The sun had climbed higher, but the plain still held its hush, the calm before the storm. From the edge of the camp, I watched the Greek army shift as one, a living tide of men and armor, advancing toward the unseen enemy. The dust rose like smoke from a fire, and somewhere beneath it all, the beating heart of chaos waited.
I slipped away from the camp, careful not to be seen. My company was tied to their posts, Kleon's words echoing in my mind: "Do not leave your posts. The fighting is not yours today." Yet the pull of observation—the need to see, to measure, to understand—was stronger than obedience.
The trail led me up a rocky outcrop, overlooking the plain where the distant thunder of marching feet and the shimmer of bronze helmets met the horizon. And there, on the cliff, I saw three figures: a beggar, a dog at his feet, and a young boy standing still beside him.
The beggar muttered something to his dog, who wagged its tail but made no move. The scene was strange enough to halt me.
I cleared my throat. "Who are you?" I asked, keeping my voice low.
"I am a witness of an Epic," he said, voice raspy, yet each word carried weight, each pause a measured breath of inevitability. Then he turned, somehow seeming to pierce my thoughts despite the blindness. "Tell me, boy… what is your role in this Epic? The weight of the word settled around me. Epic. As if time itself bent toward him. I took a step closer, trying to make sense of it.
"And… what is my role?" I asked cautiously, though something about the question felt inadequate.
I blinked, caught off guard. My mind spun. Role? I'm not a hero. I'm just… alive. Just trying not to die.
And yet, as the war below unfolded, I realized he was right. Even mere observation is a choice—a role. A responsibility.
"The question," he said, voice soft but carrying an edge, "is not what you will do, or what you have done… but what you are in this Epic. What story do you write for yourself, when all the world is chaos and fire?"
The dog growled softly, but not at me—almost in agreement. The boy hummed an indistinct tune, as though echoing the weight of the old man's words.
I swallowed. I felt the pulse of the approaching battle beneath me, the tremor of a thousand lives straining toward fate. And in that moment, looking at the old man—looking into what I had no words for—I realized: I was no longer merely a soldier or an observer. I was part of something larger, whether I wanted to be or not.
I wanted to ask him more—who he was, how he knew the word Epic, why he and this strange company of misfits were here—but the first clash of bronze and cries from the distant field pulled at my attention.
His voice lingered in my mind as I crouched behind a boulder, heart thrumming:
"What is your role in this Epic?"
It was not a question I could answer yet. But it was one I would have to face—sooner than I expected.
The wind shifted, carrying the faint metallic tang of sweat, dust, and fear. I crouched behind the jagged cliff edge, eyes straining through the haze, still trying to make sense of what I had just just realized. Homer—real, flesh and bone, not just a name in legend—stood near the boy. His gaze lingered, unsettling, as though he could see not just me but the choices I had made and the ones I had yet to make.
So Homer is real, I thought, the disbelief gnawing at me. How much of the Iliad is true? Are the gods real, or just smoke and story? Did this war truly start because of Paris and Helen? Or is that just the narrative people tell themselves to make sense of death?
A horn blared, sharp and deafening, and the plain erupted in chaos. Dust spiraled as shields clashed, spears thrust, and the first wave of warriors collided.
And then I saw him.
He moved as if the world had slowed around him. A Trojan hero, massive and calm, walking through the battlefield as though it were a garden, not the hell of clashing men screaming and dying. Every step he took made the ground tremble—not with fear, but with the weight of pride. The aura he carried was undeniable: greatness, inevitability, the mark of a man born to lead in war.
"This is Troy," Homer murmured behind me, almost to himself. "This… is our hero."
Hector. Son of Priam.
Greek soldiers rushed at him—two, three, a dozen—thinking courage or skill alone could fell him. They didn't even come close. Spears bounced off shields and armor, swords glanced harmlessly against bronze, and every attack seemed to fuel his wrath. He moved with a rhythm that was terrifyingly human yet almost otherworldly, like a storm taking form in flesh.
I swallowed hard. The air itself seemed to hum around him. Every Greek who dared challenge him fell under his hand, screaming, stumbling, or worse. He roared, calling out for a man to meet him in fair combat, his voice carrying across the battlefield, ringing with authority and the pulse of destiny.
But no one came.
"Too bad Achilles isn't here," I heard Homer's quiet voice, and it cut through the chaos like a dagger. "No one other than him is worthy of this challenge."
And yet, that was the truth. Hector stood alone, and for the first time I understood what legend felt like in the flesh. He was not just a soldier; he was the storm that turned the tide, the pivot on which the day would balance. Greek warriors, even the brave ones, fell in heaps before him. Their cries of fear and rage collided with the clash of metal, and every moment he survived, every strike he made, shifted the battle further in Troy's favor.
From my vantage, I could see the pattern emerging. Greek lines wavered, soldiers faltering as Hector pressed forward. Archers fired, spears flew, but his presence alone seemed to break cohesion. He moved through chaos as though he could bend it to his will.
A man nearby, a young Greek soldier no older than Nikandros, turned pale, staring at the carnage. "He… he can't be stopped," he whispered.
"No," I murmured to myself. "Not today."
Homer leaned closer, eyes bright with a mix of awe and inevitability. "Remember this," he said softly. "This is how heroes shape the world. The strong do not always fight the weak. They fight the brave, and the brave fall."
And fall they did. Hector's form seemed endless, unstoppable. By the time the first horn's echo had faded, he had dispatched tens of Greek soldiers, leaving a swath of chaos and fear in his wake. The Trojans surged forward, emboldened by their champion's invincibility, and Greek formations began to crumble under pressure.
I felt my stomach twist—not just fear for those I didn't know, but a fascination I couldn't quell. The battlefield was no longer abstract, no longer a story told in song or verse. It was real, brutal, and unforgiving. And Hector was its pulse, its heartbeat, and its unchallenged master.
I pressed my hands to my knees, trying to steady myself. Each strike, each scream, each charge told me what history would remember, long after the bodies were cleared: today, Troy would hold. Today, the epic would favor Hector.
And somewhere deep in the haze of dust and sun, I felt the pull of destiny whispering again, the same question from Homer echoing in my mind:
What is your role in this Epic?
I had no answer. I only had observation, understanding, and the burning, aching desire to survive.
The clash continued, and I stayed at the cliff's edge, watching, learning, and waiting.
The plain was chaos incarnate. Dust and blood mingled in the air, and the clash of bronze against bronze rang like thunder. From my vantage point, I could see the Greeks faltering—shields buckling, lines breaking, fear creeping into the eyes of men who had marched thousands of miles for glory.
Hector moved like a force of nature. Every swing of his spear, every calculated step, seemed to unravel the Greek formation. Men who had moments before felt invincible now stumbled and fell, trampled by their own comrades in the panic.
I noticed the chariots pressing forward, pushing the Greek flanks, cutting off retreat routes, and sending waves of soldiers tumbling into the mud. Archers fired in disciplined volleys, their arrows finding gaps in shields that the Greeks hadn't noticed. The tide was turning, and it wasn't subtle. It was merciless.
Nikandros, Dorian, and Theron—if they had been here—would have been swept away in the first wave. Their inexperience, their indecision, their fear—they were weaknesses exposed in the glare of this reality. I felt a cold shiver, not of the mist, but of comprehension. This is what it looks like when an army loses cohesion. When heroes dominate, everyone else is expendable.
From my cliff, I could see Greek commanders trying to rally their men, shouting orders that were swallowed by the roar of combat. Some attempted to form counterattacks, but hesitation spread like a disease. Every attempt was met with precise, brutal force. The Trojans exploited it expertly—Hector at the center, his aura drawing all eyes, all fear, all energy.
Homer's voice drifted to me again, soft and knowing. "Watch closely. This is the weight of destiny, the pull of a hero. The Greeks fight, yes—but not all are made equal ."
I swallowed hard. Destiny or madness? I wondered how many of these men had thought themselves invincible only hours ago, how many had believed in the glory of their kings, in the certainty of victory. And now… all that certainty was crumbling like sand in a storm.
Trojan soldiers pressed forward relentlessly. Every Greek formation that had seemed solid an hour ago now buckled, men breaking rank to save their lives. Some commanders fell, arrows piercing shields, spears cleaving armor. The plain itself seemed to favor the Trojans, giving them space to maneuver, funneling the Greeks into traps they hadn't even recognized.
I noticed small patterns—the Greeks reacted too late, trusted in courage alone, relied on myths of heroes like Achilles who weren't here yet. Meanwhile, the Trojans fought with coordination, with pride, with a terrifying clarity. Each fallen Greek soldier was not just a loss but a signal to the others: retreat, die, or be crushed.
The dog at Homer's side growled softly at a sudden surge of chariots, and the boy's eyes widened, as though understanding that the plain below was not a playground but a proving ground for fate itself. Homer hummed quietly, almost contemplatively. "Every action leaves a mark," he said. "Every hesitation, every choice. The field records all."
I could feel my own heartbeat sync with the rhythm of the battle. Watch. Learn. Survive. That was all that mattered. I didn't belong to either side. I had no sword drawn, no shield raised. All I had was my mind, my eyes, and the stubborn insistence to endure.
The Greek lines continued to crumble. Trojans pressed the advantage, moving in waves that seemed unstoppable. Even the minor heroes among the Greeks—capable, skilled, proud—were being picked off, isolated, overwhelmed. Panic had started to spread like wildfire.
I exhaled slowly. This wasn't just a battle; it was a lesson. In courage, in fear, in strategy, in human weakness and obsession. The Trojans weren't just winning—they were teaching the Greeks the price of underestimating them. And I, invisible on my cliff, was learning it all.
Homer shifted slightly, his hand brushing the boy's shoulder. "Remember this," he murmured. "Every epic has its turning points, its moments where one side falters and the other rises. Watch the choices, watch the men. That is where truth hides."
I nodded silently, letting the chaos etch itself into memory. The field below was alive with fury, fear, and the raw force of men who had embraced their fate. And in the center of it, Hector moved, a colossus untouched, untouchable, the anchor around which the Trojan advantage swelled.
The sun climbed higher, burning through the morning mist, illuminating the plain, and I realized with grim clarity: the Greeks were faltering, the Trojans were dominant, and history—as it would later be sung—was being written in sweat, blood, and terror, one impossible step at a time.
The plain was a storm of dust, bronze, and shouts. The Greeks faltered, the Trojans pressed, and in the midst of it all, Hector moved like a force beyond mortal reckoning.
I hugged the edge of the cliff, eyes tracing the chaos, heart pounding, mind racing. The field below was a living lesson in fear, pride, and survival, and I was just a spectator—an outsider trying to map the human currents that might decide life or death.
Homer's voice drifted softly, almost like a wind through the chaos. "Remember, every epic has its heroes, its turning points, and its witnesses. Watch closely. Your role is to see, and to endure."
I nodded, my stomach twisting. The battle had only begun, yet already the weight of what was coming pressed down. The plain waited, the men below struggled, and I realized with a shiver: this was only the beginning.
And from my cliff, I knew one thing for certain—when the first horns sounded, nothing would ever be the same again.