Night enveloped the estate. Insect chirps mixed with distant barks. The oil lamp in Aeneas's room cast wavering shadows on the wall. The shadows of the bow and wooden sword stretched long and thin. The bronze shield hung silent. A reminder of his duties as a warrior.
But Aeneas looked nothing like a warrior right now. He'd rolled up his sleeves. Gripped a bronze stylus. Frowned at a wax tablet. The lamp threw his exaggerated shadow on the wall. He looked like an actor in a play.
"Sanitation…" he muttered, with a modern man's fixation. "Sanitation… is the foundation of everything! It's not swords that kill people these days. It's filthy conditions."
The stylus scraped crooked lines into the wax. "Latrines!" He sketched a deep pit. It looked pathetic even to him. "Convince Father tomorrow. Dig pits on the leeward side of the yard. Get lime ready… We can use the waste for manure. Two birds, one stone."
He pushed that tablet aside. Grabbed a fresh one. "Water filter… Sand, linen, charcoal. That should do it." He paused, staring at his drawing. Shook his head. "Won't be pure, but it'll cut the parasites in half. Good enough…"
The lamp sputtered. A spark jumped. Aeneas stared at his 'masterpiece.' Let out a long breath. "Drawing with this thing is worse than writer's block." He dropped the stylus on the table with a clack. Rubbed his forehead. "My laptop… I miss you."
His shadow on the wall slumped its shoulders in sympathy. Like a student defeated by homework.
The lamp flickered on. Filled the room with the scent of burning oil. The weapons on the wall watched like a silent audience. Observing their master's 'great civilization project.'
Aeneas's eyes suddenly lit up. "Fermentation!" he whispered triumphantly, like he'd struck gold. "Bread yeast! Yogurt! Cheese! We can upgrade the food by several levels! Improve lives and build stronger people. Perfect!"
The stylus snapped with a crack. He frowned. Then grinned. Moved to a clean spot. Drew a few large circles. "Paper! We have to make paper!" His voice was low but thrilled. "Papyrus is expensive. Brittle. Knowledge struggles to circulate freely. Tree bark, rags, plant fibers… Got to try!"
He was almost lying on the tablet now. His hand trembled with excitement. "With paper, we can't keep carving with this thing. The inefficiency…" He looked up at the ceiling. "No iron age yet, forget steel pens. Quills and ink first! Wait… How do you even make ink?"
The lamplight danced in his eyes. But his expression grew sober. The stylus hovered. "Hold on… This is all big stuff. What's the family's financial situation?" He tapped the table with the stylus handle. "Need to tour the lands tomorrow. Take stock."
He finally tossed the stylus down. Laced his fingers behind his head. Stretched. His wrists ached from carving. He rubbed them vigorously. Couldn't help a tired smile.
The wax tablet on the table, covered in clumsy sketches, looked like an 'ancient business plan.' Aeneas looked at it. His eyes held a young man's pride. And a grown man's pressure.
"Hellish difficulty. The reward… might be changing history." He spoke to himself. Pushed the tablet to the center of the table. Like sealing a important pact.
He pushed open the creaking wooden shutter. The night breeze made the lamp flame gutter. He leaned on the window frame. Let the cool air wash over him.
In the distance, Troy was silent in the dark. Torches on its walls blinked like watching eyes. A colossal giant standing firm. Aeneas rolled his eyes internally.
'Colossal, my ass…' he grumbled in his head. 'About to get wrecked by a wooden horse and sent to the ICU. How long? Ten years? Five? Tomorrow?'
He shivered involuntarily.
"Paris..." His lip twitched. "That playboy prince. He's got, what, eighty percent of the blame for this war? Where is the bastard now? Drinking and chasing girls in Sparta? Or is he clogging up the Aegean?" He muttered the gripe under his breath.
Thinking of Helen, he looked up at the sky. "That's the face that launched a thousand ships to their doom?"
His brow furrowed. But his eyes grew sharper. "The problem isn't just Paris... Even without the Trojan Horse, old Priam holding the city by himself? Ha... Troy... seems doomed no matter what..."
He took a sharp breath. His fingers tapped absently on the window frame. "Tomorrow. I must assess the estate's defenses. If they're weak, raise a militia. Strengthen the walls... Add a ditch... Even if Troy falls, our home must not."
He suddenly realized how far his thoughts had spiraled. He blew out a hard breath. Looked up at the sky. The moonlight was cold. A silent prod. Weariness flashed across his face. But his gaze hardened.
"Alright." He spoke softly to himself, like placing a bet with an unseen opponent. "Since I'm here in this era... I'll fight to the end. Like a warrior should."
He turned the oil lamp down. The light danced in the room. He leaned back in his chair. Tapped the table lightly. Fearsome names rose in his mind: Achilles. Hector. Ajax the Great...
"Those are monsters... Personal combat prowess in this age is basically cheating!" He squinted, self-mocking. "Can't stop training. Double the drills tomorrow! Or Achilles will swat me like a fly. All my clever ideas won't matter then."
Troy's politics were darker than the night. The name Priam seemed to whisper just outside the window. That whole brood of princes... none were simple.
He picked up another wax tablet. Wrote in English: "Alliances & Resources."
A wry smile touched his lips. He knew he couldn't rely on just passion and book smarts. Politics was a marathon. He had to stay alive. And build his leverage.
"Priam... Paris... Hector... They all matter to a minor prince like me. I need to gain their trust and resources... but not so much I become a threat..." He shook his head. "Lay low and develop?"
The phrase sounded absurd in his head—a three-thousand-year-later buzzword under the lamplight of Troy. But he knew what won lowered guards wasn't fancy words. It was tangible contributions. And seeming... harmless.
He imagined himself at a royal feast. Offering a simple, honest smile. Fighting with loyalty and courage. But staying humble and unassuming when spoils were divided...
Royals! They were all the same. Happy to take without giving. A subordinate who was strong but not obedient? They'd send him to the most dangerous posts. His death wouldn't be a loss...
Aeneas's blood heated again with a stubborn, defiant energy. He felt like he was playing an immersive historical strategy game. For real. The stakes were his reputation. His survival. His future.
"A real-life, immersive historical game! A premium experience few ever get to play! Gotta secure that Happy Ending!" He pumped himself up, his voice echoing faintly in the small room.
On the wax tablet, he wrote in English: Boost—Stamina + Combat Skills + Military Tech. He added a smiley face beside it. A self-mocking promise.
Finally, he closed the window. Let the night flood back into the room.
He lay down on the bed. Rolled over. Before dousing the lamp, he made a silent vow to himself: "Don't get cocky. Stay steady. Then... make moves."
The light went out. Only his even breathing remained.
Just as sleep was about to take him, a blurred image suddenly intruded—a little girl's face. Deep auburn curls stuck to her neck. Her eyes were numb. Desperate. But held a faint, stubborn flicker of hope. Her gaze seemed to reach across time, into this very room. Or maybe she was looking at nothing at all.
Aeneas frowned. Put a hand to his forehead. A dull ache started there. The image was shrouded in thick fog. Reaching for it, he only felt dampness and dust.
"Whose memory is this? Allen's? Or Aeneas's? That girl… who is she?" The question hung in the quiet room, sounding oddly loud.
He tried to recall details. The girl's clothes? The setting? All clues had shattered into fragments.
The headache worsened. He muttered under his breath, "Brain's glitching again."
Maybe a forgotten childhood memory of Aeneas. Or cross-time contamination from his journey. He brushed it aside with a modern, dismissive laziness—
"Probably just some slave girl I saw once. Whatever. Not worth it." He gave a wry smile, rolled over, and was soon asleep. Tucking the image of the red-haired girl into a pocket of his dreams. For temporary storage.
******
Moonlight lay like a silver carpet on the surface of the Scamander River. A Phoenician merchant ship rocked gently. The dip of oars whispered secrets to the night. The lights of the Dardan Valley dwindled behind them. The city of Troy was a faint mark on a dark sea chart.
At the ship's prow, a girl leaned against the railing. Her deep auburn hair stirred in the night breeze, no longer the tangled mess of childhood. Her features held a soft but resolute beauty. Impossible to ignore.
The moonlight cast gentle shadows at the corners of her lips. It gave her a weathered stubbornness. And a reassuring warmth.
Her fingers traced a silk amulet. The movement was light. Practiced. Its edges were worn smooth by time. Inside lay a single, pure white swan feather. She touched it now and then. Confirming it was still there. Like shaking hands with the past.
"Seven years… I'm back. And I'll bring what you need." Her whisper was calm. Full of conviction.
Her gaze reached across the moonlit water toward the receding bank. Searching for a familiar outline. Or hoping for a long-awaited smile. "Aeneas. Do you remember the girl you once gave hope? Whether you do or not… I will repay that debt."
Her words held no pride. Only unquestionable resolve. The final note lifted slightly. A private vow to herself. This wasn't just about repayment. Perhaps it was something more.
Beside her, a golden eagle stood perched on a cargo crate. Its wings were folded. Its head held high. Its eyes glowed like banked embers. 'Eye of Zeus'—more imposing than any messenger hawk. A silent sentinel, scanning the river and the dark shores.
Whenever the eagle turned its head, its sharp gaze lingered on her hands. On the amulet. On the ring. The ring gleamed faintly in the moonlight. Gold and silver woven together. Finely carved. It seemed to hold untold stories.
She ran a thumb over the ring. A secret smile touched her lips—the smile of anticipated reunion.
It held a touch of melancholy. And a thread of obsession. A defiance of fate: You think you set my path? Watch me.
Her eyes found the hilltop estate, vanishing into the night.
Ropes creaked on the deck, soft and slow.
When the hull hit the water, the eagle would ruffle its feathers. Reminder to stay alert.
She pressed the amulet to her chest. Held it close. Like something precious.
It was more than an object. It was a connection. To someone. To a past.
In the moonlight, her figure stretched into a silent silhouette. After a long moment, she tucked the amulet away. Turned. Headed for the cabins below, her form melding with the ship's shadows.