Page 70 of Where Darkness Bloomed (Of Stars and Salt #1)

“If you speak, we will all die.”

Odysseus’s warning was a growl.

Soldiers were simple men. And he preferred a simple plan—

Silence or death.

Thirty-four Ithacan warriors stood before him, eyes wide beneath bronze helmets as they stared up at the towering wooden horse behind him. It was a behemoth, rising toward the heavens like a monster from tales of old.

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.

Someone was there.

An icy chill lanced through him. His heart hammered against his ribs, but his grip held steady, pressing harder against Anticlus’s mouth. The footsteps were slow. Measured. The soft scuff of sandals against stone.

If a single whisper escaped, it was over. They would all die.

Near the horse’s mouth, Leonteus pressed his eye to the narrow slit in the wood. Then he turned back, lifting a hand to Odysseus. His fingers shifted, arching into the shape of a crown.

Royalty.

His hands moved again, forming a crude triangle—Sparta’s insignia.

Sparta.

Cold dread twisted in Odysseus’s gut, snaking down his spine. Royalty of Sparta. But Menelaus was with the army, waiting in the night beyond the walls. Which meant—

Her.

Helen.

She was below them. Helen of Sparta—now of Troy—moved beneath the horse, her presence as sharp and dangerous as a sword’s edge.

Inside, silence roared louder than a scream. Odysseus drew a slow breath through his nose, willing his pulse to steady.

Seconds bled into eternity.

Then at last, the footsteps faded, swallowed by the city’s uneasy quiet.

Odysseus exhaled, his chest loosening by the barest fraction. Rising, he swept his gaze over his men, phantoms in the dark, their eyes locked onto him, waiting. Through a narrow gap in the wooden slats, he glimpsed the sky. The moon loomed high, just shy of its peak.

Time was already a blade at their throats.

They had to move.

With excruciating care, Odysseus unlatched the hidden door. One by one, the men emerged from the belly of the horse, dropping silently to the ground. Leonteus landed last.

Odysseus seized his shoulder, drawing him close. “Take Philoctetes—light the beacon,” he whispered. “We make for the gate.”

Leonteus gave a sharp nod and melted into the night with Philoctetes, swift as wraiths.

With the others, Odysseus slipped into the shadows, moving across the slumbering city, silent as death itself.

At the city’s gate, his blade flashed—a glint of moonlight, a whisper of metal. The first guard crumpled with a muted gurgle, clutching his torn throat. The next barely turned before his life, too, was extinguished in silence. One by one, they fell, their final breaths caught by Ithacan blades.

Overhead, a flare of light erupted.

Odysseus’s head jerked up as the great beacon roared to life, its flames clawing hungrily at the night sky.

Seconds. That was all they had left.

“Move!” he hissed, his command slicing the night air.

His men lunged forward, seizing the thick ropes that bound the massive bolt to the doors. Coarse fibers bit deep into Odysseus’s palms, tearing skin, but the pain was nothing.

Only the gate mattered. Only opening it before the city awoke in full, before Troy crashed down on them like a breaking wave.

With a tortured groan, the bolt shifted. An inch. No more.

Then—

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.