The first warning came from the watch station at the northernmost point of the headland.

A signal fire flared against the dark, then two more in quick succession. The pattern was one every sailor on the coast knew: enemy ships, approaching from the north, moving fast.

Then another fire. This one from the east. The secondary station, the one that watched the approach to the harbour.

Lysander was in the war room when the runner arrived. He had been there since dusk, going over deployment maps with Hector and Miros, tracing the lines of defence. The evacuation was complete. The northern settlement was empty. The freighters were armed and anchored at the harbour mouth, their decks reinforced, their crews waiting.

The runner burst through the door, breathing hard. "Signal fires. Four of them. The northernmost station and the eastern station. They’re coming from two directions."

Hector was on his feet before the man finished. "How many."

"The watchmen couldn’t count. They said the horizon was full of them. Both approaches."

Hector looked at the map. Two attack vectors. The northern beach, where the settlement’s outer ring met the water—the most direct route to the city. And the eastern approach, closer to the harbour, where the freighters were anchored and the barrier pilings marked the entrance.

Two fronts. He couldn’t be on both.

He made the decision in the space of a breath. "Miros. You take the eastern beach. The harbour approach. Use the floating formation—the ground is narrower there, the rocks will funnel them. Hold them as long as you can. Lysander, you’re with Miros."

Miros nodded and was already moving.

Hector turned to the map again. "I’ll take the northern beach. That’s where the main force will hit. The ground is open, easier to land. They’ll throw everything they have at it." He looked at Lysander. "Hold the eastern approach. Don’t let them flank us."

"And if they break through."

"They won’t. Miros won’t let them." Hector was already walking toward the door. "And if they do, fall back to the harbour. The freighters and the barrier are your second line. Use them."

The eastern beach was narrower than the northern stretch, hemmed in by rocks on both sides. A natural choke point. That was why Hector had chosen Miros to hold it—the floating formation worked best in confined spaces, where a few men could plug gaps and the enemy couldn’t bring their full numbers to bear.

Lysander ran through the darkness, his armour heavy, his sword slapping against his thigh. Around him, the patrols were moving into position—twenty men, the core of Miros’s unit. Behind them, a second line of refugees with some experience, fishermen and men from Shebek’s community, armed with whatever they had been able to find. Spears, mostly. A few axes. Their faces were grim but steady.

The sea was loud here, the waves crashing against the rocks. And beneath it, another sound—the steady beat of oars. Many oars. Moving in unison.

They’re not hiding, Lysander thought. They want us to hear them coming.

Miros was already at the barricade—a rough construction of timber and stone assembled in two days, not a wall but a delay. He was positioning the men, his voice calm and unhurried, the way he spoke during drills. As if this were just another exercise.

"They’ll hit the northern beach first," Miros said as Lysander reached him. "That’s the main force. What’s coming here is the flanking attack. Smaller. Faster. They’ll try to break through and get behind Hector’s line."

"Then we stop them."

"Yes." Miros pointed toward the water. The beach was invisible in the darkness, but they could hear the surf changing—the sound of hulls grinding against sand, the splash of men disembarking. "Archers. On my signal."

The first black ship emerged from the darkness. Long and low, its hull painted black, its oars pulling in perfect rhythm. Behind it, another. And another. Not as many as the northern approach, Lysander guessed—five, maybe six—but still enough to overwhelm their position if the line broke.

His hand tightened on his sword.

The first arrow came whistling out of the darkness. It buried itself in the timber beside his head.

And then the night exploded.

The world shrank to the space in front of him.

Lysander had fought before—the raid on the coastal village, the skirmishes that had tested Troy’s defences over the past months. But this was different. This was not a skirmish. This was a tide of men pouring off black ships, screaming in a language he didn’t recognize, their faces painted with something pale that caught the torchlight like bone.

He blocked a spear thrust with his shield. The impact jarred his arm to the shoulder. The man behind the spear was huge, his chest bare, his teeth bared. Lysander drove his sword forward, felt it catch, pulled it free. The man fell. Another took his place.

Keep moving. Don’t stop. Don’t think.

The barricade was holding, barely. The rocks on either side were doing their work, funneling the attackers into a narrow front where their numbers counted for less. Miros was everywhere—appearing at the left flank where the line was buckling, vanishing into the chaos, reappearing at the right. The floating formation, the tactic he had spent two years perfecting. It was working. The line was holding.

But they kept coming.

Lysander saw a patrolman fall, his throat opened by a curved blade. He saw another dragged over the barricade, his scream cut short. The archers behind them were firing as fast as they could draw, but for every attacker they dropped, two more climbed over the bodies.

We can’t hold this forever.

He was moving on instinct now. Block. Thrust. Sidestep. The training was there, buried in his muscles, doing the work while his mind struggled to keep up. He killed a man with a bronze axe. He killed another with a sword he had never seen before. His shield arm was numb. His sword hand was slick with blood.

And then he made a mistake.

He saw the spear too late. It came from his left, where the rocks created a blind spot, where the line had thinned. He turned, but his foot slipped on something wet, and he was off balance, and the spear was coming for his chest—

A body slammed into him from the side, knocking him to the ground. The spear passed through the space where he had been standing. Miros. The man was already on his feet, his sword flashing, cutting down the spearman before he could strike again.

"Stay focused," Miros said. He didn’t shout.

Lysander scrambled up, retrieved his sword. The line had reformed. The gap was closed. Miros was already gone, moving to the next breach.

Stay focused.

It was near midnight when the black ships began to pull back.

Not a retreat—a regrouping. Lysander could see them withdrawing to the water’s edge, dragging their wounded onto the ships, reforming their lines. They had lost men. Many men. But they had more.

He leaned against the barricade, his chest heaving, his arms trembling. Around him, the patrols were counting their dead, binding wounds, drinking water from clay cups.

Miros found him. The man’s armour was splashed with blood, but he moved with the same unhurried calm as always.

"They’ll be back before dawn," Miros said. "This was a probe. Testing our defences. Next time they’ll hit harder."

"How many did we lose."

"Four dead. Twice that wounded. The rocks helped. They couldn’t bring their full force to bear." He paused. "Hector’s front took the worst of it. Runners just came through. He held the line, but he lost men. More than we did."

"Hector."

"He’s still on the northern beach. The main force is regrouping there. They’ll hit him again at dawn. And us."

Lysander pushed himself upright. His legs ached. His shoulder throbbed. But he was alive. "Then we reinforce the barricade. Whatever we can do before they come back."

Miros nodded. "I’ll get the men working. You should go to the northern beach. Hector will want a report from you directly."

The northern beach was a different world.

The ground was open here, no rocks to funnel the attackers, no natural choke points. The patrols had held the line through sheer discipline, but the cost was written in the bodies still being carried from the sand. Torches flickered along the barricade, illuminating faces hollow with exhaustion.

Hector stood at the centre of the line, his armour dark with blood that wasn’t his, his shield notched in a dozen places. He was giving orders in the same level voice he used for everything, and his men were listening, straightening, preparing for the next assault.

He turned as Lysander approached. "The eastern beach."

"Held. Miros is reinforcing the barricade. They’ll hit us again at dawn."

"Here too." Hector looked at the black ships massed beyond the surf. "They tested both fronts. Next time they’ll commit everything. The northern beach is where they’ll try to break through—it’s the most direct route to the city. But the eastern approach is still a threat. If they flank us, we’re finished."

"Miros will hold it."

"Yes. He will." Hector was quiet for a moment. "You fought. Miros sent word. He said you killed men tonight."

"Yes."

"And almost died."

"Miros saved me."

"That’s what Miros does." Hector looked at him. "You held the line. That’s what matters. The first fight is the hardest. The second will be harder. But you’ll be ready for it."

Lysander wasn’t sure if that was true. He wasn’t sure of anything except that his arms were shaking and his shoulder ached and he could still feel the moment when the spear had been coming for his chest and there had been nothing he could do to stop it.

But he was alive. He was still alive.

"They’ll be back before dawn," he said.

"I know." Hector turned toward the sea. "So will I."

Lysander walked back through the settlement. The wounded were being carried to the medical tents where Antiphus and his team were working by torchlight. Deia was among them—thirteen years old, her hands steady as she held pressure on a patrolman’s wound. She didn’t look up as he passed.

He went to the supply office. Arsini was there, a tablet in her hand, her face pale but composed.

"The northern beach took the worst of it," she said. "Antiphus needs more supplies. I’ve been pulling from the emergency stores."

"Good."

She set the tablet down. "Deia is helping him. I tried to send her back to the school. She refused."

"She’s stubborn."

"She learned it from you." Arsini looked at him. "You’re bleeding."

He glanced down. There was a gash on his forearm he hadn’t noticed, shallow but long. "It’s nothing."

"Let me see it."

"I don’t—"

"Sit down."

He sat. She cleaned the wound with wine from the medical stores, her hands efficient and impersonal, the way she did everything. But when she finished, she didn’t let go of his arm immediately.

"They’ll be back before dawn," she said.

"Yes."

"And you’ll be out there again."

"Yes."

She released his arm. "Then you should rest. I’ll make sure the supplies reach Antiphus."

He stood. At the door, he paused. "Arsini. The fishermen—the ones who volunteered. They held their positions. They didn’t break."

"I know. I saw them."

"If we survive this—we should train them. Properly. They’ve earned it."

"Yes." She picked up her tablet. "They have."

He walked to the tower. The black ships were still visible in the distance, their torches flickering against the dark water, waiting. He stood at the parapet and watched them until the cold seeped through his armour.

Somewhere to the north, Hector was doing the same thing.

The dawn was coming.

And with it, the second wave.