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The storm of war brewing on the horizon was not an ordinary conflict; this was a battle in which the greatest heroes of Greece would fight—Achilles, Heracles, and others of legendary prowess. These were men with divine blood and unmatched skill in battle. Troy was at a severe disadvantage, and Priam understood the gravity of it.

That is why he had sent messengers to every corner of the known world, summoning the most skilled and renowned mercenaries to their cause. It had been a desperate move, one born of necessity, for few would willingly fight for a distant kingdom like Troy, especially with the looming threat of such formidable opponents. Yet, whatever reinforcements they could gather would be crucial.

Even a few more swords could tip the scales, however slightly, in their favor.

"Yes, Father," Hector replied with a resolute nod. Without hesitation, he turned and strode purposefully toward the exit, his tall, armored figure cutting a path through the room like a pillar of unshakable strength.

As Hector left, Paris hesitated, his eyes flicking toward Helen. "Helen," he called softly, his voice tinged with uncertainty. But Helen, her expression unreadable, offered no response. Without a word, she turned on her heel and walked away, the weight of guilt heavy on her slender shoulders.

No matter what they said—no matter how they tried to comfort or absolve her—the burden of responsibility would never leave her. It clung to her, relentless and suffocating. She knew that when the war began and the blood of soldiers stained the ground of Troy, the guilt would only deepen, seeping further into her soul like a poison.

Every life lost, every sword raised in her name, would be another reminder of her part in this tragedy.

As the hall emptied and only the king and queen remained, the silence became almost unbearable. Priam sat quietly on his throne, his thoughts dark and brooding. Hecuba stood beside him, her posture rigid, but before either could speak, a shadow stirred from the far corner of the chamber. A figure emerged from the darkness—a woman whose presence seemed both otherworldly and tragic.

She was strikingly beautiful, her long red hair cascading down her back like flames, her deep crimson eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and something far more ancient. This was Kassandra, Hector\'s younger sister.

Since the day of Paris\'s birth, Kassandra had pleaded with their family to send him away—away from Troy, away from the city she had seen doomed in her prophetic visions. Apollo himself had blessed her with the gift of foresight, and with it came terrible dreams, visions of Troy\'s destruction, all linked to the boy who now stood at the heart of their troubles.

She had seen it all before it began—the downfall of their city, the ruin that would follow in Paris\'s wake. But no one had believed her. Not her family, not her people.

It was a cruel irony that Apollo, angered by Kassandra\'s refusal to submit to him, had cursed her gift. Though she could see the future, no one would ever believe her warnings. It was as though her voice had been silenced, though she continued to speak. Her pleas had fallen on deaf ears, and now the grim future she had foreseen loomed over them all.

Her mother, Queen Hecuba, had made half-hearted attempts to send Paris away in those early years—weeks spent trying to rid Troy of the boy Kassandra had warned about—but the efforts had failed. Fate, it seemed, had bound them to this course.

Now, with the war creeping ever closer, Kassandra\'s prophecies were no longer simply dreams—they were becoming reality.

Hecuba, sensing her daughter\'s presence, sighed heavily, already anticipating what was to come. "Don\'t start again, daughter," the queen said tiredly, her voice tinged with exasperation. She assumed Kassandra had once more come to complain, to remind them of how often she had warned them of this fate—how they had ignored her, how they had failed to heed her words.

But when Hecuba turned to look at her daughter, she was met not with defiance or anger, but with silence.

Kassandra stood there, her expression hauntingly calm, her lips unmoving.

"Kassandra?" Priam\'s voice broke through the silence that had settled over the room, worried for his daughter.

Kassandra\'s red eyes flicked up to meet her father\'s, her expression a mix of confusion and fear. She parted her lips, her voice hesitant. "It stopped."

Priam and Hecuba exchanged puzzled glances, their brows furrowed in unison. "What stopped?" Priam asked.

"My dreams," Kassandra murmured, as though the admission itself was difficult to process. "They\'ve… completely stopped."

The weight of her words hung in the air, thick and ominous. Priam\'s frown deepened, confusion etched into his features. "What do you mean?" he pressed, leaning forward slightly in his throne, trying to grasp the full meaning of her statement.

Kassandra shook her head slowly, her red hair swaying around her like a shroud. "I don\'t know," she whispered, the words laced with uncertainty. "I don\'t know what\'s happening."

Hecuba, ever the steady force beside Priam, stood up, her posture stiff as she stepped toward her daughter. "Kassandra," she began cautiously, her voice softer now, "you\'ve always told us you saw Troy destroyed—turned to ashes." Her eyes searched Kassandra\'s face for confirmation. "Isn\'t that what you\'ve always said?"

"Yes, mother!" Kassandra replied, the sudden intensity in her voice betraying her fear. "I saw it. I truly saw it. Years ago, it was clear—the fall of Troy, its destruction—it was all there. But…" her voice wavered, and she faltered as if unsure of how to continue. She paused, collecting herself before speaking again, more quietly this time.

"But nine months ago… the dreams stopped."

"Stopped?" Priam\'s voice was low, now tinged with a deeper concern.

Kassandra nodded, her hands clenching into fists as she struggled to find the right words. "Yes… they stopped completely. For years, I saw everything. The fires, the walls crumbling, the city in ruins. But now… now I don\'t dream of Troy anymore. I don\'t see what\'s to come.

I don\'t see anything at all." Her voice grew fainter with every word, as though the weight of not knowing crushed her.

Hecuba stepped forward, her hand reaching out to Kassandra. "What does that mean? Why did it stop?" She asked softly.

Kassandra\'s voice trembled as she answered, "I don\'t know, Mother. I don\'t know why. It just stopped. It\'s like the future has become… a void. I can\'t see what will happen anymore. And it terrifies me." Her eyes, wide and glassy with fear, looked to her parents for answers they could not give.

Hecuba, seeing the vulnerability in her daughter\'s usually strong gaze, pulled Kassandra into a gentle embrace. "It\'s okay, Kassandra," she whispered, her voice as soothing as the soft touch of her hands. "Perhaps this is a good thing. If the dreams have stopped, maybe it means we have a chance—maybe the gods have changed their course."

Kassandra buried her face in her mother\'s shoulder, her arms trembling slightly as she tried to comprehend what was happening. "I… I don\'t know…" she mumbled, her voice muffled. "What if it\'s worse? What if the silence means something even more terrible is coming?" The uncertainty was gnawing at her, making her feel more lost than she had ever been.

Priam, watching them both, felt an unease settle in his chest. The idea of Kassandra no longer being able to see the future, no longer having even the faintest thread of foresight, was unsettling. "Perhaps," he said slowly, as if thinking aloud, "the gods have shrouded the future in darkness for reasons we cannot yet understand. But we mustn\'t lose hope."

Kassandra pulled back from her mother\'s embrace, her red eyes gleaming with unshed tears. "But why?" she asked, almost pleading. "Why nine months ago? Why did it stop so suddenly? I\'ve always had the dreams… but now, I\'m blind to what\'s to come."