to see the clash up close, to witness the thunder of men and steel, the bravery and folly intertwined on the field. But reason prevailed. Our duty was clear—camp defense, watchfulness, survival. Glory and death belonged elsewhere, to men like Achilles and the others who would etch their names into legend.
I clenched my fists, feeling the weight of helplessness and the sharp edge of envy. The plain was alive with anticipation, a pulse that matched my own, yet I had no sword in hand, no shield to raise. All I had was my mind, my eyes, and the stubborn, gnawing determination to make it through.
The Greek army shifted as one, a living tide moving forward. Dust swirled around them, and the sun caught the edge of spears and helmets, making the lines glitter like fire on the horizon. My heart thumped, and a voice inside me whispered that soon the ground would be soaked with more than sweat.
I swallowed hard. Fear, yes—but also fascination, calculation, and the cold understanding that survival would demand every ounce of awareness I could muster.
The field waited, silent but expectant. And we waited with it, knowing that by the time the first clash came, nothing would ever feel the same again.