The morning came grey and cold, the kind of morning that offered no comfort and promised nothing but the long, slow grind of survival. Lysander stood on the tower, watching the sea. The winter wind cut through his cloak, but he had stopped feeling it hours ago. Below him, the city was waking—smoke rising from the bakeries, the fishing boats already out, the settlement stirring beyond the northern wall. Ordinary life. Continuing. Even now.
Arsini found him there. She didn't speak. She just stood beside him, her shoulder close to his, and looked at the water.
"The council meets in an hour," she said finally.
"I know."
"Agamemnon's message arrived at dawn. Fylon's contacts brought it from the harbour. It's being copied and distributed to every corner of the Peloponnese by now."
"What does it say."
