The first breath of dawn slipped through the high towers of Ilium, and the city of Troy awoke to a sky painted in shades of rose and fire. The scent of olives and distant myrrh wafted through the palace corridors, and the murmurs of servants stirred behind thick stone walls. In the highest chamber, overlooking the eastern ramparts, Cassandra stood, her eyes wide with the weight of unseen worlds.
She had dreamt again.
In her vision, fire had poured from the sky. The gates of Troy splintered. The statue of Pallas Athena toppled with a scream, and the streets ran red with the blood of her kin. Cassandra, daughter of Priam, had seen it all in her sleep, and as always, it left her breathless.
She dressed slowly, her fingers trembling as they wrapped the belt around her waist. Her hair, the deep auburn of autumn leaves, fell loosely around her shoulders. She moved through the halls of the palace like a ghost, unnoticed by most, a woman both feared and dismissed.
Her father, King Priam, sat upon his ivory throne in the great hall, surrounded by advisors and warriors. Helen, the cause of this endless war, reclined nearby, her beauty a living flame, illuminating and burning.
"Father," Cassandra said, her voice barely a whisper, yet it silenced the room.
Priam turned, his expression weary but affectionate. "What troubles you, daughter?"
She walked to the centre of the hall, her bare feet silent upon the marble. "I saw the horse. A gift. Left at our gates. The Greeks have fled, or so it will seem. But they hide inside, waiting. If we bring it within our walls, it will be our end. Troy will fall."
A murmur swept the court.
"Again with her visions," muttered Antenor.
Priam's face darkened. "You would have us reject a gesture of peace based on a dream?"
Cassandra’s eyes, dark as storm-wracked seas, flashed. "It is not a dream. It is truth. The gods speak through me."
"The gods?" scoffed Paris, leaning against a column, arms crossed. "You spoke of doom when Helen arrived. When Hector went to battle. Yet here we stand."
"For now," Cassandra replied. "But the tide turns."
No one believed her. No one ever did.
Years ago, she had stood in the sanctuary of Apollo, the god’s breath hot against her cheek, his golden gaze upon her. He had whispered secrets into her ear, and she had felt divine fire enter her soul. He had offered her the gift of prophecy in exchange for her love.
But Cassandra, ever wary, had accepted the gift and spurned the god.
Apollo’s fury was silent and eternal. He cursed her not with madness, but with clarity: she would see the truth, always, but none would ever believe her.
Back in the present, her warning went unheeded. By midday, the wooden horse stood within the city walls, its hollow belly filled with steel and wrath. The people rejoiced. Musicians played. Priests chanted hymns.
Cassandra stood alone on the temple steps, watching as torches lit the city's heart. Her hands shook, her mouth dry with the taste of ash. She turned to the altar of Athena and fell to her knees.
"Great Goddess," she whispered. "If ever you pitied me, now is the time. Spare them. Let them hear. Let them see."
But the goddess remained stone and silence.
That night, as revelry filled the streets, Cassandra crept through the corridors of the palace. She found her younger brother, Deiphobus, drunk on wine and arrogance.
"We must flee," she urged. "Now."
He laughed. "You fear shadows, sister. Sleep. The war is over."
She ran to the shrine of Apollo, her voice rising in frantic pleas. She cried out before the idols, clawed at the marble, begged for intervention.
The stars blinked coldly overhead.
And then the slaughter began.
The Greek warriors burst forth from the horse like nightbirds from a cage. They opened the gates for the waiting army. Troy, unguarded and intoxicated, stood no chance.
Fires consumed rooftops. Arrows darkened the moon. The palace shook with screams.
Cassandra tried to lead the priestesses to safety, but they were cut down at the temple gates. She fled into the sanctum, clutching a bloodstained lamp, and barricaded the door.
But not even the sacred walls could protect her. She was found by Ajax the Lesser, dragged from the altar. Her cries went unanswered. The gods remained blind.
When the carnage ended, the sun rose over a city of smoke and ruin. Troy was no more. Its people enslaved, its kings and warriors slain.
Cassandra was taken as a prize by Agamemnon, king of Mycenae. He paraded her through the broken streets like a trophy, his grip cruel upon her wrist.
She did not speak during the journey back across the wine-dark sea. But her mind burned with visions.
In the cold halls of Mycenae, she saw it clearly: blood on marble floors, a woman in black robes, a blade in her hand. She saw herself falling, again and again.
Agamemnon welcomed her with pride, ignoring her warnings. His wife, Clytemnestra, waited with false smiles and hidden daggers.
On the night of their return, Cassandra stood at the gates of the palace, refusing to enter.
"We will die here," she said softly. "You, the king triumphant, and I, the prophet scorned."
Agamemnon laughed, thinking her mad.
She stepped inside.
The walls drank their blood.
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