The storyteller arrived in Troy on a warm autumn afternoon.
His name was Mentor—or so he claimed. He was old, bald, with a beard that reached his chest and a voice that could fill a amphitheater. He carried no lyre, only a staff carved with faded scenes: a man fighting a river, a woman turning into a tree, a warrior dragging a body behind a chariot.
Helios saw him from across the agora. The old man had set up near the fountain, and a crowd was already gathering. Children sat cross-legged on the stones. Soldiers leaned against the walls. Merchants left their stalls unattended.
Everyone loved a story.
Helios hesitated. He had heard Greek myths before—in books, in movies, in college lectures. He knew how the story of Achilles ended. He knew about the heel, the rage, the funeral pyre.
But those were stories. This was a man claiming the stories were true.
Curiosity, Helios told himself. Just curiosity. Nothing wrong with that.
He walked over and found a spot at the edge of the crowd.
---
Mentor began without introduction.
"Sing, goddess, of the wrath of Achilles," he intoned, and Helios felt a shiver run down his spine. Those were the opening words of the Iliad. He had read them in three different translations.
He's reciting Homer, Helios realized. Or whatever passes for Homer in this world.
The old man told the story well. He painted pictures with his voice: Achilles sulking in his tent, Patroclus wearing the armor, Hector running from the walls. The crowd gasped at the right moments, laughed at the insults, groaned at the deaths.
Helios listened. But he wasn't listening to the story. He was listening to the details.
So the basic narrative is the same, he thought. Achilles is invulnerable except for his heel. Hector is noble but doomed. The gods intervene.
But there were differences. Small ones. Mentor mentioned a river god who fought Achilles—that was in the Iliad. But he also mentioned Achilles fighting a giant, which Helios didn't remember. And he described Achilles's armor as "forged by a god," which was accurate, but he said the armor talked, which was not.
Oral tradition, Helios decided. The story mutates with every telling.
When Mentor finished, the crowd applauded. Coins clinked in the old man's cup. Children begged for another tale. Mentor smiled and promised to return tomorrow.
Helios stayed seated. He wanted to ask something. But he didn't want to seem strange.
---
A boy his age sat down next to him. Dark hair, dark eyes, a faded bruise on his cheek.
"That was good," the boy said. "I like the part where Achilles kills the river."
"Rivers can't be killed," Helios said. "They're water."
The boy shrugged. "In the story they can."
Helios looked at him. The boy wasn't being argumentative. He was just stating a fact. In this world, rivers could be killed. Or at least, people believed they could.
"I'm Helios," he said.
"Lysander." The boy grinned. "You're the one who disarmed the drunk soldier."
Helios winced. "Word travels fast."
"My uncle was there. He said you moved like a snake." Lysander leaned closer. "Can you teach me?"
"Teach you what?"
"To fight. My father's dead. My mother can't afford a master." The boy's grin faded. "I just want to not be scared anymore."
Helios looked at Lysander's bruised cheek. At his too-bright eyes. At the hunger underneath the smile.
He's just a kid, Helios thought. A kid who wants to feel safe.
In his past life, Helios had helped no one. He had given money to charities for the tax write-off, not because he cared. He had walked past suffering because it was efficient.
He was tired of being efficient.
"Come to my house tomorrow morning," Helios said. "I'll show you what I know."
Lysander's face lit up. "Really?"
"Really. But don't expect miracles. I'm still learning too."
---
That night, Helios lay on his sleeping mat and stared at the ceiling.
Achilles.
The name echoed in his head. The greatest warrior of the age. Invulnerable, except for one weakness. Doomed to die young, but to live forever in song.
If the stories are true, Helios thought, then Achilles is out there right now. A real person. A real threat.
He didn't know if he would ever face Achilles. The timeline was fuzzy. The Trojan War hadn't started yet—Helen was still married to Menelaus, as far as he knew. Paris hadn't visited Sparta. The fleet hadn't gathered.
But it would. And when it did, Achilles would come.
What am I supposed to do? Fight him? Hide from him? Join him?
He didn't have an answer. He didn't even know what side he was on. He was Trojan by birth, but his past life had no stake in this war. He had read the Iliad as an outsider, rooting for Hector because Hector seemed like the good guy.
But Hector was a stranger. And Achilles was a stranger. And Helios was just a boy with golden eyes and too many memories.
One thing at a time, he told himself. Learn to fight. Learn to survive. Figure out the rest later.
He closed his eyes. Sleep came slowly, and with it, dreams of a man in bronze armor dragging a body behind a chariot.
---
The next morning, Lysander showed up at dawn.
Helios was already in the courtyard, stretching. He had developed a routine—lunges, squats, balance exercises. Nothing fancy. Just enough to keep his body limber.
Lysander watched him for a minute. "You move weird."
"Efficiently," Helios corrected. "There's a difference."
He handed Lysander a wooden sword—the one Dymas had left behind. The boy took it eagerly, almost dropping it.
"First lesson," Helios said. "Don't be eager. Eagerness makes you predictable."
Lysander frowned. "But I want to learn."
"Then learn to be patient. A sword is just a tool. The real weapon is here." Helios tapped his head. "And here." He tapped his chest.
Lysander nodded slowly. "Okay. What do I do first?"
"Stand still. Breathe. And don't move until I tell you."
They stood in the courtyard as the sun rose. Helios watched Lysander's breathing, his shifting weight, the way his eyes darted around. The boy was nervous. Impatient. Normal.
He's nothing like me, Helios thought. He's just a regular kid who wants to be brave.
That was refreshing. And a little sad.
---
They trained for an hour. Helios taught Lysander the basic stance—feet apart, knees bent, sword held at an angle. Nothing advanced. Just the foundations.
"You're a good teacher," Lysander said, panting.
"I'm a terrible teacher," Helios replied. "I just hate wasting time."
Lysander laughed. "Same thing, isn't it?"
Helios considered that. In his past life, he had been called a good mentor by junior analysts. He had never believed them. He was just efficient. He didn't have patience for mistakes, for slow learners, for people who needed hand-holding.
But Lysander wasn't a junior analyst. He was a boy with a bruised cheek and a dead father.
I can be patient, Helios decided. For him.
"Same thing," he agreed. "Now do it again. Twenty more times."
Lysander groaned. But he smiled.
---
That afternoon, Helios returned to the agora.
Mentor was there again, telling a different story—this one about Perseus and Medusa. The crowd was smaller today, but still respectable. Helios found a spot near the fountain and listened.
When the story ended, he walked up to the old man.
"You tell good tales," Helios said.
Mentor looked down at him. His eyes were pale blue, almost colorless, but sharp. "You're the boy who disarmed a soldier."
"Everyone knows that, apparently."
"News travels. Especially news about strange children." Mentor leaned on his staff. "What do you want, boy?"
Helios hesitated. He wanted to ask if Achilles was real. If the gods were real. If the stories were history or just stories.
But those questions would make him look weird. And he was tired of looking weird.
"I want to know if you believe what you tell," Helios said instead.
Mentor laughed. "Believe? I'm a storyteller. I believe in a good ending and a full cup."
"But do you think Achilles really exists? A man who can't be hurt?"
The old man's smile faded. He studied Helios with those pale eyes, and for a moment, he looked less like a beggar and more like a priest.
"Achilles is real," Mentor said quietly. "I've seen him. Not up close—I value my life. But I've seen him fight. He moves like nothing human. His spear kills before it touches."
Helios felt his stomach tighten. "And his heel? The weak spot?"
Mentor shrugged. "That's what they say. But I wouldn't bet my life on it."
Neither would I, Helios thought. In my world, Achilles was a legend. Here, he might be a fact. And facts are dangerous.
"Thank you," Helios said. He turned to leave.
"Boy." Mentor's voice stopped him. "Whoever you're running from, you won't find peace by hiding."
Helios looked back. "I'm not running."
"Everyone runs. Even Achilles. Especially Achilles." The old man smiled, but his eyes were sad. "The difference is what you run toward."
Helios walked away without answering. He didn't have an answer.
---
That night, he sat on the roof with Lyra.
She had brought bread and olives, stolen from her father's kitchen. They ate in silence, watching the stars.
"You're quiet," Lyra said.
"I'm thinking."
"About what?"
Helios chewed an olive. "About heroes. And whether they're real."
Lyra snorted. "Heroes aren't real. They're just stories for children."
"My mother says the same thing."
"Your mother is smart."
Helios looked at her. In the starlight, her tangled hair looked almost silver. Her scowl was softer than usual.
"What if the stories are true?" he asked. "What if there really is a man who can't be killed? A man who fights like a god?"
Lyra considered this. "Then I'd stay far away from him. Wouldn't you?"
No, Helios thought. I'd want to know how he fights. I'd want to know if I could beat him.
But he didn't say that. Because that would sound weird. And he was tired of being weird.
"Probably," he said. "Stay far away."
Lyra nodded, satisfied. She leaned her head against his shoulder—just for a moment, just barely.
"Don't become a hero, Helios," she said quietly. "Heroes die young."
"I know."
"Promise me."
He looked at the stars. The same stars he had seen in his past life, from a balcony in Manhattan. The same stars, but a different world.
"I promise," he said.
It was a lie. They both knew it. But Lyra smiled anyway, and that was enough.
---
END OF CHAPTER FIVE