Escaped

ㅤㅤA deep, aching cold. A pulse that wasn't his own.

ㅤㅤWet. Something wet against his lips.

ㅤㅤIason gasped awake.

ㅤㅤThe world spun. His head pounded, his chest heaved, and his breath came in sharp, uneven gulps before breaking into shuddering gasps. His fingers dug into the stone beneath him, nails scraping as he tried to push himself up—until they landed on something soft, something cold. Something lifeless and dead.

ㅤㅤHis whole body seized. Slowly—dread creeping into his bones—he turned his head. The corpse beside him was pale. Not freshly dead. Not warm. Drained.

ㅤㅤIason's breath hitched. His pulse roared in his ears. 'No. No, gods, no.' His hand shot to his mouth, fingers trembling as they wiped at his lips, at the wet smudge on his chin—dark. Sticky. Blood. His stomach lurched violently.

ㅤㅤThe boy.

ㅤㅤA hollow, shattering panic grabbed him. His hands fumbled, gripping the lifeless body, forcing himself to look—to see. The slack jaw. The empty eyes. The small, fragile frame. 'No. Please, not him.' His chest felt heavy, nausea clawing at his throat. He had fought to save him. Had he instead—

ㅤㅤA sound. A ragged breath.

ㅤㅤHis head snapped up, eyes darting through the dim haze. Could it be? The Trojan boy? His vision blurred, his chest feeling itself constrict, horror curling like a vice around his ribs.

ㅤㅤAnd then—he saw him.

ㅤㅤThe boy was alive. A tide of relief crashed over him.

ㅤㅤHe was against the far wall, barely upright, clutching his neck. But in the same heartbeat that relief came, it was wrenched away, torn ruthlessly from his grasp. Realization dawned.

ㅤㅤThe boy's skin was nearly as pale as the dead. His lips parted, but no sound came out. His fingers, shaking, pressed against two small, puncture wounds.

ㅤㅤNot a gash. Not a slash from a blade.

ㅤㅤSomething had fed on him.

ㅤㅤIason's stomach twisted. His vision wavered. His gaze dropped to the corpse beside him.

ㅤㅤPale. Dead. Mortified in their final moment.

ㅤㅤThe Greek soldier. One of those he had killed before collapsing. His body lay twisted, lifeless—the true source of the blood on Iason's lips. And the boy, only partly.

ㅤㅤRelief crashed into him so suddenly it left him dizzy. The boy was still alive. But the feeling curdled almost instantly, his stomach twisting in revulsion. The relief was fleeting, hollow. Because he had still fed. He had still lost himself.

ㅤㅤAnd next time?

ㅤㅤNext time, the body beside him might be the boy.

ㅤㅤThis thing inside him wasn't just healing him. That much was apparent. Instead, it was changing him. And he didn't know if he could stop it.

ㅤㅤBut what if he didn't stop it?

ㅤㅤA slow, seething thought took root in his mind, curling around the rage buried deep in his chest. The Greeks had taken everything—his city, his people, his purpose. They had slaughtered his kin, razed his home to the ground, and paraded Hector's corpse like a trophy. And the boy—the one he had sworn to protect—was gone. Because of them.

ㅤㅤOdysseus.

ㅤㅤThe name burned like venom in his throat. The man who had deceived, outwitted, and butchered his way to Troy's downfall. The man who had ensured that Priam's line was cut, that Hector's son would never grow to reclaim his father's glory. The Greeks called Odysseus a hero. Iason knew him as something else.

ㅤㅤWhat if he made them suffer? What if this thing inside him, this cursed hunger, became the very weapon that struck them down? He could tear through their camps in the dead of night, make them feel the same fear they had instilled in Troy. He could find Odysseus, see the realization dawn in his sharp, calculating eyes before ripping the breath from his throat.

ㅤㅤThe thought sent a shudder through him.

ㅤㅤIason swallowed hard, nausea still clawing at his insides. He wiped his mouth again, desperate to rid himself of the iron taste and the dreadful weight of what he had done. But no matter how much he tried, the taste lingered—mocking him, a cruel reminder of his futile attempts to erase it.

ㅤㅤHe stopped. Slowly, he looked up—the boy was still staring at him.

ㅤㅤIason could see it—the flicker of fear in his wide, glassy eyes, the way his trembling fingers remained pressed to his wounded throat as though warding off another attack. The boy was too weak to move, too drained to fight back. But his body remained rigid, his small frame coiled like a cornered animal.

ㅤㅤIt was a look Iason had seen before. Not from warriors, not even from the dying. From the helpless. From those who knew their fate had already been decided, and that their survival did not rest in their own hands.

ㅤㅤIason took a slow, uneven breath.

ㅤㅤHe thinks I'm going to kill him.

ㅤㅤThe thought struck with the force of a spear to the gut, leaving him winded. It wasn't shock that made his chest tighten, nor was it disbelief—it was the awful, inescapable truth of it.

ㅤㅤThe horror of it clawed at his ribs, sinking deep, deeper than any blade ever had. He had fought to defend Troy. He had fought to protect Hector's son. He had fought for his people. But what was he now? What had he become in the end?

ㅤㅤNot a warrior. Not a protector.

ㅤㅤJust another nightmare.

ㅤㅤHe could see it in the boy's wide, glassy eyes—the silent plea, the instinctive terror of someone who had already accepted his fate, who knew his survival was no longer his own to decide.

ㅤㅤAnd gods help him, Iason couldn't blame him.

ㅤㅤWorse still—he feared that the boy was right to be afraid.

ㅤㅤIason forced himself to move, his limbs stiff and aching as he slowly reached out a hand. Not toward the boy, not yet, but between them, palm open. A gesture of peace.

ㅤㅤThe boy flinched.

ㅤㅤIason's stomach twisted, and his heart—if there was still any humanity left in it, not just a monster's hunger—felt as if it had been pierced and wrenched. But he kept his hand there. Steady.

ㅤㅤ"I won't hurt you." His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. But even as he said the words, they felt hollow.

ㅤㅤThe boy didn't speak. He only stared, lips slightly parted, breath shaky. Silence pressed between them, thick with unspoken terror and fragile, wavering hope.

ㅤㅤIason exhaled. He turned his palm up, fingers curling slightly. A silent offer. A plea.

ㅤㅤThe boy hesitated. Then, with painstaking slowness, his small, trembling hand lifted—just barely—before stopping midway.

ㅤㅤIason didn't push. He didn't move any closer.

ㅤㅤInstead, he did the only thing he could.

ㅤㅤSlowly, deliberately, he sank to his knees. His hands, once strong enough to wield a spear against invaders—and now capable of tearing a man's limb off—trembled as he placed them on the cold stone floor, palms up, empty.

ㅤㅤAn offering. A plea.

ㅤㅤNo sudden movements. No desperate attempts to close the distance. Just a man—stripped of his pride, of his certainty—kneeling before the boy whose trust he had already shattered.

ㅤㅤ"I don't know what's happening to me," Iason admitted, his voice low, raw, barely more than a whisper. "But I swear to you—I will not let you die here."

ㅤㅤA beat of hesitation.

ㅤㅤThe boy didn't move. Didn't speak. Iason could see the wariness in his pale, blood-drained face, the tremble in his limbs. And yet—after everything, after the horror, the fear, the monstrous truth that hung between them—his weak fingers slowly, hesitantly curled around Iason's hand.

ㅤㅤA bond. Fragile, frayed, delicate as spider's silk. But trust nonetheless.

ㅤㅤIason exhaled, a quiet shudder of relief, and squeezed his fingers lightly—just enough for reassurance. "Come on. We have to move."

ㅤㅤThe boy was barely strong enough to stand. Iason slipped an arm beneath his arm and over across the boy's shoulders, steadying him, bearing most of his weight as they rose together. The boy wavered, his legs threatening to buckle, but he didn't pull away. He held on.

ㅤㅤThat was enough. For now.

ㅤㅤBut they couldn't stay here.

ㅤㅤThe air was thick with the acrid stench of ruin, the walls streaked with soot and blood. Somewhere above them—beyond the shattered remnants of the tunnels beneath the palace—Troy still burned. The city was lost. Everything was lost.

ㅤㅤAnd they weren't alone.

ㅤㅤIason heard it before he saw them. The faintest sound—footsteps, distant but closing in. The clinking of armor. The low murmur of voices.

ㅤㅤMore Greeks.

ㅤㅤHis body moved before thought could catch up. He pulled the boy toward the nearest exit, guiding him forward as quiet as breath. The tunnels opened into the remains of the great halls, eerily silent, save for the slow crackle of dying embers.

ㅤㅤAt the top of the stairs, the ruins of the palace stretched before them.

ㅤㅤCharred beams. Crumbling stone. The bones of what had once been the heart of Troy. The sacking was over. The victory had been won.

ㅤㅤBut the Greeks were still here.

ㅤㅤScattered voices echoed through the ruined corridors, the measured tread of soldiers searching for whatever spoils remained.

ㅤㅤIason pressed the boy against the cold stone, his own body shielding him. He could feel it—the faint, rapid thrum of the child's heart against his ribs, the shallow breaths held back in terror.

ㅤㅤHe risked a glance around the corner.

ㅤㅤTwo soldiers. Not many. But Iason was unarmed, and the boy could barely stand. A direct fight was out of the question.

ㅤㅤAnd yet—his fingers twitched. A dark whisper slithered through his thoughts, unbidden, unwelcome. You don't need a weapon.

ㅤㅤHe could still feel it—the strength. The raw, unnatural power that had surged through him when he had torn through the Greek soldier in the cavern below. The way flesh had yielded beneath his hands, the ease with which bone had snapped.

ㅤㅤFor the briefest moment, he could see it play out. How effortlessly he could rip the throats from these men, how their screams would be drowned beneath the ruin of Troy. It would be so easy. So easy.

ㅤㅤHe forced the thought away.

ㅤㅤHis stomach twisted in revulsion. No. That wasn't him. He wasn't that. He wouldn't become that.

ㅤㅤIason clenched his jaw, pushing down the rising nausea, the terrible temptation curling at the edges of his mind. He turned back to the boy, his voice a ghost of a whisper. "Stay close to me. Do not make a sound."

ㅤㅤThe boy nodded, his small frame pressing closer. His grip on Iason tightened—not just on his wrist, but on the arm draped over his shoulders, his fingers clutching at the fabric of Iason's tattered tunic.

ㅤㅤIason felt it—the faint tremor in the boy's body, the exhaustion weighing down his every movement. He held him steady, tightening his own grip in response and anchoring him to every step.

ㅤㅤStep by step, breath held, they moved. The ruins loomed high, casting deep shadows—shadows they melted into, shadows they became.

ㅤㅤThe soldiers laughed, talking in easy, careless tones as they rifled through what was left behind. Iason felt anger surge through him. The urge to strike, to tear through them for what they had done, burned beneath his skin.

ㅤㅤThen he heard it—a familiar grim phrase.

ㅤㅤ"The next wave will come at dawn."

ㅤㅤThe words slammed into him like a blade to the gut.

ㅤㅤThe war had dragged on for years, the siege waves relentless. After every battle, there was a lull—both sides retreating to count their dead, to mend their wounds, to prepare for the next slaughter.

ㅤㅤHe remembered the campfire's glow flickering over weary, bloodstained faces, the scent of burnt flesh clinging to the air, mingling with the iron tang of blood. They sat in silence, too tired to speak, too numb to grieve.

ㅤㅤ"You're looking grim, Iason."

ㅤㅤIason had barely turned his head. "We lost a hundred today."

ㅤㅤ"We'll lose a hundred more tomorrow," Vetamis had said, rolling his shoulders like he could shake off the weight of inevitability. "And the next day. And the next day. That's war, isn't it?"

ㅤㅤIason had frowned. "You make it sound like a game."

ㅤㅤ"It is, in a way. Just one we don't get to win."

ㅤㅤHe'd grinned then, the firelight glinting off his sweat-slicked skin. "But tell me, Iason. What's worse? The waiting, knowing someone you fought beside will be gone by tomorrow, or the battle itself?"

ㅤㅤIason had said nothing. He hadn't needed to. Vetamis already knew the answer.

ㅤㅤThe waiting was worse. The waiting made it real.

ㅤㅤAnd the next day, when the horns had sounded and the Greeks had surged forward, Vetamis had been among them. By nightfall, he was gone.

ㅤㅤNow, in the ruined halls of Troy, Iason forced himself to breathe. The ghosts of the past had no place here. The hunger, the rage—it coiled inside him, waiting.

ㅤㅤBut another weight pressed against him, small and fragile.

ㅤㅤThe boy.

ㅤㅤIason could feel him trembling, his unsteady steps barely keeping pace. He was holding on—whether out of trust, desperation, or sheer instinct for survival, Iason didn't know. But the boy clung to life with each wavering step, each shallow breath.

ㅤㅤAnd Iason had to make sure he lived.

ㅤㅤHow many had they lost today?

ㅤㅤNot names—those had blurred together long ago. But faces. Voices. A hundred dying breaths swallowed by the dirt. A hundred bodies left cooling under the sun.

ㅤㅤ"Tomorrow, it'll be me," someone had muttered once, staring at the fire. No one had argued. No one had tried to comfort him. Because they all knew it was true. That soldier had died the next day. An arrow through the throat. Iason barely remembered the sound he made when he fell.

ㅤㅤAnd now, as they walked through the battered palace, a different life hung in the balance. Not a warrior's, not someone who had chosen this fate, but a boy. Astyanax.

ㅤㅤA boy who would die just the same if Iason let him. His grip tightened around the boy's frail form. He would not. Not today. Not with him still breathing.

ㅤㅤThey moved—step by step, breath by breath. They slipped past through the corridors, through the shattered remains of Troy's heart, until finally—finally—they reached the outer walls.