Page 63 of Where Darkness Bloomed (Of Stars and Salt #1)

Three days crawled by without an order of attack.

Greek soldiers sprawled across the beach beneath the scorching sun, patience wearing thin. Grumbling rippled through the camp on a restless wave, tempers rising with the heat.

Among them, Achilles prowled like a caged panther. He did not speak, his restlessness hanging in the air like a hurricane bearing down.

In Agamemnon’s pavilion, the council of advisors convened in furtive deliberations.

Finally, Odysseus emerged from the tent, firelit purpose pounding in his veins with every heartbeat.

He strode through the camp and gave the order. The Ithacan soldiers were to move their camp to a secluded grove of oaks, away from the shoreline. Apart from the army.

There, under the heavy green canopy, their toil began.

Days blurred into nights. Hands blistered. Shoulders ached. Still, they worked—the scrape of metal against timbers rising on the wind rustling the leaves overhead.

At last, it stood.

Odysseus stepped back, arms streaked with sawdust and sweat. His gaze climbed the towering creation. An arched wooden neck melded into a massive, ribbed torso supported by thick, sturdy legs.

Not bothering to change his sweat-soaked tunic, Odysseus returned to the beach and strode into the war council to inform them.

Silence gripped the pavilion like a drawn breath.

Finally, Nestor leaned forward, both hands gripping his carved staff. “How large is it?”

“Large enough for thirty-five men. ”

A murmur stirred the tent.

From his seat of honor, Agamemnon eyed him. “You are certain of this plan?” he asked shrewdly. “Would this ruse work if the same creature appeared on Ithaca’s shores?”

Another round of murmurs stirred the tent—this time skeptical, distrustful. Odysseus ignored them.

“This will work.” His voice cut through the chatter, firm with conviction. “Priam seeks to regain Poseidon’s favor, lost by his father. If this plan is followed to the last detail, Troy will accept the offering as tribute.”

The weight of indecision cloyed the air. Council members shifted uneasily, exchanging wary glances as Agamemnon scratched his beard.

“Who will remain behind?” the high king asked at last, voice heavy with doubt.

“Sinon,” Odysseus answered without hesitation.

“Why him?”

“He was the only volunteer.”

A scoff escaped the king’s lips. “Hardly inspires confidence.”

Odysseus’s eyes narrowed. “There are no other options, High King,” he bit out, arms folding over his chest. “We can sit on this beach until Apollo sends his next plague, or we act. Either way, there’s no other path into Troy.”

His words faded into a thick, crushing silence.

Finally, Agamemnon rose. “Menelaus,” he barked, “take your ships around the bay—wait beyond the cliffs. Diomedes, follow at dawn. Idomeneus”—he turned to the Cretan king—“move your men to the western cove. You’ll strike from there when the signal is given.”

Grave nods were exchanged. One by one, the warlords rose, cloaked in purpose and grim resolve, slipping from the pavilion.

Agamemnon’s eyes were hard as he turned back to Odysseus. “You know your place in this. You have until the moon stands at its peak.”

Odysseus didn’t flinch. “I need every horse this army can spare. To move it into place.”

“They are yours.” Then, after a beat, he growled, “Do not be late.”

Harsh sunlight stung Odysseus’s eyes as he stepped from the pavilion, the air sour with brine, sweat and unwashed men. Near the entrance, a familiar figure leaned against a timber post, deceptively at ease.

“You have been busy,” Achilles observed.

His arms were folded, his posture languid. But his gaze, sharp and clear, missed nothing as it tracked Odysseus .

“You haven’t,” Odysseus replied dryly, striding past him.

Achilles pushed off the post with the ease of a lion rousing from slumber. “You wish to keep your plans secret, even from your allies?” he asked, falling into step beside him. “Is that why the Ithacans vanish into the trees each night, toiling far from camp?”

Odysseus ignored him.

“If we march to our deaths,” Achilles drawled, “I’d prefer to know now.”

“I’d prefer to be home,” Odysseus retorted, “with my wife and son. But the gods have not willed it.”

He stopped abruptly then and turned, facing Achilles. He studied him, marking the still-shorn hair that accentuated the exceptional brutality of the face beneath.

Finally, he spoke, the words low and solemn. “The end is at hand, Achilles. On my life, I cannot say more.”

Achilles studied him, impassive. “And what will your great plan cost?”

Much.

The answer rose to Odysseus’s lips, pressing heavy and inevitable. But he swallowed it, forcing it down.

“Agamemnon will never end this siege. The men are beasts, gorged on blood and driven mad by revenge. Even the gods are sickened by Agamemnon’s butchery.” His voice turned cold, bitter as seawater. “This must end.”

Achilles didn’t blink. “You’ve spoken with them—the gods.”

It was not a question.

“You think you’re the only one they guide?” Odysseus countered, voice edged like flint. “I seek their counsel because theirs is the only judgment not rotted by pride. Agamemnon lusts for power. You fight for your own cause. But me?”

He swept a hand toward the sprawl of tents stretched across the shore, where smoke curled above dying fires and soldiers sat hunched in weariness.

“I fight for them. They should be at home, breaking horses and fucking their wives. Not wasting away on this cursed beach.”

Achilles shifted his weight, arms folding across his chest. He looked out to the sea, where the dark waves rolled without end. “The Trojan men, have they no right to the same?” he asked. What of their women, their children—the ones sheltering behind those walls?”

Odysseus’s jaw tightened, his hands fisting at his sides. “How many Trojans have you killed, Achilles?” he demanded. “Do you even know the number?”

The silence between them crackled, turning brittle. The sea crashed behind them, relentless and uncaring.

“Will you fight me now?” Odysseus asked, the words scraping raw in his throat. “Because a captured queen whispers into your ear? Is that what stirs you now—mercy, after all this ?” He threw a hand toward the distant battlefield where oceans of blood had spilled.

Achilles said nothing, watching him.

Odysseus shook his head. “This was always going to end in death.” The words were low, cutting. “That’s the way of war. But the power to end it was placed in my hands. And I will act.”

Achilles’s eyes narrowed, caution rising in them behind the warrior’s stillness. His body tensed like a bow pulled tight. “What do you mean?”

Odysseus didn’t flinch. “A gift,” he said, crossing his arms. “From the gods.”

He offered nothing more, holding the silence.

Achilles stared at him. His head tilted, as though he were reading the truth from Odysseus’s face.

“Athena,” he said at last, nodding slowly. “She counsels you. She would favor your cunning.”

Odysseus gave no reply. He turned, the sea breeze cooling the sweat at his neck as he strode down the beach.

Achilles remained still behind him, wind tugging at his tunic. “What will you do?” he called.

Odysseus didn’t turn.

“Whatever it takes,” he said quietly—to the wind, then to himself, “to go home.”