The first ships appeared on the northern horizon at dusk, their black sails dark against the bleeding sky.
Odysseus stood on the beach with the other kings, watching the squadron approach. They had all heard the rumours by now—whispers that had spread through the camp like fire through dry grass. Agamemnon's son had found the Sea Peoples' settlement. He had done what his father asked. The smoke from the island had been visible for miles, according to the first reports, a column of black ash rising into the sky like a funeral pyre for the dead.
The lead ship dropped anchor in the bay, and a single figure descended into a waiting skiff. He was young—early twenties, with the heavy build of his father and the cold eyes of a man who had learned to enjoy violence. His armour was blackened with soot, and there was blood on his hands, dried brown against his skin. He had not bothered to wash it off.
