Page 69 of Where Darkness Bloomed
Hector inhaled slowly. “Let us agree on one thing.”
Achilles’s brow lifted, waiting.
“The victor will honor the fallen. His body will be returned to his people.”
Achilles laughed, the sound cold and hollow. “What do you know of honor, Trojan?” His head tilted, voice laced with venom. “You stripped Patroclus. Stole my armor and thought to feed your dogs.”
Hector’s jaw tightened. His nod was curt. “A mistake,” he agreed. “Made in the roar of battle. Patroclus’s body—”
Achilles struck.
Ablur of bronze, lightning swift. His spearpoint was at Hector’s throat before breath could be drawn.
A kiss of metal. A whisper of death.
“Do not speak his name.” Achilles’s voice was a snarl, thick with fury. “You are unworthy of it.” He stepped closer, dust curling at his feet. “Just as you are unworthy of the death you will receive.”
The spearpoint fell away.
Hector did not move, did not blink. His voice was low when he spoke again. “His body was returned.”
Achilles’s lip curled. “His body wasretrieved,” he spit the words, bitterness rising in his chest like a serpent poised to strike. “You butchered my brother. My heart.”
His fingers flexed around the spear, grip tightening.
“So now, I’ll carve yours from your chest.”
He pulled the helmet from beneath his arm. The bronze slid over his face, his glare glittering through the eye slits. “Patroclus was honored with songs.” The spear’s tip leveled with Hector’s heart as he vowed, “Vultures will feast on you.”
Hector stood unmoving. Then, a single nod—grave, resolute. A warrior’s acceptance. Or else a condemned man’s last defiance.
In a bold move, Hector turned his back to cast a long glance up toward the royal terrace, his gaze searching.
Achilles’s eyes narrowed. “Does your wife watch you?” he asked, soft and cutting. A dagger sliding between the ribs.
Hector said nothing. Instead, he drew on his helmet, bronze sheathing his face. His sword rasped free of its scabbard, and morning light skimmed along the blade, a cold, glinting warning.
The moment stretched between them, drawn taut as a wire.
Achilles sank low, muscles coiling. “Good.”
Then he struck.
Hector had barely raised his shield before Achilles was there, his spear slamming hard, driving a shockwave down his arm with the force of the blow.
He recovered, swiftly—lunging, sword flashing.
Achilles was faster.
Their weapons met in a savage clash, bronze meeting bronze, ringing across the plain. A swift parry, and Hector stumbled back.
They circled, two predators.
Hector pivoted sharply, his blade carving an arc toward Achilles’s left side. But Achilles had already read it. Anticipated it. And caught the motion with contemptuous ease.
He was faster, deadlier. In one fluid motion, he lashed out—his foot driving into Hector’s chest with brutal force.
Hector staggered, breath hissing through his teeth, feet skidding against the earth. He barely had time to raise his sword before Achilles’s spear whistled toward him. The razored edge grazed his arm, a thin line of crimson blooming.
