The beach was empty in the pale light of early morning, the sand washed clean by the winter tides. Lysander walked along the water's edge, his boots leaving deep prints in the wet sand, his cloak pulled tight against the wind. He had not slept. He had been in the supply office since before dawn, reviewing the grain allocation reports, the militia training schedules, the endless columns of numbers that kept the city alive. When the numbers had begun to blur before his eyes, he had risen and walked to the shore.
The sea was grey and flat, the horizon a smear of cloud and mist. Somewhere beyond that haze, black ships were regrouping. Somewhere in the west, Paris was walking a path that might lead to salvation or disaster. Somewhere in the palace, Cassandra was standing at her window, feeling the thread tighten.
And here, on this empty beach, there was only the sound of the waves and the cry of the gulls and the cold, clean smell of the winter sea.
