Chapter 115: The Reply
The training ground was cold, the winter wind cutting through the compound, but the men were sweating.
Lysander stood at the edge of the field, watching Miros move among the new recruits. The first cohort of the militia—forty-seven men, drawn from Shebek’s fishermen, from Maea’s settlement volunteers, from the families who had held the line on the eastern beach. They were not soldiers. Their stances were wrong, their grips uncertain, their strikes too wide. But they were here, in the cold, before dawn, because they had asked to be.
Miros corrected a fisherman’s grip with two fingers, said something too quiet for Lysander to hear, and moved on. He had been training men for a decade, but never like this. Never men who had already fought and killed and watched their friends die. Never men who knew exactly what they were training for.
"The spears arrived," Arsini said, appearing at his elbow. She had a tablet in her hand, as always. "Daidalos sent them this morning. Forty-seven, one for each recruit. He says the swords will take another two weeks."
"The spears are enough for now. Miros wants them to master one weapon before they touch another."
"He would." She watched the recruits for a moment. "They look different from the patrols."
"They are different. The patrols train because they’re ordered to. These men train because they’ve already seen what happens if they don’t."
Arsini made a note on her tablet. "The council hasn’t mentioned the militia since they approved it. No objections. No questions. Akastos has been quiet."
"Akastos is never quiet. He’s waiting."
"For what."
"I don’t know yet." Lysander looked at the recruits. "But whatever it is, these men will be ready for it."
Arsini nodded and walked back toward the supply office. Lysander remained at the edge of the field, watching the militia move through their drills, and thought about the package that Rethon had received, still unaccounted for, still somewhere in the palace. Fylon’s watchers had seen nothing. The guard Echelos had been carrying messages, but nothing large enough to be the package. Whatever Rethon had been given, he was keeping it close.
The training continued. The wind blew cold from the sea. Somewhere in the palace, a spider was spinning its web. And somewhere in the west, Paris was waiting for an answer.
Paris – Sparta
The potter’s shop was busy when Paris arrived. Laertes was at the wheel, his hands slick with wet clay, shaping a bowl with the practiced rhythm of a man who had done the same thing ten thousand times. He didn’t look up when Paris entered, but his shoulders tightened.
"In the back," he said, his voice low. "Same place as before."
Paris walked through the cluttered front room to the storage area at the rear. The broken pots and abandoned wheels were still there, shrouded in dust. On the shelf where he had left his message three days ago, there was now a small strip of leather, folded neatly, sealed with a drop of plain wax.
His heart beat faster. He picked up the strip and broke the seal.
The handwriting was the same as he remembered from the letters she had written him three years ago. Small, precise, the strokes of someone who had been taught to write beautifully but had long since stopped caring about beauty.
I remember the sea. Who are you?
Six words. Not an invitation. Not a rejection. A question. She didn’t know who had sent the message—she only knew that someone remembered the letters they had exchanged, the sea he had described, the question he had asked her about what she wanted. She was being careful. She was being cautious. She was being exactly what a woman in her position needed to be.
Paris read the words three times. Then he found a scrap of leather in his case, took out his stylus, and wrote his reply.
A merchant. Someone who met you once, years ago, and never forgot. I am not here to harm you. I am here because I heard you were in danger, and I wanted to help. If you will let me.
He didn’t sign it. He didn’t need to. If she was the woman he remembered, she would know. And if she didn’t want to know, no name would convince her.
He folded the strip, sealed it with wax, and left it on the shelf where her message had been.
Laertes was still at the wheel. He didn’t look up as Paris passed.
"Same arrangement," Paris said. "If there’s a reply, I’ll be back in three days."
"I’m not a messenger service."
"You’re a man who wants to help his city. This is how you help."
Laertes said nothing. Paris left the shop and walked back through the streets of Sparta. The winter sun was pale, the shadows long. He thought about the six words she had written, the care in each stroke, the question that was also a test.
Who are you?
She would find out. Soon. But not yet. Not until she was ready.
Cassandra stood at the window at the end of the corridor, looking west.
Lysander found her there as he walked back from the training ground. She had been doing this more often lately—standing at this particular window, staring at the sea, her face unreadable. He had learned not to interrupt her when she was like this. But this time, she spoke first.
"The thread," she said. "In the west. It’s moving."
"Moving how."
"I don’t know. I felt it shift, two days ago. Like something that had been still for a long time suddenly waking up." She turned to look at him. "Paris. He’s doing something. Something that will change things."
"Is he in danger."
"Not yet. But he’s close to something. Something that could be very good or very bad. I can’t tell which." She looked back at the sea. "The thread is still there. Still holding. But it’s pulled tight now. Tighter than before."
Lysander stood beside her. The sea was grey and cold, the horizon invisible behind a veil of winter mist. Somewhere beyond that mist, Paris was walking a path that would lead him either to salvation or disaster. And Cassandra, who saw everything, could not tell which it would be.
"Do you want me to send word to him," Lysander asked. "A warning. A recall."
"No. Whatever he’s doing, he has to do it. The thread doesn’t break. It just... tightens." She looked at him. "But when it reaches its limit—something will happen. Something neither of us can predict."
"Then we prepare for anything."
"Yes." She turned from the window. "That’s all we can do."
