𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 ᵉᵖⁱᶜ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜᵃˡ

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

Chapter 37. THE DECEPTION WITHIN

❝The opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself.❞

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

Neoptolemus sat in darkness.

The only light came from the slivers of sunlight filtering through the deliberate gaps between the wooden planks—small enough to keep them concealed, yet just wide enough to offer glimpses of the outside world.

The interior of the horse was cramped, the air thick with the scent of freshly cut timber and the quiet tension of fifty warriors waiting in silence.

He leaned against the wooden frame as his gaze trailed through one of the openings. In the distance, all that remained of the Greek camp was smoldering ash and abandoned fire pits.

The ships had long since sailed, disappearing over the horizon with the rising sun. The Greeks were gone.

Or so the Trojans would soon believe.

Neoptolemus let out a quiet exhale. He could still hear your voice ringing in his ears.

"It’s not fair!"

You had been anything but subtle as dawn approached, your refusal echoing along the docks. You fought like a cornered lioness—your feet digging into the sand, arms flailing in indignation as you raged.

Oenone and Thetis' grip on you firmly stayed as they dragged you toward the Ithacan ships. Divine strength easily overpowered years of hardened battle training.

The only thing louder than your childish protests was the sound of laughter.

Neoptolemus turned at the sound, his eyes landing on Agamemnon as the Mycenae King made his way aboard one of his ships, shaking with smug amusement.

"I don’t even know why your ass is laughing!" you snarled, eyes narrowing in on him like a vengeful arrow. "I have a reason for not fighting alongside them—what’s yours?!"

The laughter immediately ceased.

Agamemnon sniffed indignantly with a lift of his chin. "I," he declared, "am the High King, Commander of the Greeks after all. It would be foolish to risk my presence should the ambush fail."

You opened your mouth, retort ready, only for your gaze to catch something that stole the words from your lips.

"Oh come on!" Your expression had shifted—sharp frustration melting into slack-jawed disbelief.

Neoptolemus followed your gaze, his own brows lifting as he spotted Ajax the Less standing stiffly near the entrance of the wooden horse. Penelope stood beside him, her expression unreadable as she oversaw the chosen warriors.

"This is complete bullshit!"

A sharp huff left Neoptolemus' as he pushed the memory aside, returning to the present.

He let his gaze drift over the warriors crammed inside the wooden beast. Though the lack of light made it difficult to distinguish most faces, he knew exactly who stood among them: The best the Greeks had to offer.

His gaze briefly settled on those nearest to him—Penelope, Menelaus, Diomedes, Ajax the Less, Epeius, and Nestor. He even spotted Polites and Eurylochus positioned toward the center, the two of them speaking in hushed murmurs.

Some warriors sat quietly with weapons in hand. Others sharpening blades as they muttering soft prayers beneath their breaths or tightening the straps of their armor.

Then—

"What’s going on?"

The sudden shout shatters the quiet as the sound of approaching cattle filter through the cracks in the wood.

Every man tensed.

Even Penelope, who had been meticulously sharpening a dagger, paused—her grip tightening around the hilt, her posture shifting slightly as if preparing for whatever was to come. Your axe was strapped to her back, its familiar weight a silent reminder of the one warrior who wasn’t among them.

Neoptolemus took the opportunity to move toward one of the openings and peer through. Outside, two figures approached.

A shepherd and a young boy.

The older man walked with cautious steps, his eyes flickering between the towering wooden structure and the smoldering remains of the Greek camp. The boy trailed behind him, small hands clutching the hem of his father’s tunic.

Neoptolemus saw their expressions shift, curiosity warring with unease as they neared the horse. Concern flickered across the shepherd's weathered face as he turned to his son. “You saw the ships vanish too didn’t you?”

"Help!"

A cry came from the base of the wooden structure startling the two. And though Neoptolemus couldn't see the source, he knew exactly who it belonged to.

Sinon.

The cousin of Odysseus.

Bound by rope, wearing a tattered tunic, the man played his role to perfection.

Neoptolemus barely shifted, his attention now focused on the two newcomers.

The shepherd took a wary step forward, his grip tightening on the wooden staff at his side. "Who are you?" the old man asked, his voice rough.

Sinon’s breathing was ragged, his voice hoarse but clear as he answered. "I am Sinon. A Greek soldier of the army that has left these shores."

The shepherd frowned. “Left?”

"The Greeks have abandoned the war," Sinon said. "They’re gone."

The shepherd’s son gasped as shock passed over his father's face, both eyes going wide. The older man frowns deeply before turning to the boy. “Run to Troy,” he ordered quickly. “Tell King Priam what you’ve seen. Tell them the Greeks are gone.”

The boy hesitated only a moment before nodding and sprinting off toward the city.

Neoptolemus remained still, barely breathing, as he watched the shepherd disappear to where Sinon sat. “Why are you helping me?” he heard Sinon ask.

The shepherd released a thoughtful yet firm hum. "A man already on the ground has no need for another wound. And besides, the dead cannot tell the answers I seek."

After a few more moments he steps back into Neoptolemus' view, now with a disheveled Sinon in tow who dusts himself off.

"So tell me," said the shepherd, adjusting the weight of his staff. "What happened?"

Sinon let out a slow and heavy sigh.

“When the Greeks decided to quit the war,” he began, “they built this great wooden horse as an offering to Athena to ensure their safe voyage. They feared another disaster on their return home—a repeat of what happened at Aulis when we angered Artemis and paid the price.”

Neoptolemus could see the raw emotion carved into Sinon’s face. The man had practiced these words to perfection.

“But,” Sinon continued, his jaw tightening, “after toiling for days to finish it, I made a mistake.” He let out a humorless chuckle. “I offended my cousin’s wife—Penelope of Ithaca.”

Neoptolemus' gaze flickering toward the woman in question. Penelope’s expression remained impassive, though there was the barest twitch at the corner of her mouth.

Sinon sighed. “For I sympathized with the Trojans. I dared to question this war—to say, even for a moment, that perhaps the Trojans were not the only ones at fault.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “She spared me—if only because of my family ties. But she left me here to die. And now...” He lets out a weary breath. “Now I will die anyway. The Greeks will never forgive me. And Troy? They will never trust me.”

There was a moment of silence.

Pity crept into the lines of the shepherd 's face. Shaking his head with a forlorn sigh, the man places a comforting hand on Sinon’s shoulder. “Your Fate is not yet sealed. We shall see what the Gods have planned.”

Neoptolemus could barely suppress the smirk threatening at his lips.

The first crack in Trojan doubt had begun to form.

But before anything else could be said—

The distant thunder of hooves echoed through the air.

Shouts rang out.

Neoptolemus peeked through the wooden cracks just in time to see a small group of Trojan guards arriving on horseback, following the shepherd’s son back to the shore.

Their armor gleam under the midday sun, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and wariness as they took in the massive wooden structure before them.

The moment they dismounted murmurs spread among them.

"Look at the size of it..."

"I've never seen anything like it."

"The Greeks truly abandoned this here?"

Neoptolemus could hear the way their voices wove between awe and uncertainty. But it was one voice in particular—a commanding presence—that rose above the others.

“Step forward.” The weight of authority it held made it clear that this was no ordinary soldier.

Sinon hesitated before stiffly obeying. 

It was then Neoptolemus caught a glimpse of him—a broad-shouldered man with a perceptive gaze.

Aeneas; Son of Aphrodite. Prince of Troy. A warrior prince in his own right.

It made sense that Priam would send someone of his status to investigate.

The Trojan hero stood tall with his arms folded, listening intently as Sinon once again spun his tale: The Greeks had left...the war was over....the wooden horse was an offering to Athena—a way to ensure a safe voyage home and to atone for past offenses  so they did not suffer another curse like they had with Artemis at Aulis.

The Trojans murmured amongst themselves, heads nodding as they considered his words. They began to circle the giant horse, their admiration evident.

"It is magnificent," one of them breathed in wonder. "What craftsmanship...what a gift to the Gods!"

"Perhaps Athena has finally granted us her favor," another speculated in a lighter and hopeful tone.

"A tribute left behind by the defeated Greeks," came another voice, a soldier with an eager lilt. "After all we have endured it would surely serve as a glorious monument within the city.”

A chorus of agreement rumbled among the warriors.

But before the idea could gain traction...

"You are all fools!"

A new voice—nasally, aged, and lined with deep suspicion—cut through the discussion causing the reverence to be snuffed out like a candle.

Even without seeing the man’s face Neoptolemus could feel the shift in atmosphere. It was the way he spoke, like a foreboding certainty that made the other Trojans unconsciously straighten.

Aeneas’ sigh was audible, the faintest thread of exasperation woven into his breath. "Laocoön," he said stiffly.

Neoptolemus recognized the name immediately.

Laocoön.

Priest of Troy.

One of Apollo’s most devoted servants.

“I cannot say for certain,” Laocoön admitted, “but I know this—nothing the Greeks create should be trusted.”

The air around the wooden horse thickened.

For a moment there was nothing but quiet contemplation—until a familiar voice spoken.

"What’s this? A priest frightened by a horse?"

Sinon.

"Is this truly the wisdom of Troy’s holiest?" Sinon continued, light and teasing. "To fear lifeless wood?"

A few of the younger Trojan soldiers snickered at his words, but Laocoön was not amused.

"Are we truly so desperate that we welcome gifts from the very people who have slaughtered our sons, burned our fields, and desecrated our very temples?" he snarled in disdain. “I warn you—do not bring this thing into the city! I fear the Greeks, even when they bear gifts!”

Neoptolemus had heard many men speak with passion and conviction—but there was something unsettling about Laocoön’s certainty.

"Enough! You laugh now, but I will prove the truth!" Footsteps heavy with purpose neared the horse. There was a rustling of movement and a muffled response before—

THUNK

A sudden impact.

Low and shallow gasps filled the cramped space as a spear pierced through the wooden flank, splinters cracking outward from the force.

Neoptolemus’ breath caught as his eyes snapped to the tip of the spear—it landed between Penelope and Diomedes, just inches from Penelope’s shoulder.

The two remained perfectly still, their bodies taut with tension as their eyes flickered toward the embedded weapon. Around them every warrior inside the horse had frozen in forced stillness.

Outside, Aeneas’s voice rang out, filled with shock and outrage. "Are you mad?!"

Laocoön let out a harsh breath unshaken as he shot back, "Mad?" he repeats. "No. I see clearly, clearer than any of you! We are being deceived! The Greeks are never so generous! Even in defeat they would not leave us a gift without poison hidden beneath!"

Aeneas's voice lowered, tense but controlled. "You would destroy a gift meant for the Gods?"

Laocoön let out a bitter laugh. "I would destroy a curse before it takes root. Wait...wait and see!”

From where he stood, Neoptolemus flicked his gaze toward Penelope. Her expression was unreadable as a finger had risen to her lips—a silent signal for absolute silence.

Not a single man moved.

Minutes passed.

Tension remained thick in the air, stretching unbearably until Aeneas broke the stillness. "Enough of this Laocoön,” his tone carried a note of finality. “You have overstepped.”

The priest scoffed but Aeneas continued stern and unwavering. “You have insulted a sacred offering. And you will atone for this recklessness. If you wish to be welcomed back into Troy you must cleanse yourself. Purge your sins and perhaps the Gods will be merciful.”

Laocoön’s silence stretched before he exhaled sharply—bitter but compliant. "Fine."

His voice rang out once more, sharp and commanding. “Antiphantes! Thymbraeus!”

Two voices immediately responded.

“Yes Father!”

Neoptolemus shifted again, peering through the cracks to catch sight of Laocoön’s sons stepping forward. The two young men—barely grown, still carrying the roundness of youth in their faces—perked up at his call.

“Bring my supplies from the horses,” he ordered. “I will perform a purification ritual before I return to the city.”

They nodded without hesitation and quickly moved to obey.

Neoptolemus watched them from his vantage point within the horse; observing how they moved in near-perfect synchronization, their gaits awkward yet eager, resembling ducklings trailing behind their father as he directed them instructions to retrieve the necessary items.

As Laocoön turned away, Aeneas let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his face before muttering something to one of the soldiers beside him. Neoptolemus carefully leaned back from the wooden plank exhaling just as quietly.

For now the deception held.

But he had a feeling Laocoön would not let it go so easily.