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[The tale of Troy is one of the most enduring and tragic stories in the annals of history. It is a saga of heroism, love, betrayal, and the inexorable march of fate. In the traditional narrative, Hector, the noble defender of Troy, meets his end at the hands of Achilles. With Hector’s death, the Trojan resistance crumbles, and the Greeks breach the city’s defences. The young crown prince, Astyanax, is mercilessly thrown from the city walls, extinguishing the last flicker of Trojan hope.

But what if history took a different turn? What if, in the midst of despair and destruction, a glimmer of hope survived? This story explores an alternate version of the fall of Troy, where Astyanax, the son of Hector, escapes his grim fate. In this reimagined tale, the spirit of Troy endures through the young prince, and with him, the hope of a future where the city might rise again.]

Hector stood outside the city gates, alone and drained of strength. The day’s gruelling battle had taken its toll—his face was smeared with grime, his body battered. He held his shield, dented with countless scars, firmly in his left hand as blood dripped from his wounded arm. His matted hair, wet with perspiration, clung to his forehead beneath his bronze helmet, obscuring his vision. With a swift motion of his forearm, he brushed it aside.

He looked up at the sky, where scores of ravens circled high above. How do they sense an easy meal? Can they smell blood? His friends—many of them valiant warriors—lay motionless on the ground. Soon, these scavengers would descend to feast on their remains. Hector smiled bitterly at the futility and ignobility of human life.

His gaze fixed on the approaching figure of Achilles. What should I do now? Achilles was gifted, formidable, blessed—favoured by the gods. The weight of his bronze armour felt heavier than ever. Sweet memories of his family flooded his mind—the laughter of his son, Astyanax, the gentle touch of Andromache’s hand. What will become of them if I fall? The thought sent a chill down his spine.

Nobility was a curse. The fall of Troy would mean suffering for its people—his wife and son would die or be enslaved. Was there anything dearer to him than his life and family? Should he flee? His thoughts clouded with doubt.

Then, he remembered—the golden beaches where the waves kissed his feet, the lush green fields where he galloped on horseback, the wind rushing through his hair. Freedom. Yes, freedom and glory—that is what I fight for.

Hector knew Achilles was a force of nature, undefeated and relentless. Yet, he would face him. He would fight until his last breath, until the last drop of his blood, so that Trojan men and women might remain free.

His heart pounded with adrenaline as Achilles closed in. Taking a deep breath, he tightened his grip on his sword.

“Alala! Alala!”

With a burst of energy, he sprinted towards his enemy. His armour clinked as the ground trembled beneath his charge. With a roar, Hector swung his battle-worn sword high. The clash of metal echoed across the plains as their blades met.

Hector fought with all his might, as if possessed by a vengeful spirit. His strikes were fierce, brutal—pushing even the mighty Achilles back. The battle raged on—for minutes or hours—as Priam and Andromache watched from the ramparts.

Achilles, younger and fuelled by rage, moved like a predator. He sidestepped Hector’s attacks, his eyes cold and calculating. In a swift motion, Achilles struck Hector’s shield, shattering it. The force of the blow sent Hector staggering, his breath ragged.

Desperation surged through him. He knew his end was near, but he could not yield. He thought of his father, Priam; his mother, Hecuba; the future stolen from Astyanax; the fate awaiting Andromache. Summoning his last strength, he lunged at Achilles—aiming for a decisive blow.

But the gods favoured Achilles. With a deadly counter, he sidestepped and drove his sword into Hector’s neck.

Pain exploded—hot, searing. Blood gushed like a torrent. Hector’s vision blurred as he collapsed.

The sun had not yet set, casting a golden glow over the city he loved. He tried to plead for a proper burial, but his words were lost in the wind. Achilles stood over him, victorious but unmoved.

The great warrior of Troy had fallen.

Priam, the helpless father, watched from the city walls. He reached out, his voice breaking.

“Hector… my son…”

The doom of Troy was now certain, but nothing was more profound than the death of his son—whose body was now dragged mercilessly behind Achilles’ chariot. For a moment, Priam felt nothing else mattered—not his kingdom, not his legacy, not his people. Hector was dearer to him than all.

Beside him, Andromache stood frozen, her face hidden in her hands. Disbelief, grief, shock, fear—her mind was a whirlwind. A sudden numbness enveloped her, as if the world around her had dissolved. The bonds that rooted her to life—family, friends, her country—were severed in an instant.

Then, a new terror gripped her.

Astyanax.

Her son’s safety.

"My dearest Andromache, my heart aches at the thought of leaving you. You have been my rock; your love means everything to me. I have always admired your strength, and I know it will guide you through the trials ahead. I go now to face my fate, for my country calls.

Remember, our son Astyanax is Troy’s last hope. He carries our legacy within him. You must be strong—for his sake, for our people. Seek refuge with those still loyal to our cause. Teach Astyanax courage, valour, honour, and resilience. The Trojans will rally around him. Together, you must endure. Rebuild, even in darkness.

Andromache, your love has been my greatest comfort. Hold onto it, and let it light your way. Our bond is unbreakable—it will give you strength for what lies ahead…"

Andromache remembered Hector’s final words. What must I do now? Where can we go? The Greeks would breach the gates at any moment.

Suddenly, a hand gripped hers—firm, urgent. She turned. It was Lydia, her loyal companion. Despite the despair, Lydia’s smirk hinted at a plan.

Lydia pulled Andromache away from the ramparts, through crowds of wailing Trojans still hoping for a miracle.

"Lydia, please!" Andromache begged, her voice trembling. "Let me mourn my husband! Let me see him one last time before—"

Lydia’s grip tightened. "Andromache, I grieve too. Hector was our protector, our hope. But we must act—for Astyanax, for Troy."

They hurried through the city—past gardens, courtyards, the temple of Athena—until they reached Andromache’s chambers. The thick mud-brick walls shielded them from the heat. Lydia closed the awnings, dimming the room.

Kneeling before Andromache, she spoke urgently.

"We must swap Astyanax with Fillipos."

Andromache recoiled. "What? Fillipos is your son! How can you suggest this?"

Lydia’s jaw tightened. "I love him more than life itself. But Astyanax is Troy’s future. The Greeks will kill him—they will not spare a prince. Fillipos resembles him—same age, same build. He has even learned royal manners. We can send Astyanax away with loyal servants. He will grow to avenge Hector, to rebuild Troy."

Andromache shook her head. "There must be another way! Perhaps the Greeks will show mercy—"

"You know they will not," Lydia cut in. "Odysseus? Diomedes? They will see Astyanax as a threat. We cannot risk it."

Andromache’s voice broke. "How can I live with this guilt?"

Lydia pointed to the frescoes of Trojan heroes. "Think of our ancestors—their sacrifices. We must ensure Astyanax lives. He will avenge Hector, free our people. This is the only way."

Andromache wept. "But Fillipos… your own child…"

Lydia’s eyes burned with resolve. "He is brave, like his mother. He would understand."

Silence stretched between them. Finally, Andromache nodded.

"If this is the only way… then we will do it. But my heart will never heal."

Lydia embraced her. "We will honour his sacrifice. And one day, Astyanax will make it worthwhile."

Andromache whispered, "Will I ever see my son again?"

Lydia squeezed her hands. "You will live to see him return—strong, proud, like his father."

Outside, the battering rams struck the gates—thunderous, relentless. The Greeks would soon break through.

Amidst the chaos, the two women clasped hands, their eyes alight with determination.

There was still time.

A gust of wind swept through the chamber, stirring their hair as they gazed at the horizon—where hope, however faint, still lingered.

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Jibendu Narayan Mazumder is an award-winning author and technology evangelist. Jibendu graduated with an MBA degree from Boston University, USA. He has extensive experience of working with top MNCs across the globe.