The streets of Troy were alive with celebration. Fires burned brightly in the city squares, not as beacons of destruction, but as symbols of triumph. Wine flowed freely, and the laughter of Trojans echoed through the night, their voices rising in joyous defiance of a decade-long siege.
"We've done it!" a soldier roared, raising his cup high. "The Greeks have fled, and their gift stands as proof of their surrender!"
Around him, his comrades cheered, their armor cast aside in favor of robes and garlands. The massive wooden horse loomed over the city, standing proudly in the courtyard—a monument to their supposed victory.
King Priam, seated on his high throne, smiled for the first time in years. His people danced and sang below, their spirits unburdened by the weight of war. "At last," he murmured, his voice heavy with relief. "Troy endures."
But beneath the veneer of celebration, the horse was not what it seemed.
Crammed inside the suffocating confines of the wooden horse, Odysseus listened to the Trojans' revelry with a calm exterior that masked the storm inside. Sweat clung to his brow, and his muscles ached from hours of stillness, but his mind was sharp, calculating.
"They're drunk," whispered Anticlus, shifting uncomfortably beside him. "We should strike now."
Odysseus silenced him with a glare. "Patience." His voice was low but carried the weight of command. "Let them think they've won. Their guard will drop further."
Diomedes leaned closer, his smirk barely visible in the dim light. "Always so cautious, Odysseus. One day, that caution will cost you."
"And it won't be today," Odysseus shot back, his tone ice-cold. "Hold your tongue or risk all our lives."
The cramped silence returned, broken only by the distant sounds of music and laughter outside.
Hours passed. The celebration waned, voices slurring and fading as wine took its toll. Odysseus waited until the city fell into a drunken slumber, the once-vibrant streets now eerily quiet.
"Let's move!" He finally said.
The hatch of the wooden horse creaked open, and Odysseus was the first to step out. He landed silently, his leather boots pressing into the cold stone. Around him, Troy slept—its citizens oblivious to the doom creeping through its streets.
One by one, his men followed, slipping out of the horse like shadows spilling into the night. Epeius, the master craftsman, stayed behind, his work complete.
Odysseus scanned the courtyard, his sharp eyes finding the sentries slumped against the walls. Their helmets tilted to the side, their snores deep and untroubled.
"Eurylochus," Odysseus whispered. "Take three men. Silence them."
Eurylochus nodded, his blade gleaming faintly in the moonlight. Within moments, the guards were dispatched, their blood pooling silently on the stones.
The city gates loomed ahead, massive and imposing. Odysseus led the way, his steps careful but purposeful. The weight of the moment pressed on him. Failure was not an option.
At the gates, his men worked quickly, unbarring the heavy doors and signaling to the Greek army waiting beyond. Torches flared in the distance as Agamemnon's forces poured into the city like a tide of death.
Troy's nightmare had begun.
The streets erupted into violence as Greek soldiers swept through the city. Homes were set ablaze, their flames painting the sky with an ominous glow. The joyous cries of the previous night were replaced by screams of terror.
Odysseus fought with precision, his blade a deadly extension of himself.
"Secure the palace!" he barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. "We end this here and now!"
Eurylochus, bloodied but unyielding, nodded. "What about the civilians?"
Odysseus hesitated for the briefest moment. Then, his jaw tightened. "They chose to stand with their king. No mercy."
His words were cold, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. War demanded cruelty, but it was a burden he carried alone.
The palace doors burst open, splintering under the force of Greek battering rams. Odysseus stormed inside, his men at his heels. The throne room was a scene of desperation.
King Priam stood at its center, surrounded by his last remaining guards. His once-regal robes were stained with sweat and blood, but his gaze was unbroken.
"You dare desecrate my home?" Priam roared, his voice echoing through the chamber.
Odysseus approached slowly, his sword glinting in the firelight. "Your home was built on the blood of others. Consider this justice long overdue."
Priam raised his sword, trembling but defiant. "You think killing me will bring you peace?"
"No," Odysseus said, his tone cold and final. "But it will bring us victory."
The strike was swift. Priam crumpled to the ground, his crown rolling away like a discarded trinket.
The throne room was a chamber of chaos.
King Priam lay dead upon his shattered throne, his lifeblood spilling over the marble. His guards had fallen, his house reduced to ruin.
And yet, there was one life left to take.
Near the altar, Andromache clutched her infant son—Hector's heir. A child too young to understand that his fate had been sealed.
Odysseus took a step forward, raising his sword. But before he could act, the world around him trembled.
The flames dimmed. The cries of battle faded into nothingness.
A voice, deep and thundering, filled the chamber.
"Odysseus."
His breath caught in his throat. This was no whisper of Athena or the cunning words of Hermes. This was Zeus himself.
"You have won the war, but the gods will it that Troy is erased. No blood of its line shall remain. Kill the child."
Odysseus' grip on his blade tightened. He had slaughtered men, razed cities, left widows wailing in the streets. But this—this was no warrior. This was an infant, unaware of his own existence.
He turned his gaze to Andromache. She did not weep. She did not beg. She only held her son tighter, her face a mask of quiet defiance.
The sword in his hand felt heavier than it ever had before.
Diomedes stepped beside him, his voice cold. "Do it."
Odysseus hesitated.
Then, the room darkened, the air thickening like a brewing storm. The presence of Zeus pressed down on him, a weight unbearable. His muscles tensed, his breath shuddered.
"Defy me, Odysseus, and you will know ruin beyond this war. Your wife and son will know no peace"
The infant cooed softly.
Odysseus' jaw clenched. He raised the blade—
And in one swift motion, he brought it down.
A single cry rang out. Short. Fragile. Then, silence.
Andromache did not scream. She only stared at him, her eyes hollow, her soul shattered.
Odysseus turned away before he could see the light leave her eyes.
The storm that had gathered in the heavens dissipated. Zeus was satisfied.
Odysseus stared at the fallen corpse for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he turned to his men. "Burn it all."
As the flames consumed the palace, Odysseus stood outside, watching the city of Troy collapse into ash and ruin.
As dawn broke, the Greeks gathered outside the smoldering ruins, their victory complete.
Diomedes approached Odysseus, his face grim. "We've won, but at what cost?"
Odysseus didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, where the sea waited to carry him home.
"Tell Polities to organize the men," Odysseus demanded with a firm voice. "We leave for Itacha today."