The forge had been working since Troy's birth. Bronze workers tended their fires while Cassandra sketched modifications on wax tablets, trying to ignore how the heat made everyone glisten.

  "Need help with the molds?" Damon appeared in the doorway, already pulling off his outer tunic. "Heavy work?"

  The master smith nodded gratefully. "Appreciate it. My back's not what it was."

  Cassandra watched Damon lift the crucible, forearms cording with effort. Bronze flowed, light made liquid. She looked back at her diagram.

  "Actually," she heard herself saying, "make the base thicker."

  "Thicker?" The smith peered at her sketch.

  "Much thicker. And..." She watched Damon set down the empty crucible, muscles shifting beneath skin. "The shaft should be longer."

  One of the younger apprentices coughed. The smith's stylus hesitated.

  "For stability," she added. "The proportions need to be... specific."

  She kept correcting as they worked. Each modification made sense individually... wider here for powder capacity, longer there for accuracy, that pronounced ridge for structural integrity. The bronze workers stopped asking questions, just nodded and carved.

  The mold took shape. No one commented on what it looked like.

  They poured at midday. Bronze filled the spaces she'd designed while Damon worked the bellows, keeping the fire hot. Sweat traced lines down his neck. Cassandra forgot what she was supposed to be thinking about.

  "Give it an hour to cool," the smith said. His voice was very neutral.

  They cracked the mold. The bronze tube emerged, still radiating heat. It was exactly what she'd designed. Functional. Solid. Architecturally unambiguous.

  "For killing," Cassandra said into the silence. "It's for killing."

  "The crystals grow under the tannery," Paris said, leading them through Troy's worst district. "Pig waste. The tanners noticed them years ago."

  The basement was industrial chemistry by accident. White crystals wherever piss had dried.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  "Watch the..."

  Her foot found the pit edge. Damon grabbed her arm, hauling her back.

  "...edge," he finished. "Deep hole."

  "I saw it."

  "Sure." He kept hold of her elbow while she scraped. "I'll just stand here. In case you see it again."

  At the sulfur merchant, Damon loaded sacks while she counted coins. Paris stood upwind, looking green.

  "How many of these things you need?"

  "All of them."

  He looked at the pile. Shrugged. Started loading.

  Back in the palace courtyard, she arranged ingredients. A crowd was forming.

  Anaktoria appeared from the palace steps, took one look at the bronze cannon, and said: "That's extremely accurate."

  Helen appeared with a wine jug, settled on the steps to watch. She caught Paris trying to hide behind a column and beckoned him over with one finger.

  Damon positioned the bronze tube, checking its base was solid.

  "This going to be loud?"

  "Probably."

  "How loud?"

  "I'll know when it happens."

  He moved the watching crowd back anyway. "Give her room to work."

  "Ratios?" he asked.

  "Equal parts to start."

  The first mixture fizzled. She'd been watching him roll his sleeves clear of the powder, the casual efficiency of it.

  "That's not right," she muttered.

  "What's not right?"

  "The... fizzling."

  "Looked like fizzling to me." He scratched his jaw. "Should it do something else?"

  The second attempt coincided with him stretching his back from all the lifting. The small explosion took everyone by surprise.

  "Zeus's balls!" Damon jerked back. An apprentice frantically patted his smoking eyebrows.

  "Too much sulfur," Cassandra said.

  "Too much something." He eyed the mixture with new respect. "Maybe I'll stand over here."

  The third mixture detonated while he was repositioning powder barrels. The pottery display never stood a chance.

  "This normal?" he asked, brushing ceramic dust from his hair.

  "I'm refining the process."

  "Long as there's someone left to do the refining." He still helped her measure fresh ingredients.

  By the eighth attempt, she'd started to find the right proportions. He'd started predicting when to duck.

  "Last try," he announced. "Sun's getting low."

  "This one will work."

  "Of course it will work!" Priam appeared through the crowd. "My daughter's genius needs proper appreciation!"

  He surveyed the destroyed pottery with satisfaction. "The Greeks won't know what hit them!"

  "Haven't hit anything on purpose yet," someone muttered.

  "Details!" Priam positioned himself for the best view. "Fire when ready!"

  She closed her eyes. Mixed by feel. These proportions had to be right.

  "Everyone back."

  They retreated. She lit the fuse.

  "Further back," Damon decided, herding her with him. "That fuse is burning fast."

  "It's supposed to—"

  The sound arrived like a giant's fist. The shockwave passed through everything—bronze, stone, bone, flesh. Her body forgot how standing worked.

  Damon caught her as she stumbled, one arm automatically around her waist. She sagged back against his chest, mind wonderfully empty, every nerve ringing like a struck bell.

  "Fuck," he said thoughtfully, glancing down at her dazed expression. "That was loud."

  She tried to answer but her ears were still ringing, her whole body vibrating from the blast. The tightness in her core had finally loosened. He was solid and warm and unmoved by chaos, like he did this every day.

  Through clearing smoke, through their new hole in the wall, bronze eyes stared at them.

  "What the hell is that?"

  The smoke cleared further. Through the gap they'd just created, the thing stood complete. Four legs. Massive wheels. A patient, knowing expression rendered in polished bronze.

  "Is that a fucking donkey?" someone whispered.

  It was.