The wax was still warm when the courier left.

Lysander watched him go down the corridor — the sealed document under his arm, the palace mark visible on the outer wrapping, the specific purposeful walk of someone who knew that the thing he was carrying mattered and had been trusted with it anyway. The sound of his footsteps faded. Then the corridor was quiet.

Doros was already clearing the sealing tools.

Priam stood at the window with his back to the room, looking at the harbor below. He had read the document twice before Doros began the seal — the complete, unhurried reading of a man who intended to live with the words and wanted to be certain they were the right ones.

He had said nothing after the second reading.

’Which means they are right,’ Lysander thought. ’Or he has made peace with them. With Priam the two are sometimes the same.’

Priam turned from the window.

He said: "Good."

He went out.

Doros went back to his accounts without comment.

Lysander stood alone in the administrative office for a moment.

’Spoken refusal,’ he thought. ’Now written. Before, Agamemnon could tell himself we were uncertain. Could tell the other courts we were wavering. Could build a narrative in which Troy’s position was ambiguous.’

’This document closes that. It will arrive in Mycenae and be read and filed and become a permanent record of a thing that cannot be unsaid.’

’We have just closed a door very loudly.’

’Agamemnon is on the other side of the door.’

’This is fine. Everything is fine.’

He walked to the supply office and started on the coastal watch reports.

The Thracian note arrived at the fifth hour.

Fylon brought it — not to the main desk, to the corner of the table where urgent things went, the specific placement that said: this is not the regular briefing material, this is something else.

He said: "Northern contact. Timber."

He went out.

Lysander read it.

Three lines. The Thracian intermediary who managed the timber shipments for Daidalos’s construction program had received a visit from a Mycenaean commercial representative. Exclusive purchasing arrangement offered. Rates that undercut the current Troy arrangement. The intermediary had not responded yet. He was sending the note because he had been asked to by the Troy contact who had introduced the relationship eighteen months ago.

’Yesterday,’ Lysander thought. ’This note was sent yesterday. The day before the formal document left this morning. Which means the Thracian approach was already running while Pelonides was still in the palace. While the offer was still on the table.’

’He was not waiting to see if we accepted. He was building the alternative pressure in parallel with the offer.’

’The offer was documentation. He needed a record of having offered before he began applying pressure. Now he has the record.’

’I want to find that sophisticated. I mainly find it exhausting.’

He set the note down.

He thought about it for a moment — not what to do, just what it meant. The shape of it. The timing. What the timing said about how far ahead the planning had been done.

’This is not the response to our refusal. This is the sequence that was always going to happen regardless of our answer.’

He picked up his stylus and went to find Ampelos.

Ampelos read the note once.

He set it down.

He said: "Yesterday."

"Yes."

They looked at each other.

’Two men who have been watching this develop for two years,’ Lysander thought, ’sitting in a room confirming that what they expected is happening faster than they expected.’

’That is not comforting. But it is at least not surprising. Surprised would be worse.’

"The intermediary has not responded," Lysander said. "He sent this because he is giving us time to respond first. We have days, not weeks."

"Yes."

"We need to think about what we can offer that Agamemnon cannot. Not today — I need to understand the timber supply picture fully before we propose anything. But today we acknowledge his note and ask him to hold the Mycenaean representative’s offer unanswered until we respond."

"Three sentences," Ampelos said.

"Three sentences."

"I will draft it."

"Good. I will write the regional notifications — Lycia and Caria need to know the pressure has started before they receive it from another direction."

He went back to the supply office.

The Lycian letter took two drafts.

The first was too long — it explained things the Lycian king already understood. He tore it smooth and started again.

Nine sentences.

’Two years of work,’ he thought. ’Nine sentences. This is either admirably concise or deeply depressing.’

’Both. It is both.’

He sealed it.

The Carian letter. Adrastos had asked when this phase ended and the next began. Six weeks was not up. But the timber note had moved the timeline. The Carian king deserved to know the pressure had started before it arrived at his ports.

Seven sentences.

’Seven sentences for the man who spent two months writing a document.’

’He deserves more.’

’He also deserves fast. Seven sentences.’

He sealed it and set it beside the first.

The Thracian holding note — three sentences.

’Nineteen sentences total,’ he thought. ’The entire regional notification package for the beginning of what might become a long conflict. Nineteen sentences.’

’I once wrote a forty-page paper on Bronze Age trade networks. I think I preferred that.’

He gave all three to Fylon at the end of the afternoon. Fylon disappeared toward the harbor with the purposeful step of someone who knew that when a letter arrived mattered as much as what it said.

He was crossing the harbor district when he saw Arsini.

Outside the school with her tablet, looking at the roofline — not studying it, confirming something she had already suspected. She had the expression of someone who had found a problem before it became urgent and was calculating how much time she had.

She saw him.

"The eastern classroom roof," she said. "There is a crack at the junction with the wall. It will hold through this season if we address it. If we leave it — the winter rains."

"The builder."

"Already sent for. He is inspecting now."

’Of course he is,’ he thought. ’She found the problem, assessed the timeline, summoned the builder, and is now simply updating me as a matter of record rather than because she needed my input.’

’I am decorative in this conversation.’

"The replacement timber is on the Thracian shipment," he said. "There may be a delay."

She absorbed this without changing her expression.

"How long."

"I do not know yet. I will know within the week."

"I will arrange an interim cover for the junction point," she said. "Tell me when you know the timeline."

"Yes."

She went back inside.

He stood outside the school for a moment.

’She found the crack this morning. She has already responded to it. She is telling me about it as a courtesy, not a request.’

’A year ago she brought me problems. Now she brings me updates.’

’I am not sure when that changed. It changed slowly and then all at once, the way things do.’

He walked back to the palace.

He picked up his shard.

One thousand and seventy-three words.

Keep going.