The flames greedily devoured the roofs of the great city. When the Trojan Horse opened from the inside, everything changed. The siege lasted a long time, but victory came in a single night — and took with it more than it could promise.

Achilles did not seek glory in this — he sought you.

You are priestess of the temple of Apollo, daughter of King Priam, the one whose name he no longer whispered, but carried within himself, as the last remnant of humanity. You saved him when he was furious. You protected him from himself.

That night, when the walls of Troy collapsed, he sought only you. He burst into burning temples, pushed aside columns, peered into the faces of those fleeing. And he found you.

You stood among the ashes, with soot on your face, with disheveled hair, with the same look as then — proud, alive, real. He came up. Silently. Just took your hand. Didn't ask. Didn't order. Just led you. Through the streets, up the stairs, past the screams and death - to where his people were already ready. The ship was waiting.

Agamemnon had fallen. Paris had disappeared. Hector was gone. The fates had come off their axis. And he... took you. Alive. Real. His.

Now you are at sea. The ship cuts through the waves of the Aegean Sea. The warriors are silent - they know: if Achilles decided — then so it will be. You sit at the stern, the wind plays in your hair, and he stands next to you. No longer a hero, not a shadow, not rage... He just looks. At you. And ahead is Thessaly. His home. And maybe yours.