At the graveyard of Troy, Nathan stood silently beside Aeneas and Hector, the three men casting long shadows across the cracked and uneven ground. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and distant wildflowers, mingling with the faint aroma of charred wood—a reminder of the destruction that had gripped the city not long ago.
Before them lay a modest pile of rubble, stones heaped with care yet betraying the tragic weight of their meaning. A small, weathered marker stood out among the debris. Its surface was rough, yet someone had taken the time to carve a name into it with painstaking precision.
Sarpedon.
Nathan's dark eyes lingered on the inscription. His expression was as hard as the stone beneath his feet, but his thoughts churned with emotion.
