The scout ship returned at dawn.

Lysander was already on the tower when it came through the barrier pilings. He had been there since before first light, watching the horizon with the particular attention of someone who knew that what was coming would arrive on the water. The sea was grey, flat, the sky low and colourless. A wind had picked up from the north during the night, carrying the smell of salt and something else—something acrid, faint but unmistakable. Smoke. Distant burning.

The ship moved differently from the vessels that had come before it. Not damaged, not limping. Fast. The way a ship moved when its captain had pushed the crew hard because the information they carried mattered more than their exhaustion.

He went down to the dock.

Dorian came off the gangplank first. The young captain’s face was hollow with fatigue, his eyes red-rimmed from a night without sleep, but his spine was straight and his voice was steady when he spoke.

"Report," Lysander said.

"We found the village."

"And."

"Gone. Everything. The buildings, the boats, the fishing nets drying on the racks. All of it burned. The fires were still smoldering when we arrived, which means they’d been there within the past day." He paused. "We searched for survivors. There weren’t any."

"How many bodies."

"We didn’t count. We didn’t have time." Dorian’s voice was flat, the way men spoke when they were holding something at a distance. "The beach was churned up. Heavy hulls, dragged ashore. We counted the marks for at least twelve ships. Different sizes—some small and fast, others heavier. They’d camped there overnight. You could see where they’d built fires, where they’d eaten, where they’d slept. They weren’t hiding. They weren’t afraid of being found."

"Which direction."

"South. They’re moving down the coast. Stopping at every settlement. We followed their course for an hour and found two more villages burned the same way. Same pattern. Same destruction. Nothing taken. Everything destroyed."

"How far ahead of us."

"At their current pace—two days. Three if they stop at every village between here and there. They’re not in a hurry. They’re methodical. Burning everything. Making sure nothing is left behind them."

Lysander looked at the harbour. The fishing fleet had been pulled back, the boats clustered near the docks. The coastal freight vessels were still at anchor, their crews standing by. The evacuation of the northern settlement was already underway, families moving with their belongings toward the outer ring.

"Come with me," he said. "Hector needs to hear this directly."

The war room was already occupied when they arrived. Hector stood at the map, Miros beside him. Hecuba sat near the window, her hands folded in her lap, her dark eyes watching everything. She had been there since before dawn, Lysander realised. She had not asked permission to attend. She had simply arrived.

Dorian repeated his report. He stood at attention, his voice steady, and laid out everything they had found. The burned village. The twelve ships. The two more villages south. The methodical destruction. The sense—and he used this word carefully, as a captain who had been trained to report facts not impressions—that these were not raiders. Raiders took. These destroyed.

When he finished, the room was silent.

Hector looked at the map. "Twelve ships. Possibly more if they’re moving in groups."

"Yes," Dorian said.

"Their speed."

"Faster than our coastal vessels. They’re using oars as well as sails. They move at will regardless of wind."

"Their weapons. Did you see any evidence of how they fight."

"We found arrowheads in the sand. Bronze. Good quality. And we found—" He paused. "We found a fishing boat that had been sunk in the shallows. The hull was staved in. Something heavy hit it from above. A ram, possibly. Or a weighted spear."

"They’re not just burning. They’re engaging."

"Yes. The fishermen fought. They lost."

Hector was quiet for a moment. Then he turned to Miros. "The evacuation."

"Underway. The northern section should be clear by midday. Maea is handling it. Families are being moved to the outer ring."

"And the watch stations."

"Doubled. Every station has orders to signal at first sight of any ship approaching from the north. Riders are staged at each post. We’ll know the moment they appear."

"The fishing fleet."

"Pulled back. No boats north of the harbour."

Hector looked at the map again. Lysander could see him calculating—distance, time, the geometry of the coastline, the placement of the patrols. He did it the way he did everything: completely, without hesitation, the work of a man who had been preparing for this moment since he first took command.

"We have two days," Hector said. "Maybe three. We use them."

He began giving orders. The patrol formations would drill at dawn and dusk. The watch stations would remain on doubled shifts. Riders would be ready to move the moment any station signalled an approach. The northern edge of the outer ring—the section closest to where the black ships might make landfall—would be reinforced with whatever materials could be assembled in the time they had. Not a wall. A barricade. Enough to slow them down.

"The coastal freight vessels," Lysander said. "We can arm them. They’re not warships, but they can carry archers. If the black ships try to flank us from the water—"

"Do it. Daidalos has been working on modifications. Tell him I want them ready in two days."

"And the settlement," Lysander said. "The people who’ve been moved. They’ll need to know what’s happening. Not rumours. The truth."

Hecuba spoke for the first time. "You should be the one to tell them. You’ve been speaking to their leaders—Maea, Shebek. They trust you."

"I’ll go after this."

"Good." She looked at the map. "Fear spreads faster than fire. Give them something real to hold onto. Tell them what we know, what we’re doing, and what they can do to help. That’s all anyone needs."

Hector looked at Miros. "The refugees. The able-bodied ones. If this goes badly, we’ll need every man who can hold a weapon. But they’re not trained. Some of them have never fought."

"I know," Miros said. "I’ve been watching them. Some of the fishermen, some of Shebek’s people—they’ve fought before. Not in formation, but they’ve survived attacks. They know how to handle themselves. If we had more time, I could make something of them."

"We don’t have more time."

"No. But I can put them where they’ll do the most good. Not the front line—they’re not ready for that. But if the black ships make landfall, they can hold secondary positions. Block side routes. Defend the spaces between the patrol formations. They don’t need to win. They need to not break."

Hector considered this. "Do it. Keep them behind the regular patrols. Don’t ask them to hold anything critical. But if there are gaps, they fill them."

Miros nodded and left.

Hecuba rose slowly, bracing herself against the windowsill. "I’ll be with Priam. He’ll want to know everything. After that, I’ll be in the temple. The gods should be reminded that we’re still here."

She left.

Hector looked at Lysander. "She’s been back for one day."

"I know."

"She’s already reorganising my command structure."

"I noticed."

Hector almost smiled. Almost. "Go talk to the settlement leaders. Then find Daidalos. I want those ships armed by nightfall."

Lysander walked to the settlement. The morning was grey, the sky low, the wind still carrying that faint acrid smell from the north. The evacuation was visible everywhere—families moving along the northern road, carrying bundles, leading children by the hand. No one was running. No one was screaming. Maea had done her work well. This was not a flight. It was a relocation, orderly and calm, the way the Carian king’s document had described it. Move communities intact. The social network is a supply chain. Do not cut it.

He found Maea near the registration point, a tablet in her hand, directing families toward the outer ring. She looked up as he approached.

"The northern section," he said. "How much longer."

"Three hours. Maybe four. The last group has older people, families with small children. They’re moving slower."

"Any resistance."

"No. They’ve done this before. Most of them have been moving for months before they got here. This is just one more relocation." She paused. "They want to know if the black ships will reach us."

"What did you tell them."

"The truth. That we don’t know, but we’re preparing as if they will."

"Good." He looked at the families moving past. A woman carried a sleeping child on her shoulder. An old man walked with a stick, his grandson holding his other arm. They moved with the particular weariness of people who had done this before and knew they might have to do it again. "When the evacuation is complete, I want the section leaders to gather. Tell them what we know. What we’re doing. What they can do to help."

"I’ll arrange it."

"And Maea. The fishermen. The ones who fought the black ships. The captain said none of them came back."

"I know. Some of them were from the settlement. Families are already asking."

"Tell them the truth. They died fighting. They bought time for others to escape."

She nodded. "That will matter to them."

"Yes. It will."

Daidalos was in his workshop at the harbour. The space smelled of wood shavings and tar and something chemical that Lysander had never been able to name. The third-design model was still on the long table, but Daidalos wasn’t looking at it. He was at the side bench, working on something smaller—a modification to the hull of a coastal freighter, some adjustment to the planking that Lysander couldn’t immediately identify.

"Hector wants the freighters armed," Lysander said. "Archers on deck. Whatever modifications you can make in two days."

Daidalos didn’t look up. "I’ve already started."

"Of course you have."

"The design is simple. Reinforced decking for the archers, shielding at the prow in case of ramming. They won’t be warships, but they’ll be better than nothing."

"How many can you have ready."

"Three by nightfall. All six by tomorrow evening." He set down his tools and looked at Lysander. "The black ships. How many."

"Twelve. Possibly more."

"And they’re faster than our vessels."

"Yes."

"Then don’t send the freighters out to meet them. Use them to defend the harbour mouth. If the black ships try to flank us from the sea, the freighters block their approach. They don’t need to win. They need to hold."

Lysander nodded. "I’ll tell Hector."

"Tell him the barrier will help. The pilings will slow them down if they try to enter the harbour directly. But if they have archers—"

"They do."

"Then we need shielding on the barrier as well. I’ll have men working on it by midday."

Lysander looked at the workshop. The model on the table. The tools on the bench. The smell of wood and tar and chemicals. Daidalos had been preparing for this moment for two years, building ships and modifying designs and testing hulls in conditions no one else had thought to test. He had never been told exactly what he was preparing for. He had understood anyway.

"Thank you," Lysander said.

Daidalos picked up his tools. "Don’t thank me. Just make sure the ships I build have something to fight for."

The gathering of the settlement leaders took place at dusk, in the open space near the registration point. Maea had assembled them—the section heads, the community elders, the men and women who had kept order through months of displacement and now faced the prospect of doing it again. Shebek was there, his four hundred and twelve names still recorded in the register he had carried across the sea. Sena stood near the back, Deia beside her with a tablet in her hand, ready to record whatever was said.

Lysander told them everything. The black ships. The burned villages. The fishermen who had fought and died. The two days they had to prepare. He told it plainly, without drama, because these people had been through enough drama to last several lifetimes. They didn’t need spectacle. They needed facts.

When he finished, there was silence. Then Shebek spoke.

"You said the fishermen fought."

"Yes."

"And they died."

"Yes."

Shebek looked at the people gathered around him. "We have fishermen among us. Men who know the water. Men who’ve been fighting to survive since before they came here." He turned back to Lysander. "If you need them, they’ll fight."

"It’s not my place to ask that of you."

"You’re not asking. I’m offering." Shebek’s voice was calm. "We’ve been running for months. We’ve watched our homes burn. We’ve buried our dead in the sea because there was no land to bury them in. If the black ships come here, I’d rather face them than run again."

Murmurs of agreement moved through the crowd.

Lysander looked at Maea. She nodded, once.

"Then we’ll find a place for them," he said. "Not the front line. But the harbour defence—the freighters, the barrier—those need people who know the water. Your fishermen can help there."

"Good." Shebek stepped back.

The gathering dispersed slowly, people returning to their sections, their families, the work of preparing for something they had hoped never to face again. Deia lingered at the edge of the space, her tablet still in her hand.

"You wrote everything down," Lysander said.

"Yes."

"Why."

She looked at him. "Because whatever happens, someone should remember it. The fishermen who died. The people who offered to fight. If no one writes it down, it disappears."

"Yes," he said. "It does."

She went back toward the school, her tablet clutched against her chest.

He found Hector on the wall that night. The watch had been doubled, the patrols positioned, the evacuation complete. The northern section of the settlement was empty now, its shelters dark, its fires cold. Beyond it, the sea stretched black and silent toward the north.

"The settlement leaders offered their fishermen," Lysander said. "For the harbour defence."

Hector nodded. "Miros told me."

"They don’t want to run anymore."

"No." Hector looked at the dark water. "Neither do I."

They stood in silence. The wind had shifted, coming now from the east, cleaner, without the smell of smoke. Somewhere to the north, black ships were moving through the darkness. Tomorrow they would be closer. The day after, closer still.

"The patrols," Hector said. "Miros is positioning the refugees with some experience—Shebek’s people, the fishermen—behind the regular formations. They’re not trained, but they’ll hold secondary positions. They won’t be asked to do more than they can."

"That’s more than they had before."

"Yes." Hector was quiet for a moment. "If we had more time—"

"I know."

"We don’t."

"No."

Hector turned from the wall. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow will be long."

"You as well."

Hector walked toward the palace. Lysander stayed on the wall a moment longer, looking at the sea. The stars were out now, the sky clear for the first time in days. Somewhere beyond the horizon, twelve black ships were moving through the night, their oars pulling in rhythm, their captains watching the same stars.

Two days. Maybe three.

He went down from the wall and walked through the quiet settlement, past the empty shelters, past the cold fires, toward the supply office where the lamp was still burning and the work was still waiting.

He worked until the lamp burned low.

Then he refilled it and worked some more.