Patroclus's sadness

Patroclus stood at the edge of the camp, staring out at the flickering fires of the Greek encampment. His heart was heavy, weighed down by emotions he couldn't quite name. Since the beginning, he had dreamed of being part of this war, fighting alongside his comrades, proving himself worthy of the warrior's blood that coursed through his veins.

Perhaps it was his Greek heritage, that innate hunger for battle and glory, that had driven him here. Yet even in the midst of his dreams, he'd harbored no desire to destroy Troy or slaughter its people.

No.

Patroclus had always believed the best outcome would be a swift conquest—taking the city, exacting a ransom so large it would leave Troy humbled but intact, and then departing. There was no honor, in his eyes, in shedding the blood of innocents. That wasn't how he was raised, and it wasn't who he wanted to become.

But now, something far graver consumed his thoughts.