Chapter 155: Helen of Troy

Standing in the doorway was a woman of breathtaking beauty, so otherworldly that mere words could hardly capture it. Her long, golden hair flowed like sunlight, reaching down to the small of her back, and her golden eyes gleamed with a mesmerising allure. Every inch of her presence commanded attention, as if the gods themselves had sculpted her from the essence of beauty itself.

It was Helen.

Helen of Sparta, once the queen of Menelaus, but now... Helen of Troy.

Paris's face lit up with joy as Helen entered the room. "Helen!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with happiness and relief. To him, she was still the same breathtaking woman who had stolen his heart, her beauty transcending the realm of mortals.

But Helen did not even glance in his direction.

The enchantment that had once bound her to Paris had long faded. When Paris had used Aphrodite's divine girdle, capable of making any woman fall madly in love, Helen had been momentarily entranced. Yet the spell had worn off the moment she stepped foot in Troy. By then, it was far too late to change anything. Her fate was sealed.

Returning to Sparta, though, was not an option. Helen could only imagine the torment that awaited her there. Menelaus, her husband by forced competition, had been humiliated, and the men of Sparta were thirsty for vengeance. Her marriage to Menelaus had never been of her choosing.

When Helen's beauty became a curse, her father had organized a competition among the most powerful men in the Achaean lands. Menelaus had won, and Helen, against her will, became Queen of Sparta.

Menelaus had been patient with Helen, waiting for her to accept him as her husband, but Helen never did. Though their marriage was official, Helen had never given him her heart. She had always been distant, and Menelaus had respected that boundary for a time. But when Paris entered her life and whisked her away, it broke something inside Menelaus—his trust shattered, his patience turned to fury.

Helen had thought, perhaps, that escaping with Paris might offer her some form of freedom from Menelaus, but instead, it only plunged her into deeper despair. She found herself trapped in Troy, hated by both sides. Sparta despised her for betraying their king, and Troy blamed her for bringing the wrath of the Achaeans to their doorstep.

Now, she had no home. She could not return to Sparta, where death or worse awaited her. But she was no more welcome in Troy, where whispers of blame and scorn followed her wherever she went. Her beauty, once admired by all, had become a symbol of destruction.

Helen had never wanted this war. She had never wanted to be the cause of so much suffering. Now, as she stood before the gathered royals and nobles of Troy, she realized she couldn't stay silent anymore. The destruction looming over Troy was unbearable, and her presence only seemed to fuel it.

With a steady breath, Helen spoke, her voice soft but resolute. "I will go back to Sparta."

Hector sighed, though there was no hesitation in his movement. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he nodded in agreement. "Of course not, Mother. We will not run. We will face them."

Priam, who had been watching his wife and son with quiet pride, allowed a rare smile to soften his face. He turned to Helen, his voice gentle yet resolute. "You've heard them, Helen. Return to your chambers and rest. Our fate does not lie in your hands. Whether you choose to leave or remain, we will fight.

The decision is yours, but our path is clear."

Helen's hands trembled as she balled them into fists, her nails digging into her palms. The weight of their words settled heavily on her, but she could not find the strength to respond. Were they pitying her? Did they truly believe she was worth more than the war that raged because of her? Yet, amid her confusion, a faint sense of relief washed over her.

For so long, she had felt purposeless, like a mere ornament to be admired, an object of desire that men would kill and die for. She had been praised endlessly for her beauty, but no one had ever truly seen her. All they cared for was the face that launched a thousand ships. And now, even that beauty seemed like a curse, something that had only brought misery and destruction.

So why, then, did she still cling to life? What hope was she holding onto? She could not even understand it herself.

Before she could sink deeper into her thoughts, the heavy wooden doors to the royal chamber suddenly swung open with a loud bang, drawing all attention to the entrance. There, standing framed in the doorway, was a man whose presence exuded strength and power, his muscular frame imposing and his demeanor commanding.

His features were strikingly handsome, reminiscent of Hector, though his aura was more wild, less restrained.

"Aeneas," Priam greeted with a smile, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the man.

Hector's expression mirrored his father's as he stepped forward to greet his kinsman. "Brother," he said, clasping Aeneas's forearm with a firm grip.

Aeneas returned the gesture with a nod. He was renowned throughout Troy as the second-strongest warrior after Hector, a hero in his own right, and his arrival now only further bolstered the confidence of those present.

"Aeneas," Hector continued, "what news do you bring?"

The younger man turned his attention to Priam, his expression shifting to one of serious intent. "Your Majesty," Aeneas began, "all the mercenaries who answered our call for aid have arrived. They await your command in the courtyard."