Lysander saw the ship first.
He was on the tower, as he always was, watching the sea. The morning had been quiet—grey water, grey sky, the fishing boats going out and coming back with their holds half-empty. The winter had been hard on the fish, harder than usual. Another number to track. Another problem to solve.
Then he saw it.
A black shape against the grey water. Low and fast, cutting through the waves like a blade. No trading vessel moved like that. No fishing boat. No allied ship from Lycia or Caria. This was something else.
He leaned forward, his hands gripping the cold stone of the parapet. The ship was painted black from hull to prow. Its sail was the colour of dried blood. It came through the strait alone, without escort, without the ceremonial flags that marked a diplomatic vessel. It moved through the water with a silence that was somehow louder than any war cry.
