The bodies were still being counted when Hecuba summoned him.
Lysander had not slept. He had tried—had lain down on the cot in the supply office while Arsini worked beside him, her stylus scratching against clay—but his body wouldn't surrender. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the axe rising above him on the beach, the giant's scarred chest, the moment when he had known, with perfect clarity, that he was about to die.
Miros had saved him. Hector had saved them all. The black ships were gone.
But he couldn't stop seeing the axe.
The summons came via a servant—one of Hecuba's women, the same one who had walked beside her cart when she arrived at the palace. She found him in the supply office, his armour still on, his hands still trembling slightly from exhaustion.
"The queen wishes to see you," she said. "In her chambers."
Arsini looked up from her tablet. She didn't speak, but her eyes met his for a moment. Go, the look said. I'll be here when you return.
He went.
