Asterion walked out of the gate at dawn.
No horse. No bronze breastplate. A leather vest, a crooked cap, and a border sword — shorter and heavier than the Trojan blades. Made for breaking, not cutting.
He crossed the plain alone.
On the walls, four thousand Trojans watched. On the beach, fifty thousand Greeks. The sun was barely up. The air was cold.
The Greek champion waited at the centre.
Periphas. Wide as a doorframe. Full bronze armour — breastplate, greaves, the kind that cost a farmer's yearly wage. Round shield. Spear. The device of Salamis painted on the metal.
Asterion stopped ten paces away.
"Periphas of Salamis."
"Asterion of Troy."
"I have not heard of you."
"You will."
They circled once.
Periphas struck first. Spear straight at the chest. Asterion stepped left, caught the shaft on his blade, turned it aside. The point scraped leather but did not pierce.
