Helen sat quietly in the garden of the Trojan castle, the gentle hum of the breeze weaving through the flowerbeds around her. The garden, once a place of solace, now seemed like a hollow echo of what it used to be. The vibrant blossoms no longer brought her peace; they felt like mockeries of her sorrow. She gazed at the marble fountain in the center, the water''s gentle trickle failing to soothe her restless thoughts.

    She felt adrift, lost in a sea of emotions that had no outlet. She didn''t know what to think or what to feel anymore. Everything seemed to be falling apart. Just when Troy seemed to be stabilizing, when life had started to regain some semblance of normalcy, Heiron was gone. His death was like a black shroud cast over the city, darkening the hearts of everyone within its walls.

    It would be dishonest to say she hadn''t cared for him. She had. He was more than a passing acquaintance; he had become her confidant in a way no one else could. Unlike the others who only saw her as a trophy, a figure to admire or resent, Heiron treated her like a person—just a woman who needed someone to talk to.

    Their conversations had been a rarity in her life: genuine, short yet meaningful exchanges that she found herself looking forward to. When the pressures of her existence—the endless guilt, the weight of expectation, the suffocating isolation—grew too much to bear, she could vent to him. He would listen without judgment, without ulterior motives.

    Heiron had cared. Not about her beauty, not about her infamy, but about her. He even shared news of the war with her, sparing her the humiliation of having to ask others who might scoff or sneer. For those brief moments, she had felt seen, understood, even human. But now, Heiron was dead.

    A sharp pang of loneliness pierced her chest. She hadn''t anticipated how much his absence would hurt. The garden felt emptier now, devoid of the comfort his presence once brought. And once again, the familiar weight of guilt crept in.

    This was all because of her. It didn''t matter what others said to absolve her; the truth was clear in her mind. If it weren''t for her, this war wouldn''t have happened. If she hadn''t been born, the world might have been a more peaceful place. The thought lingered, growing heavier with each passing day.

    "You''re here alone again?"

    The sudden voice startled her, pulling her from her spiraling thoughts. Helen turned to see her older sister, Clytemnestra, standing at the edge of the garden. Her sister''s presence was both a relief and a reminder of the burdens they shared.

    "Sister..." Helen murmured, lowering her gaze, unable to meet Clytemnestra''s eyes.

    Clytemnestra sighed, her steps measured as she approached. Her expression was stern but tinged with concern, a look Helen knew well.

    "How long are you going to keep running away from me?" Clytemnestra asked, folding her arms.

    "I''m not running away," Helen replied weakly, her voice lacking conviction.

    "You are," Clytemnestra said firmly. "And I''ve already told you—what happened to my daughter, Iphigenia, is not your fault."

    Helen flinched at the mention of her niece, the memory of the young girl''s tragic fate cutting through her like a blade. Iphigenia had been sacrificed, a casualty of her father Agamemnon''s ambitions and the whims of the gods. Yet, despite knowing the true cause, Helen couldn''t stop blaming herself.

    "But it is," Helen whispered, her voice trembling. "If not for me, there would have been no war. If not for me, Iphigenia would still be alive. How can I not feel responsible?"

    Clytemnestra knelt beside her, placing a hand on Helen''s shoulder. Her touch was firm but comforting.

    "This war... It wasn''t born from you," Clytemnestra said. "It was born from men''s greed, their lust for power, their refusal to take accountability for their own choices. Agamemnon sacrificed my daughter because of his hubris, not because of you. You carry a burden that isn''t yours to bear, Helen."

    Helen closed her eyes, tears welling but refusing to fall. Clytemnestra''s words were meant to comfort, but they couldn''t erase the gnawing guilt.

    Paris nodded, oblivious to the growing tension. "Yes, my love. No one will ever hurt you again, not while I''m here."

    Helen looked up at him, her eyes shimmering with a mixture of anger and despair. "You think this is what I want? More bloodshed, more death? You think killing my husband—killing thousands of men—will erase the pain of all that''s been lost?"

    Paris faltered, his confident smile wavering.

    "You talk of protecting me," Helen continued, her voice rising, trembling with emotion. "But all you''ve done is bring more destruction, more suffering. You didn''t save me, Paris. You condemned me. Just like everyone else."

    Paris opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. Clytemnestra stepped closer to him, her glare icy.

    "You''ve done enough harm," she said, her voice low and threatening. "Leave her be, Paris. She doesn''t need you."

    Paris''s glare darkened, his jaw tightening as he stepped forward and seized Helen''s arm with a bruising grip. His fingers dug into her skin, his voice a venomous hiss. "You belong to me, Helen."

    Helen froze for a moment, her breath catching at the sharpness of his tone. But then, lifting her gaze to meet his, her expression turned icy, her voice steady and cold. "No, Paris. I don''t."

    His teeth ground audibly as anger flared in his eyes. "Is that it?" he spat, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "Is it because of him? That mercenary, Heiron? Don''t tell me you fell in love with that weakling!" Read latest chapters at My Virtual Library Empire

    The accusation struck Helen like an unexpected blow, but she quickly recovered, her composure unshaken. She didn''t understand why he was dragging Heiron into this—what purpose it served—but her lips curved into a soft, defiant smile.

    "Yes," she said simply, her tone laced with quiet strength. "I loved him."

    Paris''s grip tightened further, his fingers like iron bands around her arm. His face twisted with fury as he shouted, "He''s dead! He died a dog''s death on the battlefield! And now I''m here for you, Helen. I''m the one who''s alive! I''m the one who''s here!"

    Before Helen could respond, a sharp, mocking laugh broke the tense silence. Paris turned sharply toward Clytemnestra, who stood to the side with her arms crossed, her laughter cutting through his outburst like a blade.

    "What''s so funny?" he snarled, his eyes narrowing at her.

    "Nothing," Clytemnestra replied, smirking as she shook her head. "It''s just... if Heiron were still alive and standing here before you, you wouldn''t dare act so bold. You wouldn''t even try."

    Her words sliced through Paris''s bravado, leaving him momentarily speechless. His face flushed with anger and embarrassment.

    "What?!" he barked, his voice rising in disbelief and indignation.

    "She''s right," Helen said, her voice soft but firm, her gaze unwavering. "You could never compare to the man Heiron was."

    With that, she tore her arm free from his grasp, her movements resolute and final. Without sparing him another glance, she turned and walked away, her head held high.

    Paris stood frozen, his hands clenched into trembling fists at his sides. His nails dug into his palms as he watched her retreating figure, every fiber of his being brimming with frustration and fury.