The night smelled of ash and seawater. Across the beach, fires cracked inside iron braziers, throwing long shadows that twitched across the sand like restless spirits. The Greek camp was quieter than usual. No drunken laughter. No clashing cups or boasts about battles long past. Tonight was different. Tonight, there was only focus — and the sound of axes biting into wood.

Stacks of timber, dragged down from the forests beyond the shore, now lay in neat rows, waiting to be shaped. Men swarmed around them, stripping bark, measuring beams, hammering nails into place. The shape had not yet emerged, but Odysseus could already see it in his mind tall, towering, hollow as betrayal.

He stood at the edge of the camp, arms folded, watching. The torchlight flickered against his scarred face, hardening the lines around his eyes. For ten years, they had bled at Troy’s gates. Ten years of broken bodies, of wives left waiting, of children growing up without fathers. And still the walls stood, proud and unbroken.

Not for much longer.

A voice broke through the din.

“Bring that beam here!” Diomedes barked, waving his arm. His strength had not dimmed after a decade of war; his command cut through the night like steel. “No, not that one the longer timber. We need the spine straight. If it bends, the whole frame collapses.”

Men rushed to obey.

Further down the shore, Agamemnon sat like a black mountain, watching, silent. The High King’s face was unreadable, but Odysseus knew him well enough. Victory was all he cared for now. Pride and rage had carried him across too many graves; he would not be satisfied until Troy burned.

Menelaus stalked the line of workers, his jaw clenched. To him, this was personal. Troy had stolen his wife. He wanted not just victory, but vengeance. His sword hand twitched at his side as if the memory of Paris haunted every step he took.

Odysseus turned from them. He had seen enough of kings and their hungers. His gaze drifted to the sea, black as oil under the moon. Home lay somewhere beyond that horizon Penelope, still waiting. Telemachus, no longer the boy he had left behind. Ten years. Ten years lost to this war. Would they even recognize him when he returned? Would he recognize himself?

Footsteps approached. Odysseus did not turn. He already knew who it was.

“Strange sight, isn’t it?” Neo’s voice was low, steady. Achilles’ son had inherited his father’s height, his father’s proud shoulders, but not his fire. Neo carried grief like a cloak, heavy and constant.

Odysseus gave a small grunt. “Strange enough.”

They stood together, silent, watching the horse take form under firelight. Its ribs were rising now, great curved beams like the skeleton of some ancient beast dragged from the depths. The men worked tirelessly, shaping history with every strike of their hammers.

Neo’s eyes were not on the wood. They were on Odysseus. “I had a vision.”

Odysseus finally turned. His brow furrowed. “A vision?”

Neo nodded. His face was pale in the firelight, his expression unreadable. “Of what comes after this. Of what hunts us beyond Troy’s fall.”

Odysseus said nothing. Visions were dangerous things. He had lived long enough to know that.

Neo took a breath. “Hector’s son.”

The name cut like a blade. Odysseus’s eyes narrowed. “The boy?”

“An infant now,” Neo said. “But he will grow. And when he does, he will rise against you. Against all of us. The gods will see to it. He will not rest until your house is ash and your family lies in ruin.”

For a long moment, the only sound between them was the steady thud of hammers and the crackle of fire. Odysseus’s jaw tightened. He looked back to the sea, as if the waves might offer an answer.

“You ask me to believe the gods would make an enemy out of a child?” Odysseus asked at last, his voice flat.

Neo’s gaze did not waver. “Not ask. Warn. If you spare him, he will one day take everything from you. Penelope. Telemachus. Ithaca itself.”

The names struck like stones. Odysseus felt the ground tilt beneath him. He had fought, schemed, and bled for ten years to see their faces again. Could it all be undone by one child?

He wanted to dismiss it. To call it madness, fear, or grief talking. But the war had taught him too well: the gods delighted in cruel ironies. And visions had a way of making themselves true.

“Say nothing of this to the others,” Odysseus said quietly. “Not yet.”

Neo frowned. “You cannot ignore it.”

Odysseus finally turned to him, eyes hard as flint. “I am not ignoring it. But I will not murder an infant to soothe the whispers of prophecy.”

Neo’s jaw tightened. “Then when the boy comes for your family, remember this night.”

He left without another word, vanishing into the smoke and fire.

Odysseus stood alone again, staring at the half-built horse. Its ribs loomed tall, black against the flames. A monument to cunning, to deception, to victory. But in his mind, all he could see was the shadow of a boy not yet old enough to speak a boy who, if the gods willed it, would grow into the hand that struck him down.

The sea whispered at his back, patient and endless. Odysseus closed his eyes.

For the first time that night, victory tasted like ash.