Achates shifted slightly closer. His voice dropped to a murmur.
"Young lord, from this point on, we are within the nobles' line of sight. Mind your words. Your bearing."
"Relax!" Aeneas replied with a smile.
He walked on, running a palm over the hillside as he did.
"Even the rock face is polished smooth! Impressive..."
As they mounted the final steps, the noise and grime of the lower city fell away behind them.
Before them lay an open, quiet space. It breathed a solemn, weighty air.
The Temple of Athena stood dominant on the high ground. A grand rectangular structure of stone columns. Its terra cotta roof tiles glowed reddish-brown in the sun.
Olive and laurel branches hung between the pillars. A breeze stirred them, releasing a fresh scent that mingled with the frankincense burning on the altar.
This was another world entirely. Far removed from the din and decay below. A stage for the gaze of the gods.
"More impressive than I imagined," Euryalus whispered, his eyes wide, his excitement barely contained.
Nisus merely tightened his grip on the tray. His expression was solemn. He said nothing.
Dozens of guards patrolled before the temple. Their bronze armor flashed in the harsh sunlight. Their spears stood like a forest of pale silver.
On the stone steps above, several priests and priestesses waited in silence. They wore pristine white linen. Sashes at their waists. Laurel wreaths on their heads.
The one at their forefront was a young woman with a cold, noble bearing. Her dark hair was pulled back. Her eyes were like blades that could pierce a soul—Princess Cassandra.
Achates provided a quiet introduction.
"That is Princess Cassandra of the Trojan royal house. Now the virgin high priestess.
Beside her are her sister, Polyxena, and their brother, Prince Troilus."
As he spoke, Cassandra's gaze swept over them.
Achates immediately bowed his head in respect. Aeneas followed with a respectful nod of his own.
This was a high-level rite. Under Cassandra's guidance, the ceremony began.
Aeneas first washed his hands in a stone basin. The cool spring water flowed through his fingers. Carried away the dust of the journey.
An acolyte dipped a laurel branch into holy water. Sprinkled it lightly over his shoulders and the tray Nisus held.
Nisus held the offering as if cradling divine fire itself.
Only when Aeneas extended both hands did he carefully pass the tray over.
The oak sword that had felled the boar now lay quiet on its bed of olive branches and linen. Its surface gleamed softly with olive oil.
Aeneas lifted the tray with both hands. Presented it solemnly to Cassandra.
As she accepted it, her eyes lingered on the wooden blade for a heartbeat. She seemed to know its story.
Then, her voice rose, clear and cold, intoning the prayer:
"O Guardian of wisdom and war, Athena most high,
Hear now the cry of our blood, the vow of our kin.
Grant us eyes that pierce through shadow,
And hearts unyielding as the mountain stone.
Bless the sword that strikes in justice,
And the shield that bears your sacred light."
The priests chanted together. The priestess's voice was like wind through stone forests. Long and ethereal.
Frankincense and pine resin burned on the altar. Smoke curled up to the sky. It seemed to carry prayers away.
Aeneas bowed his head. His mind wandered.
(This whole ritual... so ceremonial. Keeping the mystery alive. Building the brand. Priests might be the original marketers... Uh, not you, dear Mother Aphrodite! You've got your own show tomorrow. I know the drill. I'll join in properly...)
The corner of his mouth twitched. Achates stood beside him. He noticed his master's distraction. He gave a quiet cough.
At the ritual's end, Cassandra placed the wooden sword on the stone platform before the statue. The goddess's gaze looked down from above. It seemed to accept the weathered sword.
Everyone was immersed in the solemn mood. But Cassandra turned. She leaned close to Aeneas. Her lips nearly brushed his ear. Her voice was a whisper only he could hear:
"Dark clouds gather in the western sky. But beware the wolf that runs wild. It wears sheep's clothing."
Aeneas's heart jolted. He looked up sharply. But Cassandra's face was calm. As if she'd said nothing. She returned to the priests. Her posture was dignified. Aloof as ever.
"Your Highness?" Euryalus noticed his tension. He whispered low.
Aeneas replied softly, "It's nothing."
His mind churned like rough seas. Aeneas replayed those cryptic words.
(What did she say? Western clouds... the Greeks? That we know. But the 'the wolf runs wild'... in sheep's clothing? What does that mean? Bandits in Red Bean Forest? Or... somewhere it can 'run'? On land? The Ilion royals? Other threats from the mainland?)
Thoughts raced. No answers came. He pushed down his shock. He lowered his eyes. He pretended to pray with the others.
The priests' chants echoed between pillars. The priestesses' voices were long and grave. The offering smoke kept rising. The whole temple felt vast and cold now. Frankincense still hung in the air. Pale smoke curled up. It twisted into faint ribbons among the stones. Weaving into the blue sky.
Suddenly, a clear young voice cut through his thoughts.
"Aeneas!"
Aeneas looked up. A young prince strode toward him. Sunlight lit his golden-brown hair. It cast a soft halo. He was about Aeneas's age. But his face held a naive ease.
Troilus—Priam's youngest and most favored son.
He beamed. His tone was warm and friendly.
"The sacrifice went well? Father heard you arrived today. He's prepared a luncheon at the palace. You and your men are invited. He said he's been wanting to meet you! The bravest son of my cousin, Anchises."
Aeneas offered a perfectly measured smile. He inclined his head. His bow was respectful, not subservient. His voice was warm, clear.
"This is a great honor, Prince Troilus. Please convey our family's deepest gratitude to His Majesty. We will make ourselves presentable and come at once."
His smile showed the right mix of delight and humility. But deep in his chest, a knot of irritation tightened.
(Blasted family hierarchy... This kid's my age, but he calls my father 'cousin'. Trying to make me call you 'uncle', are you? In your dreams, you little brat!)
He silently fumed. But he shoved the feeling down. This wasn't the place for a tantrum.
(Priam's invitation... Is it just a lunch? Or a 'probing'? That wild-running wolf... in sheep's clothing... Could it be in the palace itself?)
Troilus turned. He gestured for them to follow. The prince in white strode briskly. As if his world held no shadows. The annoying title issue seemed a mere slip of the tongue.
Just then, Achates moved closer. His voice dropped to a low murmur. It vibrated only for Aeneas.
"Young master, the palace has strict rules. Our ranks are too low. We likely can't stay by your side the whole time." His expression was grim. A flicker of worry in his eyes. "You must be careful. The King's eye may already be upon you."
Aeneas tilted his head slightly. He gave a faint nod. No reply.
The group followed Troilus. They climbed the broad stone steps to the inner city. Laurel and olive branches lined the stairs. The wind rustled them. It carried a clean, crisp scent. Behind them, the incense from the Temple of Athena still hung in the air. Like a faint, ghostly chain.
But to Aeneas, it felt like it was pulling him tight. Tying him to that mysterious whisper—
"The wolf that runs wild."
His chest felt heavy. Each step seemed to lead him toward some unseen trial.