Page 162 of Where Darkness Bloomed
Every detail had been measured. Every gamble calculated. Yet, this was no strategy etched in stone. It was a whisper balanced on a knife’s edge.
Eight teams of horses strained against their harnesses, flanks foamed with sweat, dragging the wooden horse to the edge of the Greek camp—just within Troy’s sight.
Behind it, the abandoned camp lay in eerie silence. Cold fire pits. Empty tents. A thousand ships gone overnight.
The Trojans would see the horse. They would come.
And they would find only Sinon. A lone figure, battered and bruised, discarded like driftwood on the shore.
He would weave his story, just as they had rehearsed—a stranded drunkard, forgotten by his own army. The horse, Sinon would claim, was an offering to Poseidon, a plea for safe passage and swift winds home.
The Trojans would believe it. They must.
As his men climbed into the belly of the horse, Odysseus carved every detail into his mind. Until it was etched deep as a scar.
Swords and shields were wrapped in cloth, stifling the whisper of metal. One by one, they disappeared into the wooden depths.Odysseus dropped inside last, latching the hidden door behind him. Sealing their fates.
Darkness closed in, hot and stifling, thick with the scent of wood and sweat. Time stretched, warping around the taut silence.
It did not take long.
Through a narrow slit in the wood, Odysseus watched as a figure rose on the horizon.
A Trojan scout approached with hesitant steps. His wide eyes darted between the towering horse and the empty camp. Then came a cry—sharp, startled.
As the scout sprinted back toward Troy, Odysseus’s jaw clenched.
It had begun.
The hours dragged, stretching unbearably in the suffocating heat. Then, at last, they arrived.
King Priam rode at the head of a battalion, his advisors and captains flanking him in a solemn march. Dismounting, they stood in a tight circle and stared up, horror and awe mingling on their faces.
From his vantage point, Odysseus watched them circle his creation like vultures around a carcass. At his father’s side, Paris was smug, a triumphant sneer curling across his lips. It cut deeper as Priam’s command rang out.
The wooden frame shuddered around them. With a slow, jarring lurch, the horse rolled forward.
Odysseus cast a sharp glance to the men packed tightly beside him, raising a finger to his lips. A clear command—
Not a word.
The wheels creaked beneath them, the movement vibrating through their bones. Muscles burned with the effort of holding still. Sweat traced slow paths down temples and jawlines.
Outside, Troy erupted in celebration. Cheers, the rhythm of drums, the priests’ solemn chants, it all rose in a sickening swell. The Ithacans held their silence, every muscle locked rigidly in place.
As nightfall draped the city in darkness, the revelry ebbed. Laughter faded, giving way to the lull of exhaustion. Streets emptied, the crowds drifting home, drunk on wine and victory.
Inside the horse, the tension became a living thing—a coiled force, trembling, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. The confined space pressed in, amplifying every stifled breath, every muted shift.
Eyes flicked toward Odysseus, silent inquiries burning in the dark.
He gave a single, decisive shake of his head.
Not yet.
Beside him, Anticlus trembled under the strain of silence. His chest heaved, his lips parting—
Odysseus moved in an instant. His hand clamped over Anticlus’s mouth, fingers iron-hard. At the same moment, the faintest echo of footsteps.
