The Greek champion was named Euryalus.
He came from Salamis. Not a nobleman — a professional fighter who had won games in six cities and never lost a duel. He was tall, lean, and moved like water. No wasted motion. No wasted breath.
Hector sent a man named Damastus. A garrison veteran. Thirty years old. Scarred hands. He had killed nine men in his life and did not remember the first one because it had been dark and he had been afraid.
Damastus walked out of the gate at dawn. Same plain. Same sun. Same silence from both armies.
Euryalus waited at the centre. No shield. No armour except a light breastplate and greaves. Two short swords — one in each hand.
Damastus carried a spear and a shield. Trojan standard. Heavy.
They did not speak.
Euryalus moved first.
Not a charge. A step. Then another. Measured. Closing the distance without committing. Damastus held his ground. Spear forward. Shield high.
