The war room was crowded for the first time in months.
The long table was lined with men who had spent years fighting Troy's border wars—garrison commanders from the western perimeter, patrol leaders from the northern coast, champions from the tournament grounds who had never commanded anything larger than a village militia. They stood shoulder to shoulder with Hector's regulars, their armour still dusty from the road, their voices low and urgent. The torches on the walls had been lit since before dawn, and the air was thick with smoke and the smell of too many bodies in too small a space.
Hector stood at the head of the table, a map of the strait spread before him. Miros was at his right, his useless arm bound against his chest, his left hand resting on the hilt of his lighter sword. Paris stood near the window, his wound healed but the scar still visible beneath his tunic when he moved. Lysander was at the far end of the table, his arms crossed, watching the men as they argued.
