The Sea Festival came to Troy on a night of bitter cold.
The winter had settled into the stones of the city like a tenant who refused to leave. Frost traced patterns on the walls each morning, and the breath of the watchmen on the towers plumed white in the darkness. But the festival was older than the walls, older than the cold, and not even the threat of black ships on the horizon could stop the people of Troy from honouring the sea that gave them life.
Lysander stood on the beach below the harbour, watching the fires bloom along the shore. The fishing boats had been pulled up onto the sand, their prows decorated with garlands of winter-bare branches. Families clustered around the flames, passing clay cups of warmed wine, their faces bright in the firelight. Children ran between the fires, chasing each other, their laughter carrying across the water.
For the first time since the black ships had come, the city looked almost like itself.
