Hector

The torches guttered softly in the corners of the chamber, casting long, warm shadows across the stone walls. You sank onto the edge of the bed, rubbing at your temples, as the echoes of Paris’s laughter and Helen’s vacuous chatter still lingered in your ears.

Hector sat across from you, his armor set aside, tunic loose around his broad shoulders. He watched you with a quiet concern, his brown eyes deep pools of patience and thought. “You seem… troubled,” he said, voice low, careful.

You snorted, exasperated. “Paris… and that woman. I can’t take another hour of their nonsense. I swear, Helen’s brain is smaller than a coin!”

Hector’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He had dealt with Paris for years—reckless, self-absorbed, easily distracted—but Helen, he knew, was a new kind of headache. “I know,” he said softly. “It’s… difficult, seeing them like this, so careless. So…” His hand hovered briefly over yours, as if seeking permission to comfort, then rested on your knee. “I worry for the future. For all of us, if this continues.”

You leaned back, exhaling, feeling the weight of his hand and the steadiness of his presence. He was calm, kind, unwavering—the one constant amidst a storm of nonsense. “At least I have you,” you muttered.

Hector’s lips curved in a faint smile, but his eyes remained serious. “And I will not let anything… or anyone… harm us.”

The flickering light caught his profile, and you found yourself forgetting Paris, forgetting Helen, forgetting everything except Hector—the anchor of your life, the quiet strength you could lean on.