No horns at dawn.
Lysander stood on the northern wall. Paris beside him. Both waited for the sound that always came.
It didn't come.
"Second day," Paris said.
"I know."
The Greek camp looked the same as yesterday. Fires. Tents. Men moving between them. No formation. No ladders being carried.
Paris squinted at the horse lines. "There's something back there."
"Where."
"Behind the horses. Shapes. Under cloth."
Lysander looked. He could see them too — long shapes, low to the ground, covered in canvas. Twelve of them, spaced in two rows.
"Supply carts," he said.
"That big?"
"Water tanks, maybe. Or grain wagons. They're not attacking anything. They're storing something." He looked away from them. "If they wanted to hide a weapon, they wouldn't leave it in plain sight."
Paris kept looking at the shapes for another moment. Then he shrugged and looked back at the empty beach.
Lysander didn't look again.
Hecuba sat in the courtyard with her weaving.
