In Sergestus's sickroom, the oil lamp glowed dimly. Moonlight fell through the window lattice. It lit up the straw mat.
Sergestus's face was flushed red. The bandages on his chest smelled of alcohol and herbs. And a faint, unmistakeable hint of decay.
Aeneas bent over the wound. His fighter's fingers touched the skin around it. He watched the patient's face. His breathing.
Lamplight danced in his dark-gold curls. His face showed pure focus.
"The infection's still early. Symptoms are just starting to worsen." Aeneas analyzed coldly in his mind. "Treatment could work now. But medicine in this era is too scarce."
He straightened up. Crossed his arms. His thick brows furrowed in thought.
He raced through his medical knowledge. Searching for alternatives this era could handle.
"Onions have antibacterial properties. Eaten raw? Hmm. Honey fights bacteria too. Reduces inflammation. Helps tissue heal. If only we had a honeycomb." Aeneas's fingers tapped his elbow absently. "Pomegranates. Flaxseed. Right! Beans! Quality protein. Boosts immune cells. That'll work."
These were everyday foods in his time. Here, they needed careful planning.
Aeneas sighed softly. Turned to Thaleia. She'd been waiting quietly in the corner. He nodded and gave her a smile.
"Let your brother rest properly. You should get some sleep too. We've got an early start tomorrow."
Thaleia bowed her head in thanks. But her eyes followed Aeneas as he left. Her gaze was complex. Hard to read.
She watched him head for the door. Clearly going to find Lady Oenone and Hesperia. To explain the follow-up care. His efforts to boost the patient's chances.
The sickroom was silent again. Only Sergestus's heavy breathing. The soft crackle of the oil lamp.
Thaleia stood by the bed. Her heart churned.
To her, Aeneas helped them purely out of kindness. But it must be hard for him. A bad investment. No return in sight. And he kept putting more in.
"The nobles I know would squeeze profit from beggar children. Never seen one help the weak for nothing." Thaleia thought bitterly. Her world taught her this. Pure malice existed. But kindness always had a price.
Finally, she broke. Sobbed quietly. Her shoulders shook.
In this cruel world, the only thing she could offer was herself.
Her looks were considered beautiful in Troy. That's why Helenus wanted her at the spring festival. He pursued her relentlessly. Destroyed her family.
Aeneas was truly kind. Offering herself to him might save her brother. She didn't hate the idea. But… thinking she'd end up an object made her cry.
She quickly wiped her tears with her hand. As if wiping away her weakness too.
"Brother, I won't let you die." Thaleia whispered softly. The grief and resentment faded from her face. Her eyes grew steady.
She rose. Used the water by the bed to wipe Sergestus's face. Her hands were gentle. Thorough.
When she finished, she slipped quietly from the room. Returned to her temporary quarters.
In her simple room, Thaleia adjusted her appearance carefully. She looked at her reflection in the water basin. A strand of dark hair fell loose. She tucked it back behind her ear.
Moonlight touched her lovely face, calm and firm. Those brown eyes—steady now. She'd made up her mind.
In Aeneas's room, the oil lamp burned low. His armor and weapons sat ready on the chest beside the bed. He'd asked the old servant Demos to prepare them that morning.
A simple weapon rack stood in the corner. Wax tablets covered his desk. They were covered in writing.
Aeneas removed his outer robe and folded it neatly on the bedside chest. His bare torso was lean and powerfully built.
Candlelight played over his bronze skin. It highlighted the clean lines of his muscle.
"Leaving early tomorrow. No time for a workout then. So I'll do it now. A pre-sleep routine to stay sharp." He pushed back against his own laziness. The desire to rest was natural. Effort required self-discipline.
He began a series of warm-up moves. They would look strange in this era. Neck rolls. Shoulder circles. Wrist rotations. Hips tracing circles. Knee bounces. Ankle rolls.
Then the main training.
He did a single-leg squat. His balance was solid as stone. Knee aligned over his foot. His shadow didn't even waver. His push-ups were silent. His palms left the floor. Chest muscles tight as a war drum. Mountain climbers were swift as arrows. Core engaged. Breath steady.
He flipped into a handstand. Back to the wall. Arms holding his whole weight. Like a spear planted upside-down. Then an L-sit on the floor. Legs parallel to the ground. Solid as carved stone. A slow lunge. Knee hovering just above the floor. A side plank, straight as a bar. Reverse crunches. Each section of his abdomen defined.
These movements. This rhythm. This body. No one in this age had ever seen it. The room held no audience. Just him. A offering to the gods. Proof he was still a weapon.
"Five sets should do it. Dangerous work tomorrow. Can't be too tired." Aeneas muttered to himself. Sweat dripped from his dark-gold curls. He finished drenched. His muscles trembled slightly with fatigue. He grabbed a cloth and wiped himself down. Candlelight danced over his well-built frame.
Then, a soft knock broke the night's quiet. Outside, an old olive tree rustled in the night breeze. The sound seemed louder now.
"So late! Who is it?" Aeneas frowned. He turned and walked to the door.
He blinked in surprise when he opened it. Thaleia stood there, graceful in the moonlight. It edged her figure in silver.
She wore a cloak. Her face bore faint, fresh traces of water. It made her look both fresh and strikingly beautiful.
"Young master, may I come in?" Thaleia's voice was soft. It held a faint, barely perceptible tremor.
Aeneas looked down at his bare chest. He moved aside, slightly embarrassed. "Of course! Come in!"
His tone was straightforward. "I just finished some exercises. The room might smell a bit sweaty... If you don't mind, please, come in!"
Thaleia stepped inside. She took a deep breath. As if inhaling the scent of Aeneas himself –
The scent of sweat, sun-warmed olive oil, and something unmistakably his.
Her eyes scanned the room. They noted the neatly arranged weapons. The wax tablets covered in writing. It confirmed her belief. She was facing a nobleman unlike any other.
The door clicked shut behind her. Her body gave an involuntary tremble.
She took a sudden, deep breath. Turned to face Aeneas.
The oil lamp flickered. Thaleia stood before him, head bowed.
"Young master..." Her voice was soft as night wind through olive leaves.
A trembling hand rose. Slowly pushed back her hood. Her dark hair cascaded down. It shone with a blue-black sheen in the moonlight.
Before Aeneas could react, her other hand moved. Undid her slender belt. Let it fall soundlessly to the floor.
A slight shrug of her shoulders. The rough cloak and thin underdress slid down. They pooled at her feet like discarded wings.
Thaleia stood revealed. Her body was toned, slender, and full. Moonlight flowed over her sun-kissed skin. It highlighted curves both soft and strong.
She stood like a living goddess statue. Beautiful yet vulnerable. Brave yet helpless.
"!!!"
Aeneas's eyes widened in shock. His pupils contracted.
In a flash, his hand shot out. Snuffed the table's oil lamp. The movement was so fast it stirred the air.
Darkness swallowed the room. Only cool moonlight filtered through the window. The space was plunged into deep shadow.
The rustle of olive branches outside grew louder.
"Thaleia, what are you doing?" Aeneas's voice was a hushed, strained whisper. Utterly bewildered.
"Young master..." Her reply was faint. It held the desperation of a final gamble.
She stepped toward him. Her naked skin glowed like pearl in the dim light.
Aeneas stumbled back. As if facing a weapon, not a beautiful girl.
His hand shot to the bedside chest. Grabbed his folded outer robe. The motion was fluid. Practiced.
He shook it out. Caught her as she moved forward. Wrapped the thick fabric tightly around her. Only her bewildered face peeked out.
The action was firm yet gentle. It stopped her advance. Carefully shielded her dignity.
"Why are you taking your clothes off?" He gripped her slender shoulders through the robe. Took a steadying breath.
His tone grew serious. Demanding. "Did someone force you?"
Anger kindled inside him. Faces from the estate flashed through his mind. Who? Who would do this? An overzealous servant? Someone else...
Thaleia shook her head silently. Tall as she was, wrapped in the robe she seemed small. Fragile.
"No one forced me." Her voice was weak. The earlier resolve in her eyes was gone. Only deep weariness remained. "My family has nothing left... Nothing to repay you with."
"This is the only reward I can give," she continued, her words almost lost in the wind outside. "I come willingly... If it pleases you, young master... that's all..."
Her words felt like cold rain. They drenched him. Silenced him.
The one pressuring Thaleia all along... had been his own unconditional help.
In this era built on transactions, his kindness—ahead of its time—had become the final weight that crushed the young woman's dignity.