Page 164 of Where Darkness Bloomed
A shout split the night, distant but piercing. Another answered, closer.
The damning clang of a bell followed, iron-throated and merciless, cleaving the dark.
The veil of stealth was torn away.
“Hades awaits you!” Odysseus roared. “Open this door or meet him now!”
A furious cry erupted from his men. Muscles strained, veins bulged, teeth bared. The bolt shrieked, wood and iron protesting the force of desperate hands.
Then, it slid.
The doors trembled, groaning on iron hinges as they parted like the jaws of an ancient beast.
But not fast enough.
Footsteps thundered behind them, the harsh rhythm of approaching guards.
“Get them open!” Odysseus snarled, whirling to meet them.
His sword sang as he unsheathed it, the edge already stained with cooled blood.
But the guards faltered mid-charge. Their momentum stuttered, steps slowing. Then stopped altogether. Terror bloomed across their faces, wide gazes fixed beyond him.
Odysseus jerked around.
Beyond Troy’s yawning gates, the night was ablaze. An ocean of torches stretched to the horizon. A sea of fire.
The beacon had served its purpose. It had drawn the Greek army from its hiding places like sharks to blood.
Spears bristled, a forest of iron poised for slaughter. Swords gleamed like wolves’ teeth, hungry for the city’s throat. An army of Greek soldiers, grim and resolute, stared into the city—executioners patiently waiting to deliver the death blow.
The air trembled, thick with the promise of annihilation.
A silence more terrible than any war cry.
Chapter 61
The gates were open. The Greeks were here.
Helen shot to her feet as the bell tolled, a mournful knell that sent her heart pounding wildly. She forced herself to breathe, to smother the panic clawing at her throat.
Fear was useless now.
At the threshold of Paris’s chambers, she hesitated, listening.
No footsteps. No clash of swords. No soldiers shouting—yet.
She moved swiftly through the corridor, her feet silent against the stone. She peered into each chamber she passed.
Empty.
The servants had fled, abandoning the palace to its inevitable fate. Andromache and her infant son were gone too, and Helen breathed a silent prayer of thanks.
There was no sign of Paris or Priam.They were likely below, already consumed in the chaos.
The air felt thick, unnaturally still, as if the palace braced for the coming blow.
Helen reached the landing above the gardens, and stepped out—
