Chapter 106: Embers Under the Ash
The evacuation had been orderly. The return was not.
Lysander watched from the northern gate as families streamed back into the settlement, carrying the bundles they had carried away three days before. Children ran ahead of their parents, chasing each other between the shelters. Old men walked slowly, leaning on sticks, their faces weary but relieved. The black ships were gone. The danger had passed. Life was resuming.
But the order Maea had maintained during the evacuation was fraying at the edges. Lysander could see it in the way people clustered at the distribution point, their voices sharper than they had been, their patience thinner. Three days of fear and disruption had taken a toll that the relief of survival couldn’t fully erase.
"Six fights since dawn," Miros said, appearing at his elbow. "None serious. But they’re increasing."
"Over what."
"Food. Water. Space. The northern shelters were damaged when people fled—some of them collapsed, others were looted. Families are coming back to find their belongings gone. They’re blaming each other."
"Was it looting?"
"Some of it. Some of it was just chaos. People grabbing what they could when the evacuation started. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that they’re angry and frightened and looking for someone to blame."
Lysander looked at the distribution point. A line of people stretched back into the shelters, waiting for food. A woman near the front was shouting at the volunteer behind the table. A man further back was shoving another man, their voices rising.
"Maea?" Lysander asked.
"She’s been here since before dawn. She’s doing what she can, but she’s one person." Miros paused. "The fishermen are helping. Shebek’s people. They’ve been walking the perimeter, keeping things calm. But they’re not trained for this."
"They held the line during the battle."
"I know. That’s why I’m telling you. They’re trying to keep the peace, but they don’t have the authority. People don’t listen to them the way they’d listen to the patrols."
Lysander looked at the crowd again. The shouting woman had been pulled aside by a neighbour. The shoving men had been separated by a fisherman with a scarred face and patient eyes. The situation was holding, but it was fragile. A single spark could turn it into something worse.
"Deploy a patrol presence," he said. "Not an occupation—just visibility. Enough to remind people that order still exists."
"Hector already ordered it. They should be here within the hour."
"Good." Lysander turned from the gate. "I’ll speak to Maea. She needs more support than she’s getting."
He found Maea near the registration point, a tablet in her hand, her face drawn with exhaustion. She had been working for three days without rest, organising the evacuation, managing the return, solving a thousand small problems before they became large ones. She looked up when he approached, and for a moment, the mask of competence slipped, and he saw the weariness beneath.
"How bad is it," she said.
"Manageable. Miros is sending patrols to keep order. The fishermen are helping."
"They’ve been invaluable. Shebek’s people—they know how to talk to frightened families. They’ve been frightened families themselves." She looked at the tablet in her hand. "The northern shelters took the most damage. About forty families have nowhere to sleep tonight. I’m trying to find space in the outer ring, but it’s already overcrowded."
"What do you need."
"More shelters. More food. More hands." She paused. "What I need is a week of quiet. What I have is a settlement full of people who just survived an attack and are now fighting each other for blankets."
"The council is meeting today. I’ll raise the shelter issue."
Maea looked at him. "The council. Will they listen?"
"I’ll make them listen."
She didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t argue. She had learned, in the months since arriving in Troy, that Lysander usually got what he wanted from the council—not because they liked him, but because he came prepared. Numbers. Projections. Arguments no one could refute without looking foolish.
"Then good luck," she said. She didn’t say it with bitterness. She said it with the weary pragmatism of someone who had been navigating bureaucracies her entire adult life and had learned not to expect much from them.
"I don’t need luck," Lysander said. "I need you to keep doing what you’re doing until the patrols arrive."
"I’ll keep doing it regardless. But the patrols will help." She looked toward the distribution point, where the shouting had subsided and the line was moving again. "They’re not bad people. They’re just tired. They’ve been running for months, and the one place they thought was safe turned out not to be. That does something to a person."
Lysander said nothing. He had seen the same look in the eyes of the refugees on the dock—the woman with the silent child, the old man staring at nothing, the fisherman with his hands wrapped in bloody cloth. He knew what running did to people. He just hadn’t lived it himself.
"Then trust me when I tell you that what these people need isn’t just food and shelter," Maea said. "It’s the feeling that someone is in control. That the chaos has an end. That the people in charge actually care whether they live or die."
"The patrols will help with that."
"Yes. But you know what would help more?" She held his gaze. "If you came here more often. Not to the supply office. Here. Where people can see you. Where they can ask you questions and hear you answer them. You’re the one who built this place. They know that. But they don’t know you. And they need to know the person who’s making decisions about their lives."
Lysander was quiet for a moment. She was right. He spent his days in the tower, in the war room, in the supply office. He managed systems. He didn’t manage people.
"I’ll come," he said. "Tomorrow."
"Good." She turned back to her tablet. "Now go. I have forty families to find shelter for."
The brawl started an hour later.
It began at the distribution point—a dispute over a sack of grain, accusations of favouritism, a shove that became a punch. Within minutes, it had spread to the surrounding shelters, people taking sides, old grievances surfacing under the pressure of fear and exhaustion.
By the time Lysander reached the scene, Miros was already there. He had waded into the centre of the brawl with nothing but his presence and his voice, and somehow—Lysander never understood how he did it—the fighting was subsiding. The patrols had arrived, forming a perimeter, but Miros was the one who was calming the crowd, speaking to the men who had started the fight, his voice low and unhurried.
Lysander watched from the edge of the crowd. He didn’t intervene. This was Miros’s work, and Miros was better at it than anyone else in Troy.
After the crowd had dispersed and the injured had been taken to the medical tent, Miros walked over to him. His tunic was torn. There was a bruise forming on his jaw. But his expression was as calm as ever.
"One man with a broken nose," he said. "Two with cracked ribs. No one dead."
"What started it."
"Grain. One family accused another of taking more than their share. It wasn’t true, but it didn’t matter. They wanted to fight about something, and the grain was what was available."
"They’re scared."
"Yes. Scared people fight. It’s the only thing they can control." Miros looked at the settlement. "The patrols will keep order. But this won’t be the last fight. Not while the black ships are still out there."
"They’re gone."
"For now. They’ll be back. Or others like them will." He turned to Lysander. "These people need something to do with their fear besides fight each other. The council meets today. You’re going to ask them for more shelters. Ask them for more than that."
"I will."
Miros nodded and walked away, back toward the patrols.
Lysander stood at the edge of the settlement, looking at the shelters, the distribution point, the families who were slowly returning to their routines. They had survived the black ships. They had survived the battle. But survival wasn’t the same as living, and the difference between the two was what he was trying to build.
Paris – On the Road to Argos
The village was small, a cluster of stone houses around a well, the kind of place that existed to serve the farms that surrounded it. Paris arrived at midday, his feet sore from the road, his water skin nearly empty. He stopped at the well to refill it, and an old man sitting on a stone bench nearby struck up a conversation.
"You’re a trader," the old man said. It wasn’t a question.
"Grain," Paris said. "I’m looking for suppliers."
"Good luck. The harvest was poor this year. What’s left is going to Mycenae." The old man spat into the dust. "Agamemnon’s tribute. They say he’s preparing for something. A war, maybe. The king here isn’t happy about it."
"Diomedes?"
The old man looked at him sharply. "You know the king’s name."
"I’m a trader. It’s my business to know who’s in charge."
"Hmph." The old man seemed to accept this. "Well, if you’re going to Argos, you’ll hear more. The king’s been asking questions. About alternatives. About whether there’s another way." He lowered his voice. "People are saying he’s looking for allies. People who aren’t afraid of Mycenae."
"And are there such people?"
The old man shrugged. "There’s talk. Always talk. Whether it amounts to anything—" He shrugged again. "A man who asks too many questions eventually finds answers he doesn’t like."
Paris thanked him and continued on his way. The road stretched ahead, dusty and empty, winding toward the distant hills where Argos waited. The old man’s words stayed with him. A man who asks too many questions eventually finds answers he doesn’t like. It was a warning. But it was also confirmation. The cracks were real. The discontent was spreading.
The road to Argos was long, and the sun was already beginning its descent toward the hills. He walked on, toward the answers that were waiting.
