The future does not come to Cassandra in visions, but in sound: the sands of time trickle through a narrow opening and she glimpses how few will survive the conflict that none believe is coming. As time goes on, it hisses steadily with the mounting pressure of slight piled on regret piled on misunderstanding, dragging it out, but she learns how to let it fade to the background so she can live her life.

When she wakes screaming with a tongue scorched by the grains steaming in the midday sun, she knows for certain that before the decade is out, Troy will burn and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it.