The brazier had burned low. Hector hadn't noticed. He stood at the map with his arms crossed, staring at the coastline as if the charcoal lines might rearrange themselves into something he hadn't seen before. The winter wind rattled the shutters. Somewhere below the citadel, a dog was barking.
Miros leaned against the wall near the door, his arms loose at his sides. Doros sat at the table, his supply tablets arranged in neat rows. Lysander stood near the window, watching the harbour. The fishing boats were coming in, their sails catching the last of the winter light.
"The reports keep coming," Hector said. "Every week, another ship, another sighting. Agamemnon's fleet is growing."
"Thirty ships last count," Miros said. "Maybe more by now."
"You don't build thirty ships for defence. You don't squeeze tribute from every kingdom in the Peloponnese unless you're planning to use it." Hector turned from the map. "The question is where. And when."
