Dawn broke grey and cold over the island harbour. The two ships—the Greek galley and the Trojan trader—still rocked at anchor among the black hulls of the Sea Peoples' fleet, their crews waiting on deck, their captains watching the shore. They had been anchored for two days now, and the tension had grown thick as fog.
The camp sprawled across the rocky slopes above the harbour. Driftwood fires sent thin columns of smoke into the pale sky. Warriors sharpened their blades with slow, deliberate strokes. Women worked at the fires, their eyes watchful. Children ran barefoot through the tents, half-wild, sensing the mood of their elders and keeping their distance from the driftwood throne.
