𝑷𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑨𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒔

𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐘 👸🏼

I tried to resume my life as though nothing had changed, but each day felt heavier than the last. The palace, once a place of comfort, now suffocated me. I wandered the halls like a ghost, the echoes of the past haunting every corner. Chapheris barely spoke to me, her absence like a void I couldn't fill. And Achilles...he was gone, vanished into the mist of battle, leaving behind an ache in my chest that I couldn't shake. I felt alone, trapped in a city preparing for war while my heart waged its own silent battles. It was during one of these aimless walks that I saw her—Helen. Her beauty seemed out of place against the backdrop of impending doom. She stood in the courtyard, her golden hair catching the light, her delicate features so serene as if unaware of the chaos she had caused.

My blood boiled. Everything I had bottled up—the pain, the loss, the anger—rushed to the surface. Before I could stop myself, I was storming toward her.

"This is your fault," I spat, my voice trembling with rage. Helen turned to me, surprise flickering across her face, but I didn't care. "You should have never come here. You brought this war to our doorstep. How many more people will die because of you?"

Her eyes widened, her lips parting as if to speak, but before she could respond, Paris appeared, stepping between us like a shield.

"Enough, Sabryna," he said, his voice steady but laced with warning. "You have no right to speak to her like that."

I felt my fists clench at my sides, the heat of my anger rising. "No right?" I seethed. "She is the reason for all of this! The bloodshed, the death...Troy is at war because of her!"

Paris' eyes darkened as he stood taller, his hand resting protectively on Helen's arm. "You don't know what you're talking about," he said coldly. "This war is bigger than just her. You should mind your own business."

"Mind my own business?" My voice cracked, frustration spilling over. "I have lost everything because of this war—my friends, my peace, my life. And she...she stands here like nothing is wrong!"

Helen remained silent, her face a mask of quiet sorrow, but Paris wasn't done. "Sabryna, if you can't control yourself, perhaps you should leave," he said sharply. "Helen doesn't deserve this."

I felt a bitter laugh escape my lips. "Doesn't deserve this?" I shook my head, disbelief filling me. "Tell that to the men dying at our walls. Tell that to their families."

Paris' jaw tightened, his eyes hardening, but he said nothing more. He turned away, leading Helen with him. They walked off without another word, leaving me standing there, chest heaving, the weight of my own words hanging in the air like a storm cloud.

The city buzzed with unrest in the days that followed. Rumors swept through Troy—Menelaus had come to reclaim what he believed was his. He wanted Helen. He wanted blood. And he wanted it from Paris.

The anticipation gnawed at me. The tension in the air was suffocating. Everyone was talking about it—Paris would have to face Menelaus in single combat. No more negotiations, no more false peace. This was a reckoning.

When the day came, the city gathered at the walls to witness the fight. The sky was heavy with clouds, the wind carrying the scent of battle. I stood with the others, my heart pounding as Paris stepped forward to face Menelaus. The two men were stark contrasts—Paris, young and lean, his face set with determination, while Menelaus, older and battle-hardened, exuded fury and brute strength.

The fight began with a clash of swords, the sound of metal on metal ringing out across the field. I watched, breathless, as Paris tried to match Menelaus' aggression, but it was clear from the beginning that he was outmatched. Menelaus fought with a savage force, each strike heavy, meant to break Paris apart. Dust kicked up from the ground as they circled each other, but Paris' defenses were faltering.

Each time Menelaus swung, Paris barely managed to block, his feet sliding in the dirt. My chest tightened with dread, the fight slipping further from Paris' grasp. I could see it—everyone could. Paris was no match for Menelaus.

Just as Menelaus raised his sword for what would surely be the final blow, something shifted. The crowd stirred, and Hector stepped forward from the ranks of soldiers, his face calm but his eyes dark with resolve. Without hesitation, he strode toward the duel, and in one fluid motion, intercepted the killing blow meant for Paris. His sword flashed, cutting through the air before finding its mark.

Menelaus didn't even have time to react. Hector's blade struck true, and the Spartan king crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

A stunned silence fell over the battlefield. For a moment, all I could hear was the wind as it swept through the fields outside Troy. My breath caught in my throat as I stared at Hector, standing over Menelaus' body, his expression unreadable.

He had saved Paris. He had saved us all. But in doing so, he had sealed Troy's fate.

The Greeks would not forget this.

The silence shattered as the Greeks roared in fury from across the battlefield. Their voices were like the howling of a thousand wolves, demanding blood in return. I glanced at Hector, the weight of his action sinking into my chest. This was no longer just a battle—it was the beginning of our end. Menelaus lay dead, and with his death came the wrath of the Greeks, a wrath that would not be sated until our walls crumbled and our city burned.

Panic swelled in my chest, threatening to consume me, but I couldn't stay frozen here. I needed to move. I needed to think. Without another glance at the battlefield, I turned and ran. My feet carried me through the streets of Troy, past the gathering crowds, past the frightened faces of those who could feel the storm coming. The temple of Athena loomed ahead, its marble columns reaching toward the sky like outstretched arms, a beacon of hope in a city on the brink of destruction.

I burst through the temple doors, my heart pounding in my chest, my breaths coming in ragged gasps. The sacred air inside was cool, a stark contrast to the heated fury outside. Statues of the goddess lined the walls, her gaze stern and wise, watching over her people. I stumbled toward the altar, falling to my knees before the great bronze statue of Athena that stood at the temple's center.

"Athena, goddess of wisdom and war," I whispered, my voice trembling. "Please, guide me. What do we do now? How do we survive this?"

I waited, my hands pressed together in prayer, my eyes squeezed shut. The silence of the temple was oppressive, as if the very gods themselves were weighing my soul. The weight of everything crushed down on me—Hector's choice, Paris' failure, the inevitability of the war. I had never felt so small, so helpless.

But as the moments stretched, a sense of calm began to settle over me. It wasn't an answer, not directly. But it was something. Athena's presence surrounded me, her power subtle but unmistakable, as though she were reminding me that even in the darkest of times, wisdom could still prevail.

A voice, low and steady, seemed to whisper in my mind.

"Victory lies not in strength alone, but in strategy. Trust in your instincts. Protect what you can. But know, daughter of Troy, that not all can be saved." My heart tightened. The message was clear: war was coming, and not all of Troy would escape its wrath. But there was hope—if we were clever, if we acted wisely, there was still something worth fighting for, something worth saving. As I rose from the floor, I felt a new resolve settle over me. Athena had not promised victory, but she had given me clarity. We would fight. We would resist. And we would survive, in whatever way we could.