Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I raise the sword again, feeling the strain in my arms, the cold metal slipping slightly in my grip. I swing it, missing my mark by a hand’s breadth, and the clang of the blade striking the floor echoes through the empty courtyard. It’s a sound that stings in the silence, a reminder that I’m still not good enough. Not yet.

The sweat drips down my face, and my legs ache with the effort, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. Because there’s always this gnawing voice in my head—the voice that tells me I’m supposed to be better than this. I’m supposed to be strong. I’m supposed to be a warrior. The son of Odysseus.

The sword feels too heavy in my hands, not from the weight of it, but from everything it represents. I try again, swinging it in a wide arc, but the blow goes wide, the tip of the blade slicing through the air and missing the target by a mile. It’s not the first time I’ve failed like this. And I know it won’t be the last.

I lower the sword and let out a long breath, my chest tight with frustration. Why is this so hard? Why can’t I get it right?

As I stand there, I’m suddenly drawn into the memories of my childhood, the years before I even knew how to wield a sword properly. I was always told that I’d grow into something great, that one day I’d be a hero like my father. But I never had him there to show me the way. I never had the man they all spoke of.

I didn’t even know his face.

Odysseus.

The name that hung over me, even when I was just a baby. I never had a father to show me how to stand tall or how to wield a weapon with skill. He went off to war when I was barely an infant, and that was the last time I saw him. All I had were the stories. Stories that seemed to grow larger with every telling.

But I was supposed to be like him, wasn’t I? That’s what everyone expected. That’s what the people of Ithaca whispered behind my back. “That’s the son of Odysseus,” they’d say, their voices full of awe—or sometimes doubt, I couldn’t tell the difference. His name was so big, so loud, it reverberated through the halls of our home, through the very walls of the island. His legacy was a shadow I couldn’t escape, even when I was too young to understand it.

I never had a father figure—just the shadow of one. My mother, Penelope, tried her best to fill the void. She raised me with love, and I felt it every day. But there was always something missing. A part of me I couldn’t explain. I was raised by a woman who was a widow before she ever even had a chance to be a wife, a woman who had been left behind, just as I had. She loved me fiercely, but there was only so much she could do to prepare me for a world that expected me to be a king, a warrior, a hero.

I remember the first time I tried to lift a sword. I must have been seven or eight, and I’d snuck away from the house, determined to learn how to fight. I’d seen the older men training in the fields outside the palace, and I wanted to be like them. I wanted to know how to defend myself, how to be strong.

But I wasn’t strong then. Not like I thought I should be.

I could barely lift the sword. It was heavy in my hands, clumsy against my small body. I remember the way it felt like it was going to slip out of my grip, and the way I stumbled as I tried to swing it. I had no training, no guidance. Just the urge to be something more, to be someone worthy of the name I carried.

And so I kept sneaking out. Each time, I was a little more determined. My arms would shake with the effort, and my hands would blister and bleed from the friction, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t stop. I wasn’t going to be just another boy with a father’s name. I wanted to be him, in some way. I wanted to feel that same strength, the same certainty. I wanted to prove that I could be the man everyone expected me to be.

But there were always the whispers. The stories of his great deeds—how he tricked the Trojans, how he led the Greeks to victory. There was no room for failure in those stories. No room for hesitation. No room for doubt.

And when I was younger, I thought that maybe if I could just fight enough, train enough, that I could step into his shoes. That one day, I could wear that crown, lead the men of Ithaca, and live up to the legacy of Odysseus. But the older I got, the more I realized that the weight of that name was too much for one person to bear alone.

Still, I kept pushing. I kept swinging the sword, day after day, hoping for a moment when it would finally click. When I’d feel the power, the strength that everyone else seemed to see in me, even though I wasn’t sure it was in me at all.

And as I grew older, the whispers became louder, the pressure heavier. “When will you take your place as the king?” they’d ask. They’d look at me with a mix of pity and expectation. And I hated it. I hated that everyone looked at me and saw only his son, not me.

I could hear the way people talked about my father like he was some untouchable god. They told me stories of him, but I couldn’t relate to any of them. I couldn’t touch those stories. They were his, not mine. His victories, his cunning, his war. And I was just a boy, a son who never knew him.

But still, I tried. I kept trying to swing the sword, to fight like he would, even though I knew deep down that I’d never be him. That I couldn’t be him. And I began to realize something, something that burned deep in my chest: No matter how much I tried, no matter how hard I fought, I would always be in the shadow of Odysseus.

Maybe it was time to stop trying to be someone else. But in that moment, I didn’t know what else there was.

I raised the sword once again, this time aiming for the trunk of a thick oak tree that stood in the courtyard. The wind rustled through its branches, and for a moment, I felt something like resolve settle in my chest. This time, I was going to do it. I was going to prove to myself, if no one else, that I could strike with precision, that I could wield this sword like it was meant to be wielded. The stories of my father, of his skill, rushed through my mind, pushing me forward.

I swung the blade hard, the edge biting into the bark. It was a clean strike, and I felt a rush of satisfaction as the blade cleaved a deep gash into the tree. The branch groaned, and the sharp snap of wood echoed in the air before the severed piece fell to the ground with a thud.

I stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, looking at the damage I’d done. I had done it. I sliced through the wood.

But before I could savor the victory, a familiar voice cut through the air.

“Telemachus, what are you doing?”

I whipped around, my heart sinking as I saw my mother standing at the doorway, her arms crossed, her brow furrowed with that look—the one that always made me feel like I’d done something wrong, even when I was sure I hadn’t.

I tried to stand taller, shifting the sword to my side and grinning, though it felt forced. “Look, Mom! I did it! I sliced through the tree. Just like—” I stopped myself before I could finish the sentence. “Like how it’s supposed to be done.”

Mom didn’t flinch, didn’t show any sign of approval. She just stared at the tree for a moment, the broken branch lying at my feet. Then she glanced back at me, her voice low but firm.

“Did you finish your studies?”

I blinked. “Studies? Mom, I—”

“Did you?” she repeated, cutting me off, her voice sharper this time.

I sighed, lowering the sword to the ground with a heavy clink. “Mom,” I groaned, dragging out the word like it could somehow make her understand how important this was to me.

“There’s nothing you will achieve by flinging that sword around, Telemachus,” she said, her tone unwavering. “True power, real strength, comes from the brain, not from your muscles. Do you understand me?”

I stood there for a moment, biting back the urge to snap at her. I knew what she was trying to do, but it never felt fair. She never understood why I had to be like this—why I had to prove myself. She had never been burdened by the shadow of a father like mine. Never been told that her son had to live up to some impossible ideal.

“Listen, mom,” I said slowly, feeling the words stumble from my mouth, “I am trying. I just... I want to be more than just the guy people talk about when they mention my father.”

Penelope softened for a moment, but only for a second. She shook her head, her gaze piercing. “You don’t need to be your father. You need to be yourself. If you want to be truly great, if you want to make a difference, it will be with your mind, not your sword.”

I crossed my arms, staring at the sword lying at my feet. “And what do you want me to do, huh? Sit and read all day? Be... weak?”

Her eyes flashed, and the air seemed to grow tense between us. “Did you pray to Athena today?” she asked suddenly, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife.

I blinked, thrown off by the question. “Pray for what?” I asked, my tone dripping with disbelief. “To be a weak-ass person?” I let the words hang in the air, my frustration bleeding through.

Penelope’s face tightened, her lips pressing into a thin line. She took a step forward, her eyes burning with a fierce intensity I’d seen before when she was truly angry. “You will pray, Telemachus. You will do as I say. Go and pray to Athena right now. If you truly want to be strong, if you want to be more than just a boy swinging a sword, you need her guidance. Now.”

I froze for a moment, caught off guard by her sudden anger. This wasn’t like the usual lectures. This was something different. Something that told me she meant it.

“But—”

“No buts!” she snapped. “Go. Now. Pray.”

I stood there, conflicted, my chest heavy with frustration. But there was something in her voice that left no room for argument. So, I exhaled sharply and turned away, grumbling under my breath as I walked toward the temple. “Fine, fine. I’ll pray.”

But even as I muttered the words, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was so much more to this than just the ritual. There was something else she wanted me to understand. Something I wasn’t quite ready for yet.

But I’d go. I’d pray. Because that’s what she wanted.

And maybe—just maybe—I’d find whatever it was that she thought I was missing.

I walked into the small temple, the weight of my frustration sitting heavy on my chest. Athena’s temple, my father’s goddess. My mother’s goddess. And, apparently, the goddess to pray to if I wanted to understand anything about strength, or wisdom, or—whatever the hell else I was supposed to be learning.

The cool air inside the temple didn’t help. It felt like everything was frozen, as though I was stepping into a place I didn’t belong. The marble pillars loomed around me, cold and unfeeling, and the altar sat untouched, offering no comfort.

I glanced at the offerings of wine and honey, just like my mother had taught me. The ritual wasn’t new, but it still felt... hollow. And here I was again, doing something I didn’t believe in. Just like every angsty teen who hated the world, I dragged myself through the motions, hoping that maybe, just maybe, something would click.

I knelt before the altar, wiping my sweaty palms on my pants. What was I supposed to say? How was I supposed to pray for the strength to be like my father when I had never even met the man? What was I supposed to ask Athena?

My anger simmered, but beneath it, there was something deeper, something raw. I wasn’t just frustrated. I was tired. Tired of feeling like I was drowning in this legacy I didn’t choose, tired of my mother's expectations, tired of the weight of my father’s absence.

I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on me, and then I spoke, my voice rough and hesitant at first.

“Athena,” I said, my voice almost a whisper in the emptiness. “I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t even know if you’re listening, but... I need to say it, alright? I just—" I stopped myself for a moment, shaking my head. "I just need someone to hear it."

I looked up at the statue of Athena, her calm, unblinking eyes staring back at me. “I don’t know if you can help me. I don’t know if you’re even... real. But my mom, she believes in you. She believes that you can help me become the person I’m supposed to be. And I don’t... I don’t know what that is, Athena. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.”

I took another shaky breath, fighting the lump in my throat. “I don’t want to end up like him. I don’t want to be some hero, some legend. I just want to protect her. I just want to make sure she’s safe. From them. From the suitors. They’re all over her, and she’s... she’s so tired of them. And I—I’m just supposed to sit by and watch?”

I choked on the words, and my eyes burned. “I’m supposed to be this man—the son of Odysseus—and they keep telling me I have to be like him. But I don’t know how. I don’t even know who I am yet. I’m just a kid, Athena. I don’t have the answers. I don’t know how to fight this war that’s happening in my house, in my life. I’m supposed to protect my mother, but what am I supposed to do? They want her. They want to tear her apart, and I—I just want to stop them. I just want them to leave her alone.”

I let out a breath, one that was more like a sob, but I swallowed it down. My hands were shaking now. I was angry, sure, but I was scared too. Scared of failing her. Scared of failing everyone.

“Athena,” I whispered, my voice cracking, “I need your strength. I need something. I need a sign. I need to know that if I step up, if I take this sword, if I fight—if I fight for my mother and for my home—that it won’t be for nothing. I need to know that I’m not just some stupid kid pretending to be a hero.”

I stared at the statue again, my eyes searching for something, anything. I wanted to feel something. I wanted to know I wasn’t alone in this. I wanted to feel like I wasn’t just going through the motions, like I wasn’t just pretending to be something I wasn’t.

But there was nothing.

Nothing at all.

I sighed, the weight of everything crashing down on me again. “I’m not him, Athena. I’m not Odysseus. I don’t know if I can ever be that. But I need to protect her. I need to protect her. She deserves better than this. She doesn’t deserve to be surrounded by men who only want her for her throne, who only want her to be their prize.”

My fists tightened, and I felt the frustration, the helplessness rising in me again. “I don’t know what you expect from me, but... I can’t just stand here and watch her be torn apart. I won’t. I’ll do anything. I’ll fight anyone. Just... give me something. A sign. Something to show me I’m doing the right thing. Tell me, Athena, is this even the right thing to do? Or am I just... wasting my time?”

I stood there, waiting. Waiting for something to change. For the air to shift, for a voice to come out of the silence and give me an answer.

But of course, there was nothing.

The stillness in the temple was suffocating. I kicked the stone at my feet, and it skittered across the floor, hitting the base of a pillar with a dull thud.

“Yeah, of course. Nothing. No response. No sign. I shouldn’t have expected anything.” My voice was thick with frustration, the bitter words slipping out before I could stop them.

I turned on my heel, the anger boiling inside me. “Thanks, Athena. Really. For nothing.”

I walked out of the temple, my feet heavy with each step, my mind clouded with anger and confusion.

What was the point? What was I even supposed to do?

I ran my fingers over the hilt of the sword I had been trying to master earlier. The air felt suffocating, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t escape the shadow of a man I’d never met, but whose ghost loomed over every decision I made. My father. Odysseus. The legendary hero everyone talked about. The man who fought monsters, sailed seas, and left me in this damn bedroom, buried beneath his stories.

Living in this world he left behind... I dreamt of fighting monsters. Real ones. The kind my father had to face. But no. I was stuck in Ithaca, playing at being a hero in a world that didn’t care. The battles I wanted to fight? They were only in my head, painted on the walls of this place like some kind of sad myth.

I wish I could—really, I did—become the man they wanted me to be. Maybe then I’d feel like I mattered, like I could make a difference, like I could bring some light into this dark world. But all I had were the remnants of his tales. They were my inheritance, my legacy. But they weren’t mine to claim. They didn’t belong to me. I had no clue who my father was, not really. I was just stuck with his stories. And they felt like a cage, keeping me locked in a world that couldn’t understand me.

But what if I could find him? What if he was out there, still fighting, still alive, and I just... couldn’t see it?

"Somebody tell me! Come and give me a sign! The hell am I supposed to do?!"

I felt stupid even saying it out loud. There was no sign. Athena didn’t answer my prayers. No gods ever did. If there were monsters out there, I wasn’t the one meant to fight them. I wasn’t the son of Odysseus. I was just some scared kid who couldn’t even hold a sword right.

Still, I imagined it.

"Give me sirens and a cyclops! Give me giants and a hydra! I'll fight the harpies, and chimeras, the Minotaur... even Cerberus! Damn, I just want to be legendary!"

I’d fight them. If it meant something. If it meant I could be like him. If it meant I could finally be someone worth remembering.

But no.

Noghing.

Not yet.

Not in this world full of empty promises and broken heroes.

Only me—the boy who wanted to be more than what he was.

Who wanted to be legendary.

Chapter Text

The halls of the palace were alive with drunken laughter and the clatter of overturned goblets. The suitors were celebrating something—probably nothing. Probably just another excuse to gorge themselves on our food and parade their entitlement through our home.

I kept my head down as I moved toward my mother’s chambers, my hands clenched into fists. The stench of wine and overindulgence lingered in the air, and my heart pounded as I stepped past the open doors to the main hall. I didn’t want them to see me.

Then—

"Oi, look who it is!"

I turned just in time to see one of them, a bloated excuse for a man, grinning at me from across the room. The others turned, their attention shifting like vultures sensing a fresh corpse.

I bolted.

"Where do you think you’re going, little prince?"

Footsteps. Heavy, clumsy. I ran faster, nearly slipping on the polished floor as I reached my mother’s door and shoved it open. As soon as I was inside, I slammed it shut and threw the lock into place.

A fist hit the door behind me. Laughter echoed down the hallway.

"One of these days, Telemachus, you won’t be able to run!"

Their voices faded as they lost interest. I stood there, my breath shallow, my hands trembling.

Then I turned.

The chamber was dimly lit, only a few oil lamps casting a golden glow over the large loom in the center. My mother sat before it, weaving in silence. She hadn’t even looked up.

Thread over thread. A tapestry that would never be finished.

I swallowed. "Mother, when is this going to stop?"

She didn’t answer.

I stepped closer, voice rising. "They are everywhere. They have taken over our home, our food, our lives. How much longer are we supposed to endure this?"

"Leave it, Telemachus," she said, her voice cool and distant. "You have no business in this."

I stared at her. "No business?" My hands curled at my sides. "I am your son. And this is my home. How do I not have any business in this?"

Still, she wove. Thread. Pull. Repeat. A movement so practiced it might as well have been breathing.

"You are just a boy," she said. "This is beyond you."

I laughed. A short, bitter sound. "Beyond me? It’s my life. It’s your life. And you sit here like none of it matters!"

Silence.

Thread. Pull. Repeat.

Something snapped inside me.

I grabbed the knife from my belt and in one swift motion, slashed through the delicate threads of her work. The unfinished tapestry unraveled before us. The shroud she had spent so long pretending to weave—gone in a single desperate moment.

She gasped. And then she moved.

She was on her feet, towering over me, her face suddenly alive with fury.

"How dare you?" Her voice was sharp, sharper than I’d ever heard it.

I was breathing too fast. My chest ached. Tears blurred my vision, but I refused to let them fall.

"Say something!" I yelled. "Say anything that isn’t empty, that isn’t cold, that isn’t just some lifeless whisper to keep me in my place!"

She looked at me, and for the first time in years, I saw something real in her expression. Anger. Grief.

And then—

A crash.

The door rattled behind me as fists slammed against it. The laughter was gone. Now it was shouting.

"Penelope!"

"Open the door!"

"Enough hiding!"

I turned, pressing my back against the wood as if my weight alone could keep them out.

"Mother," I whispered, my voice hoarse. "They will never leave us alone."

"Telemachus, move."

I pressed my back harder against the door. "No."

"Move."

I shook my head, gripping the handle as if my life depended on it. Because maybe it did. Because maybe if I just held it shut, they would disappear. Because maybe if I just held on a little longer, things would change.

Then her voice came, sharp and cutting through the air like a blade: "I said move!"

The force of it startled me. I stumbled back, and before I could react, she was at the door, yanking it open.

The suitors stood there, their faces flushed with anger and wine, fists still raised from pounding on the wood. The moment they saw her, a hush fell over them.

Mom lifted her chin, her voice cold as steel. "How dare you?"

Some of them had the decency to look uncomfortable. Most did not.

"I told you," she continued, her tone unyielding, "I will choose a husband when my work is finished. Until then, you will wait."

A man near the front scoffed. Eurymachus. Of course. "We know that’s a lie."

She stilled.

"We heard your maids whispering," he continued, grinning. "Every night, you unthread the work you’ve done during the day. A clever trick, my queen, but the game is over."

Mom's breath caught so softly that only I noticed. She took a step forward, trying to maintain her composure. "That’s not true," she said. Calm. Even. But I could see the way her fingers trembled at her sides.

Eurymachus tilted his head, watching her, and I knew. He was going to strike her.

I didn’t think. I moved.

My foot struck his chest, sending him stumbling back into the others. A few men cursed as they were shoved aside, but I didn’t stop to watch the damage.

I slammed the door shut and turned, yanking an old ceremonial sword from the wall—a blade meant for decoration, dull with time but still heavy enough to serve a purpose. I jammed it through the handles, barring them in.

Penelope was breathing fast. "Telemachus," she whispered, her voice cracking, "what have you done?"

I turned to her, gripping her shoulders. "Mother, you can’t keep doing this. You can’t hold them off forever. They will either kill me or force you into marriage in even worse ways."

She flinched at the word. I swallowed the lump in my throat.

"You know I’m not ready to fight them," I said. "But I will be… soon."

A voice boomed from the other side of the door.

"Open up, you little punk! Come and fight!"

I exhaled sharply, turning my head. The banging grew louder. The sword in the handles shook. It wouldn’t hold them for long.

I looked around the room.

There—a window.

I ran.

"Telemachus—no!"

I hoisted myself onto the ledge, feeling the rush of cold air against my skin.

"Telemachus, wait!"

I jumped.

The wind howled in my ears as I tumbled, hitting a tree before crashing onto the ground below. Pain exploded through my body, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.

I got to my feet and ran.

I thought I was free. I thought I’d escaped. My legs were pumping, my breath sharp and desperate as I ran through the trees, the suitors' shouts fading behind me. I could almost taste the air of freedom, feel the wind pushing against my chest as if it was taking me away from everything. But then, just as I turned a corner, I collided with something hard. I stumbled back, hitting the ground with a thud.

I looked up and froze. Antinous. Of course. The worst one of them all.

"Well, well, well," he sneered, stepping closer. "Look who thinks he’s a hero. So, my boy, when's your tramp of a mother going to choose a new husband?"

I clenched my fists, standing up slowly, my heart pounding. "Don’t you dare call my mother a tramp," I spat, my voice trembling with fury.

He just laughed, that cruel, mocking laugh that made my blood boil. "I just did. What are you going to do about it, champ?"

The words burned in my chest, and before I could think, my fists were flying. He dodged easily, grinning like he knew he had the upper hand.

"Fight, little wolf," Antinous taunted, his voice low and mocking. "Wanna entertain me? Come on! Let’s see how you take this."

His fist swung at my face, and I barely managed to block it. But then, just as I was about to strike back, his knee drove into my stomach, knocking the wind out of me. I gasped for air, feeling the sting of my ribs, but I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t let him win.

"Strike, little wolf," he grinned again, pushing me back as I stumbled. "Wanna be a man? Then fight!"

I wanted to fight. I wanted to make him pay for everything he’d said about my mother. I wanted to be strong, to be a man. But I was too slow, too weak.

I was so lost in the fury and the panic that I didn’t hear the soft voice at first. Then it pierced through the fog of everything else, sharp and clear: "Need some help?"

I froze, the voice echoing in my mind, but it wasn’t just a thought. It was real, tangible.

My head snapped up, and that’s when I saw her.

Athena.

Not in my mind, not as some faint whisper—she stood before me, her presence solid and undeniable, like she had always been there, watching over me. The goddess herself.

"What’s going on here?" I blinked, still trying to process her sudden appearance.

She didn’t answer right away, instead, she narrowed her eyes at Antinous, her gaze cold and calculating. "Is your plan to stand around?" she asked, her voice filled with authority. "Because I suggest you fight back."

"I don't know how. How could I even fight back? I barely knew how to defend myself!"

"Uppercut him, now!" Athena ordered, and before I even realized what I was doing, my arm shot up. My fist slammed into Antinous’s jaw with a force I didn’t know I was capable of. His head jerked back, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

"Whoa, how did I do that?" I whispered to myself, still reeling from the sudden surge of power. "Is time now moving slow?"

"No," Athena’s voice came, firm and steady. "I just made your thoughts quick."

I blinked, feeling a rush of clarity wash over me. The world was moving at normal speed again, but I felt faster, stronger. I could think clearly, I could focus.

"Now, let’s try this again," Athena’s voice rang out. "I’ve no respect for bullies, or those who impose their will. I’ve seen plenty enough to truly understand this kind of filth. Let’s teach this dog a lesson in front of all his kind!"

I wasn’t just some frightened boy anymore. I felt like something else—something that had been hidden deep within me, waiting for this moment. I swung again, and this time, my punch landed square on his chest, knocking him back. His grin faltered, and I saw the rage build in him, but there was fear too. He wasn’t expecting this.

"Strike! Come on, strike!" Athena’s voice was like a drumbeat in my ears, pushing me forward. "Don’t go down without a fight!"

I didn’t know what I was doing, but I kept going. I felt like I could keep fighting forever, like the goddess’s strength was flowing through me. I was no longer just a boy. I was something more.

But then Antinous roared, his fists swinging like a hammer. One of them caught me in the ribs, and I felt myself flying back, pain shooting through me. My body hit the ground hard, and I gasped for air, but I couldn’t stop. I had to keep fighting.

"Go back and cry in your corner," Antinous sneered as I struggled to stand. "Make sure your mother hears. And when you see her, tell her that if she won’t choose a man to adorn her, we’ll give you all something to cry for."

I could feel the anger rising inside me again, but the pain... it was overwhelming. I struggled to breathe, to get up, to move, but I was starting to lose myself. I couldn’t win this fight, not like this. I wasn’t strong enough, and I felt a sense of hopelessness trying to swallow me whole.

I struggled to push myself up, my body screaming in protest. Antinous was standing over me, his shadow stretching long in the dust. My ears were ringing from the last hit, and my breath came in ragged gasps. Athena had spoken to me, given me strength, but now, as I wavered between standing and falling, another voice reached me.

It was different from hers—softer, quieter, but steady, slipping into my mind like a whisper through the wind. It wasn’t some divine command like Athena’s had been. It was… familiar. Something about it sent a shiver down my spine, like I’d heard it a thousand times before but couldn’t place where.

"Get up, Telemachus."

It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a demand. It was something in between—calm, assured, as though the speaker knew I would get up, like it was a fact of the world, not a question.

I blinked, confused, my body still aching. "Who—?"

"Not now. Roll to the left. Now."

I hesitated for half a breath, then obeyed, and just as I moved, Antinous’s foot came crashing down on the spot where my ribs had been seconds before. If I had stayed still, it would have broken something.

I gasped, my heart pounding. "What—?"

"Move, Telemachus. Stand up before he regains balance. Strike his knee—left knee, not the right. He favors it."

That voice. That voice. It made something in my chest tighten. It wasn’t Athena, but it wasn’t a stranger, either. It felt like something old, something buried deep in my memory. Like a song I had known as a child but forgotten until someone hummed the first few notes.

I didn’t have time to dwell on it. My body moved almost on its own, following the voice’s instructions. I surged upward, planting my feet on the ground, and swung my fist toward Antinous’s left knee.

He wasn’t expecting it. My knuckles slammed into the joint, and he let out a curse, stumbling back as his leg buckled slightly. The crowd of suitors watching let out sharp murmurs of surprise. I had actually landed a hit.

"Good. Now step back. He’s angry. Let him make a mistake."

I clenched my jaw. "Who are you?" I whispered under my breath.

No answer.

Antinous snarled, his face twisting in rage. "You little—" He lunged at me, faster than I expected.

"Step to the right. Keep your guard up."

I listened without thinking, shifting my weight just in time to avoid his grip. He stumbled forward, off balance.

"Now kick his side. Hard."

I didn’t hesitate. My foot slammed into his ribs, sending him sprawling onto the ground with a heavy thud. The suitors watching let out a collective gasp, and for a moment, everything felt still. My chest was heaving, my fists clenched so tightly they ached, but I had done it. I had actually done it.

Antinous groaned, pushing himself up, and I could see the murder in his eyes. He was furious. Humiliated. Dangerous.

"You can’t win this fight, Telemachus."

The voice was softer now, almost regretful. I felt my stomach twist.

"Get out of here. Now."

I wanted to argue, but deep down, I knew the voice was right. Antinous was stronger, more experienced. The only reason I had gotten those hits in was because of that voice guiding me. But I wouldn’t be able to dodge forever.

I turned on my heel and ran.

"Get back here, you coward!" Antinous roared, but I didn’t stop. I shoved past stunned onlookers, my pulse hammering in my ears.

"Behind you. The wall. Feel for the loose stone near your right hand."

I didn't have time to question it. I spun around, my fingers scraping desperately against the rough stone of the palace corridor. Loose stone? There was nothing—no, wait. There. A small shift beneath my fingertips. It wobbled slightly under pressure.

I pushed.

The stone gave way. A narrow crack split open in the wall, revealing darkness beyond.

"Go! Now!"

I threw one last glance over my shoulder. Antinous had recovered, his eyes burning with fury. He took a step forward, fists clenched.

I didn’t wait.

I slipped through the opening, dragging the stone back into place just as I heard Antinous’s furious shout. The moment the passage shut, the noise of the hallways—jeering voices, heavy footsteps—vanished, swallowed by the cold silence of the tunnel.

I stood there, breathless. The air was damp and still, thick with the scent of dust and age. It was impossibly dark, my fingers barely brushing the uneven walls as I moved forward.

"Keep going," the voice murmured.

I swallowed hard.

"I don’t know where this leads," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Your father did."

I froze. My breath hitched.

A shiver ran down my spine. My father. The man I had spent my whole life searching for, wondering about, hearing stories of but never truly knowing.

I clenched my jaw. "Who are you?" I asked again, my voice barely steady.

No answer.

Just silence.

I took a deep breath and forced myself forward. Step by step, guided only by instinct—and the memory of a voice that felt too familiar to be a stranger’s.

The hidden passage twisted and turned, and I had to feel my way along the damp walls, my breath ragged from the fight. The voice—whoever it belonged to—had gone silent, leaving me alone with my thoughts. My body ached, my knuckles raw from where I’d struck Antinous, and my ribs throbbed where he'd landed his own blows. But I was alive.

After what felt like an eternity, the passage sloped upward, and I found another loose stone. I pushed it aside, stepping cautiously into familiar space—my room.

I nearly collapsed against the door as I shut it behind me, locking it with trembling fingers. My breathing was shallow, my pulse still racing. The dim light of the torches flickered, casting long shadows over my scattered belongings. It was the only place in the palace that felt like mine, yet even here, I never truly felt safe.

I staggered toward the basin of water near my bedside and splashed some onto my face, hissing when the cool liquid touched the cut on my cheek. My reflection in the polished bronze mirror was a mess—hair disheveled, dirt smudged across my jaw, blood trailing from a split lip. I barely recognized myself.

I peeled off my tunic, wincing as the fabric dragged over bruises that were already forming. My ribs ached where Antinous had struck me, and the knuckles of my right hand were scraped raw. I reached for a cloth and dipped it into the water, pressing it gently to my wounds. The sting grounded me, forcing me to focus on something real instead of the storm of emotions raging in my chest.

What had just happened?

Antinous. The suitors. My mother. Athena. The voice.

Everything felt like a blur.

I clenched my fists, feeling the ache of my bruised knuckles. I had fought back today—really fought back. But I knew the truth: if Athena hadn’t intervened, I would have lost.

I let out a slow breath, my reflection staring back at me with tired, determined eyes.

"I will be ready next time."

I had to be.

As I pressed the damp cloth against my bruises, a familiar presence filled the room. The air shifted—thicker, charged, something beyond human. I turned sharply, already knowing who it was.

Athena stood near the window, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. Her gaze swept over me, taking in the blood, the torn tunic, the exhaustion.

"No, you won’t," she said simply.

I blinked, still catching my breath. "What?"

"You said you’d be ready next time," she clarified. "But you won’t. Not yet."

Frustration flared in my chest. "Then tell me, Athena, why did you come to my aid?"

She exhaled, her eyes briefly unfocused, as if looking at something long gone. "I had a friend before," she said, voice softer than I’d ever heard it. "He was a lot like you. Stubborn, reckless, full of heart. I fought by his side. Guided him through war. But..." She hesitated. "He had his demons, too."

A strange sadness crept into her voice, something ancient and heavy. "Then we grew apart. He lost himself. His light went dark." She looked at me then, sharp and searching. "And I thought... maybe if I had made a different call. Maybe if I hadn’t missed the signs. Maybe he’d be fine. Maybe we’d both be fine."

I swallowed, feeling the weight of her words settle into my bones. She wasn’t just talking about me.

"And now you think helping me will fix that?"

She didn’t answer right away. Then, finally, she said, "Maybe if I help another soul... Maybe if I help you reach your what ypu want... Life could be bright again... and I could sleep at night."

I let out a slow breath, my head spinning from everything that had happened. From everything she was saying.

"Athena, I don’t know who your friend was. I don’t know what he was like." I met her gaze, steady now. "But this... this day with you? It’s been the best of my life."

Her brow lifted slightly. "You nearly got yourself killed."

"Yeah. And I didn’t," I countered. "I fought! I didn’t die! I’ve never felt strong before." I hesitated. "You’re my friend. I couldn't ask for more."

Her expression shifted—just barely—but I caught it.

"And so I think," I continued, "Maybe things don’t go as planned. Maybe it’s time you stop looking back and start looking ahead. I don’t think your friend would mind if you fought for someone else now."

She studied me for a long moment. Then, finally, she sighed. "You’re a good kid."

A small smile tugged at my lips. "Thanks." I shifted, wincing as I adjusted my position on the bed. "Athena... something else happened."

She raised a brow. "Oh? You mean besides nearly being beaten to death in the street?"

I shot her a tired glare. "I heard a voice."

That caught her attention. Her posture straightened slightly. "A voice?"

"Yeah. It came when I was running. It told me where to go, how to escape. It felt like..." I hesitated, then swallowed. "It felt like him."

Athena didn’t speak.

"My father," I clarified, my voice barely above a whisper. "It had to be him. Who else would know that passage? Who else would guide me?" I shook my head, rubbing my temples. "I mean, I’ve never heard him before, but it felt... familiar. Like I should know it."

Athena’s lips parted slightly, then pressed into a thin line. She exhaled slowly through her nose.

I frowned. "You know something."

She hesitated—just for a moment, just barely.

"Do I?" she said at last, her voice carefully neutral.

"You do," I insisted.

Athena held my gaze, and for a second, I thought she might tell me. But then she softened. Not in pity, but in something close to... sorrow.

"I think," she said slowly, "that sometimes, when we want something desperately enough, the world finds a way to answer."

That wasn’t what I was expecting. "What does that even mean?"

She tilted her head slightly. "Maybe it doesn’t matter who spoke. Maybe what matters is that you listened."

That answer should’ve frustrated me. It should’ve made me demand more. But something in the way she said it—something in her eyes—made me stop.

Because I suddenly got the feeling that whatever truth she was holding back... it wasn’t one I was ready to hear.

I clenched my fists, the ache in my bruised knuckles grounding me. "But you knew my father," I said, my voice quieter now, almost pleading. "Please, Athena. Was that him?"

She didn't answer right away. That hesitation again, just barely there, just enough for me to notice.

"Telemachus..." she started, but her voice was careful, measured, like she was choosing her words too precisely.

That wasn’t a yes.

I felt my chest tighten. "Tell me the truth," I demanded. "Is he out there? Was that him? Is he... alive?"

Athena held my gaze, and for the first time since she appeared, she looked—tired. Not worn down, not weak, but as if she was carrying something heavy, something she wasn’t sure she wanted to put down.

"I can't say," she admitted at last.

Anger flared in my chest. "Can't? Or won't?"

Her eyes flashed with something unreadable, and for a brief moment, I thought she might actually tell me. But then, just as quickly, the storm passed, and she was Athena again—untouchable, unreadable, standing above it all.

"You are on a path now, Telemachus," she said instead. "And there are some answers you must find on your own."

That was not what I wanted to hear.

I took a sharp breath, my jaw tightening. "So that's it? That's all you're going to give me?"

Athena didn't blink. "It's more than most receive."

I let out a hollow laugh, shaking my head. "Great. Just great."

She sighed then, and for a fleeting second, I saw something else in her expression—not just distance, not just careful neutrality, but... regret.

"If he is out there," she said, softer now, "you will find him."

It was the closest thing to reassurance I was going to get. It wasn't enough. It never would be. But for now...

For now, I had to take it.

Chapter Text

Sleep takes me quickly, pulling me under like the tide. The pain in my ribs fades, the bruises forgotten. My body is heavy, but my mind drifts, lighter than air, floating through golden light.

And then—warmth.

When I open my eyes, I am standing on an island bathed in the sun’s embrace. The sky is impossibly blue, stretching endlessly above me, the sea calm and infinite. The sand beneath my feet is warm, untouched. A breeze stirs the air, carrying the scent of salt and something sweet—figs ripening in the trees, the faintest trace of olive oil and honey.

I don’t know where I am.

I don’t care.

It feels safe here.

I take a step forward, then another. My breath is steady, my limbs light. The world is silent, still—until a sound rises through the air, delicate as birdsong.

A lyre.

The melody is faint at first, drifting through the air like sunlight on water. The tune is warm, familiar, pulling at something deep inside me. It’s not just music. It’s a memory. One I can’t quite reach.

I don’t think.

I run.

The trees thin, revealing a clearing bathed in golden light. And there—sitting on a smooth stone, fingers plucking at the strings of a lyre—there he is.

The man is young but not too young. Maybe in his thirties, maybe younger. His skin is sun-kissed, his dark curls catching the light. His eyes—gods, his eyes—are the color of honey, warm and bright and impossibly kind. He wears simple clothes, a loose tunic and sandals, nothing extravagant, but he carries himself like a prince. Like someone who belongs to the earth and the sea and the sky all at once.

He looks up.

He smiles.

“Good job, little wolf.”

My heart stops.

That voice.

I know that voice.

It’s the one from the fight. The voice that told me to stand, to fight. The voice that felt like home.

I don’t think. I don’t hesitate. I run to him.

“Father!”

The word rips from my throat, raw and desperate. I crash into him, my arms wrapping tightly around his torso. He lets out a soft breath of surprise but doesn’t pull away. His arms come up, strong and steady, holding me just as fiercely. One hand rests against the back of my head, fingers threading gently through my hair.

The warmth.

I remember this warmth.

I don’t know how, but I do.

A sob catches in my throat, and I bury my face against his shoulder. I don’t know why I’m crying, only that I can’t stop. That I don’t want to stop.

The man—my father, it has to be him—says nothing at first. He just holds me, his thumb brushing slow, comforting circles against my back. When he finally speaks, his voice is thick with something I can’t name.

“You’ve grown so much.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “I—I thought I’d never get to meet you.”

He exhales, a soft, shaking thing. “Look at you,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to study me. His eyes search my face, drinking me in like he’s memorizing me. His gaze is full of something deep and aching, something that makes my chest clench. “You’re beautiful. Strong.”

His hand comes up to cup my cheek, and his thumb brushes away the tears I didn’t even realize were still falling.

“I’ve missed you so much, little wolf.”

A choked laugh escapes me, wet and broken. “I missed you too,” I whisper. “Even though I—” I swallow hard. “Even though I don’t remember you.”

His expression softens, but there’s no sadness in it. No disappointment. If anything, he looks proud.

“That doesn’t matter,” he says, his voice steady. “You know me, even if you don’t remember how.”

I nod, blinking rapidly, trying to stop the fresh wave of tears threatening to spill.

“Do you know where you are?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No.”

His lips curve into something small, something knowing. “You’re where you need to be.”

Something in my chest tightens. I don’t know what that means, but I do know that I don’t want this to end. I don’t want to wake up.

“Are you really here?” I ask, my voice small. “Or is this just…a dream?”

His fingers comb gently through my hair, soothing, steady. “Does it matter?”

I frown. “Yes.”

He lets out a quiet chuckle. “Then what do you think?”

I swallow. My throat feels tight. “I think…” I hesitate, then grip onto him tighter, as if that will keep him from slipping away. “I think I want to believe it’s real.”

His arms tighten around me. “Then it is.”

For a long moment, we just sit there, father and son, holding onto each other in a world untouched by time.

Then, softly, he speaks.

“There is a place,” he murmurs, fingers still threading through my hair, a touch so gentle it makes my heart ache. “At the end of the west wing. The last door on the left.”

I don’t know why he’s telling me this. I don’t ask. I only listen, holding onto the words as tightly as I hold onto him.

“Have you been there?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

His lips curve into something soft, almost wistful. “Once.”

Something about the way he says it makes my chest ache.

I squeeze my eyes shut, leaning into his touch, trying to memorize the weight of his arms, the scent of sun-warmed skin and salt and home.

I never want to wake up.

I never want to let go.

But something shifts.

The light bends, tilting at an unnatural angle. The warmth starts to fade. The world around us trembles, unraveling at the edges.

Panic flares in my chest.

“No,” I gasp. My grip tightens. “No, not yet, please—”

His arms tighten around me one last time, strong and steady. His lips press against my hair.

“I’m always with you, little wolf.”

And then—

The world shatters.

I wake with a sharp inhale, my body jerking upright in bed. My breath comes fast, ragged, my chest heaving. The room is dark, the only light spilling in from the moon outside my window.

For a moment, I don’t move.

I can’t move.

The dream clings to me like salt on my skin. The weight of his arms, the warmth of his voice, the soft brush of his fingers through my hair—I can still feel it.

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to steady myself, but my hands come away damp.

I’m crying.

Even after waking, I can still hear his voice, whispering through my mind like the fading notes of a song.

"I’m always with you, little wolf."

I sit in the dark, my breath still uneven, my chest rising and falling too fast. The dream lingers in my bones, too real, too solid. My hands tremble as I drag them through my hair, trying to steady myself, but nothing about me feels steady right now.

Was that real?

I want it to be real.

The warmth of his arms, the sound of his voice—it was too much, too clear to be a dream. But he never once said who he was. He never said that he was my father.

I exhale sharply and press my palms into my eyes.

But he felt like my father.

Didn’t he?

I clutch the blanket tightly, my mind racing.

"You’ve grown so much."

"You’re beautiful. Strong."

"I’ve missed you so much, little wolf."

The words repeat in my head like echoes in a cave. They felt real. But the one thing I wanted—needed—to hear, he never said.

Why?

I swallow hard and think back to the fight, to the moment when I first heard that voice. It had felt right, like an invisible hand steadying me, pulling me back to my feet when I wanted to collapse.

But was that my father’s voice? Or was it just… something else?

Something clicks in my brain.

"There is a place. At the end of the west wing. The last door on the left."

I sit up straighter.

That part—that part wasn’t just warmth and comfort. It was specific. A detail, something I could find.

I throw the blankets off and stand too quickly, my ribs protesting with a sharp stab of pain. I wince, pressing a hand against my side, but I don’t stop moving.

If this was just a dream, then it won’t mean anything. The room won’t be there.

But if it is there…

If the door exists…

Then what?

I don’t know. But I have to find out.

I reach for the nearest tunic, pulling it over my head before making my way toward the door. The halls are quiet, the air cool against my skin. My heart pounds in my chest—not from fear, but from something else.

Anticipation.

I walk quickly, past familiar doorways, past the flickering torches lining the stone walls. The west wing isn’t a place I go often. It’s empty most of the time, a part of the palace that feels… forgotten.

I turn a corner. The hall stretches before me, dark and silent.

The last door on the left.

My steps slow.

There it is.

The door looks the same as all the others, simple wood, unmarked. But something about it feels different now. I swallow hard and reach out. My fingers hover over the handle for a moment before I finally grasp it and turn.

The door opens without resistance.

The room beyond is dimly lit by the moon spilling through a high window. At first glance, it looks unremarkable—just an old study, a wooden table, dust collecting on unused shelves. But then—

There.

Against the far wall, something glints in the moonlight.

A lyre.

My breath catches.

I stagger back, my heart hammering.

It’s his.

It has to be.

But why is it here?

I lift the lyre carefully, my fingers tracing the worn wood, the cool metal of the strings. It’s light—lighter than I expected—but sturdy. The kind of instrument that has been played for years, maybe decades.

And then, at the very bottom, barely visible in the dim moonlight, I see it.

A name.

Ἀπόλλων.

Apollo.

I blink. My breath stills.

Apollo?

What?

My father was trained by Athena. A warrior, a tactician, a man of battle. Not… this. Not a lyre, not poetry, not song.

I turn the instrument over in my hands, my mind racing. Was this even his? It had to be, right? It was here, in this room.

I exhale sharply, my grip tightening. None of this makes sense.

If this was Apollo’s, what was it doing here? Why did I see him—hear him—playing it in my dream?

Unless…

Unless the dream wasn’t real.

Unless the man I saw wasn’t—

I shake my head, as if that will force the thought away. I don’t want to think about that. I can’t.

Instead, I do the only thing that feels right.

I lift the lyre properly, positioning my fingers over the strings, trying to remember how he held it. The way his hands moved, the way the notes had drifted through the air like waves against the shore.

I close my eyes.

And I play.

The first note is hesitant, unsure. The second, a little steadier. I fumble with the next, but then—then my hands move on their own, chasing something just out of reach.

The melody.

The one from the island.

It’s not perfect, not yet, but the more I play, the more it starts to sound right. Like something half-remembered, buried deep in my bones.

And gods...

The sound.

It fills the room, soft but whole, humming through my skin. For a moment, I swear I feel the warmth of the dream again. The sun on my face, the sand beneath my feet, the weight of his hand against my shoulder.

My throat tightens.

I don’t know what this means. I don’t know if it was him. If this lyre is his.

But as the last note fades into the silence, I know one thing for certain.

I don’t want it to be a dream.

I look around the room, searching for more, anything that might explain this. My gaze lands on a chest near the table. I move quickly, kneeling beside it, lifting the lid.

Inside, wrapped in faded cloth, there’s a tunic. A belt. A pair of sandals. Everything is worn, old but well-kept. Someone cared for these things. Someone kept them here.

And then—

At the bottom of the chest, a small, polished bronze mirror.

I lift it carefully, tilting it toward the moonlight.

For a moment, nothing. Just my own reflection, wide-eyed, breathless.

But then the faintest outline of a face.

Not mine.

His.

I nearly drop the mirror. My breath comes fast, uneven. I grip the frame tightly, my fingers digging into the metal. The image is fading, already slipping away, but I saw it.

It was him.

My hands shake. I set the mirror down carefully, my pulse roaring in my ears.

This isn’t just a dream.

He was here.

Once.

And maybe, just maybe, he still is.

I squeeze my fingers around the frame, my knuckles going white.

“Show me again,” I whisper, my voice barely a breath.

Nothing happens.

I swallow hard, shifting my grip. “Please.”

The mirror remains still, lifeless, just a cold piece of metal and polished bronze.

Frustration rises in my chest. I tighten my jaw and glare at my own reflection. “You were there,” I hiss. “Why won’t you—”

A flicker.

My breath catches.

The air in the room shifts, the light bending in a way that makes my skin prickle. And then—

The reflection changes.

Not fully, just hints, outlines, a faint overlay against my own face. Dark curls, sun-bronzed skin, a shadow of a familiar smile. The same eyes, but softer. Warmer.

I stop breathing.

My fingers tremble as I watch the image solidify.

“Father?”

The moment the word leaves my lips, the reflection stills. It doesn’t disappear, but it doesn’t move either. It’s like staring at a statue carved from light, delicate and fragile, as if a single breath could shatter it.

Slowly, I reach out, my fingertips barely grazing the surface of the mirror.

The air hums.

And then, like a ripple across water, the image shifts again.

His lips part.

I think he’s speaking, but no sound reaches me. His mouth moves, forming words I can’t hear, his expression calm but urgent, like he’s trying to tell me something important.

“I—I can’t hear you,” I whisper, leaning closer. My own breath fogs the mirror’s surface, distorting the reflection for a second before clearing again.

He tries again. His lips move slower this time, more deliberately.

I watch carefully, trying to make sense of the silent shapes.

A name.

Not mine.

Not his.

Polites.

I flinch, nearly dropping the mirror.

My heart lurches violently in my chest, my mind reeling.

Πολίτης.

The name hangs in the air, unspoken yet deafening. It echoes in my head, pulsing behind my eyes like a second heartbeat. My hands tighten around the mirror as I try to steady myself.

Polites.

I know that name.

I should know that name.

But why?

I force my breathing to slow, pushing past the tightness in my chest. Think.

Polites. It means citizen. A man of the people. It was never a name of glory, never the kind that bards sang about. A name like that didn’t belong to kings or warriors. It was a name for a follower, not a leader.

So why does it feel like it belongs to him?

I shake my head. No. It doesn’t make sense. I would never remember some random soldier, no matter how loyal he was to my father. It has to be something else.

Maybe—maybe it was a name people used for him. My father.

Odysseus was clever like that, always slipping into disguises, always weaving new identities like a spider spinning its web. Maybe Polites was another mask, another trick. Maybe—maybe that’s why I feel like I know it, like it’s been buried inside me all along.

I hold onto that thought like a lifeline.

Because if I let it go—

If I accept that the man I saw, the voice I heard, the arms that held me—

If I accept that it wasn’t my father—

Then I don’t know what’s left.

The thought lingers, curling in my chest like smoke. I don’t let it settle. I push forward.

The mirror's weight is still solid in my hands, but I force myself to turn away, scanning the room—the one my father, or Polites, or whoever he was led me to.

My hands trail over a wooden chest pushed against the wall once again.

Clothes. Tunics, neatly folded. Fabric softened by time. And at the very top, a band of cloth, dark and well-worn. A headscarf.

I reach for it before I understand why.

The fabric is smooth beneath my fingers. Familiar, too familiar. My breath catches in my throat as my dream unspools in my mind—the man, sitting on the rock, the cloth wrapped around his head, curls peeking from beneath it, his honey-warm eyes watching me with something like love.

My hands move on their own. I strip from my torn, bloodied tunic and pull one from the chest. The fit is loose but comfortable. And then, carefully, I take the band of cloth, wrapping it around my head the way I saw him do it.

My fingers tremble as I tie the knot.

When I turn back to the mirror, my breath leaves me.

For a moment—just a flicker—the image does not match my movements.

The man is there. He is there. Sitting at the edge of the reflection like a ghost caught between worlds.

And then the image shudders. Fractures. And suddenly, it’s me.

But not just me.

Lines trace over my face, shifting and adjusting, like the mirror itself is connecting the dots before my mind can.

The shape of my jaw. The angle of my cheekbones. The way my eyes catch the light.

I stagger back.

I do know him.

Because I see him every time I look in a mirror.

Because I am him.

Not completely, not yet, but—

"Telemachus!" A voice cuts through the air, shattering the haze around me.

My mother.

My breath hitches. I snap back into myself, the weight of my own body suddenly too real, too heavy. The mirror still hums with something I don’t understand, but there’s no time to linger. The golden light filtering through the hidden room’s cracks has shifted—bright, steady.

I was here until the morning came?

I stagger back from the mirror, heart pounding. My fingers are stiff where they clutch the edge of the tunic—his tunic—where the bandana presses against my skin. I should take them off. I should go back to looking like myself.

But I don’t move.

Another call from the garden. "Telemachus! Where are you?"

I don’t think. I run.

My feet barely touch the stone as I push through the hidden corridor, bursting into the main halls, my pulse roaring in my ears. My body still aches from the night before, but I don’t slow down.

Sunlight spills through the open doors of the garden. My mother stands among the trees, her face turned away as she scans the courtyard. Her hands are clasped, tense, as if she woke with the same weight in her chest that I did.

"Mother!" I gasp, stumbling forward.

She turns.

And she freezes.

The breath she was about to take never comes. Her eyes lock onto me—not my face, not my body, but what I am wearing.

Her lips part, but no sound follows.

I slow to a stop, chest heaving, watching the color drain from her face.

"Mother?" My voice wavers.

Her hand lifts slightly, as if reaching for something just out of her grasp. Her throat moves in a swallow, her eyes burning into mine with something unreadable.

And then, barely above a whisper—

"Where did you get that?"

The tremble in her voice stops me cold.

I blink at her, my heart still hammering from the run, from the dream, from everything. My mother is not a woman easily shaken. She has faced years of uncertainty, of waiting, of men circling like vultures around her home. And yet—right now—she looks as though she has seen a ghost.

I meet her gaze again. "I..." I hesitate. I don’t even know what I was about to say. The truth? A lie? Some half-formed explanation that even I don’t understand?

Her hands clutch the folds of her dress, knuckles white. "Where did you get that?" She repeats, louder now.

I swallow. "There was.... there’s a room. At the end of the west wing, last door on the left. It was hidden, but I found it, and inside, there were—" I gesture to myself. "These."

Her reaction is immediate. She inhales sharply, eyes flickering with something between shock and recognition. She knows what I’m talking about.

"You were never meant to find that room," she murmurs, almost to herself.

A chill runs through me. "Why?"

She doesn’t answer. Her gaze drifts lower, to the bandana tied around my forehead, and something in her expression breaks. Her fingers twitch at her sides, as if she’s fighting the urge to reach for me.

I take a slow step forward. "Mother," I say carefully. "Tell me the truth. Whose clothes are these?"

Her eyes snap back to mine.

"You already know," she whispers.

My breath catches.

A gust of wind stirs the trees around us, rustling the leaves, but all I can hear is the pounding of my own heart.

I shake my head. "I don’t! I think I know, but I need you to say it." My voice is shaking now, frustration rising in my chest. "I need you to tell me."

She presses her lips together. For a long moment, she doesn’t speak. Then, slowly, almost painfully, she lifts a hand and presses it to my cheek. Her thumb brushes over my skin, just like his did.

Her voice is thick with emotion.

"You look just like him."

I glance down at myself—the tunic, the bandana tied over my head the way he wore it. I feel it against my skin, a second weight, a presence that lingers. The dream still clings to me, the memory of his hands resting on my shoulders, the warmth of his voice.

A flicker of something—fear, disbelief, pain—passes through her eyes.

The silence stretches between us, heavy and thick like a storm about to break.

And then, suddenly, she moves.

She crosses the space between us in an instant, her arms wrapping around me tightly, pulling me against her. My breath stutters as she holds me like she’s afraid I’ll vanish, like if she lets go, I’ll slip through her fingers and disappear into mist.

I don’t understand.

I don’t understand any of this.

"Mother?" I whisper, confused, but she doesn’t answer.

Instead, she buries her face against my shoulder, and I feel her breath tremble. Then, so softly I almost don’t catch it, she murmurs something against my tunic.

A name.

A prayer.

A whisper meant for someone else.

I don’t recognize the words. Not fully.

But I know that it wasn’t meant for me.

Chapter Text

My mother’s arms are still around me, her grip firm yet trembling. I don’t understand. I don’t understand why she’s looking at me like this, why she won’t let go.

“Mother?” My voice is barely above a whisper, but she hears me. Her fingers tighten against my back before she finally steps away.

Her eyes are red-rimmed, as if she’s been crying for hours, though I only just found her. Her gaze sweeps over me, lingering on the tunic, the bandana still wrapped around my head. It’s as if she’s seeing a ghost.

“What is it?” I ask. My heart is pounding. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

She inhales, slow and controlled, and shakes her head. “It’s nothing.”

Nothing.

No. I don’t believe her.

I step back, arms crossed, jaw tightening. “No, it’s not nothing. You—you froze when you saw me. You hugged me, like—” I cut myself off, suddenly breathless. Like she was afraid I’d disappear. Like she was mourning something.

I shake my head. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Telemachus—”

“No.” I raise a hand to stop whatever excuse she’s about to give me. “I saw him.” The words spill out before I can stop them. “I saw him, Mother.”

Her face pales.

I don’t give her a chance to interrupt. “I had a dream—I don’t even know if it was a dream—but I was there, I was on an island, and he was there. He played the lyre, and he called me ‘little wolf,’ and when I ran to him—” My throat closes. I force the words out. “I felt him, Mother. He held me like—like he knew me. Like he loved me. And he told me about this room, this hidden place, and I—” I gesture to the tunic I’m wearing. “I found these. Just like he wore them.”

Her expression doesn’t change.

It’s driving me mad.

“Say something!” I nearly shout. “Explain this to me!”

She exhales shakily. “Telemachus, it was just a dream.”

I flinch. “No.”

“Yes.” She steps forward, hands reaching for mine, but I pull back. “You’re exhausted, you were hurt. Your mind is playing tricks on you. I know how much you want to believe he’s out there.”

“I know what I saw!”

“Enough.” Her voice is still gentle, but there’s a finality in it. Her hands tremble at her sides. “Please, Telemachus. Just stop.” Her breath catches. “It’s been almost twenty years.” She swallows hard, blinking quickly. “The past is in the past.”

Something in me snaps.

I stare at her, breathing hard, pulse roaring in my ears.

She won’t tell me. She won’t tell me.

But that look in her eyes when she first saw me, when she saw the clothes, the bandana... told me more than words ever could.

She knows.

And she’s hiding it from me.

I want to shake her, demand she look at me, truly see me. The way she looked at me just moments ago—raw, vulnerable, grieving.

But now? Now she is a wall. Cold stone. Unmoving.

And it infuriates me.

“Who was it, mom?” My voice cracks, but I don’t care. “Who would you weep for like that if not my father? Who would you hold like that—like you were afraid I’d vanish?” I shake my head, chest burning. “Did you—” My throat tightens. “Did you have a lover?”

Her entire body stiffens.

My breath is ragged, my anger blinding, but I can’t stop. The words pour out, sharp and unfiltered. “Did you not love my father? Is that why you won’t tell me anything? Is that why you want to forget?”

I barely register my own voice. I barely recognize it.

I’ve never spoken to her like this before.

Mom stares at me. And then, slowly, her gaze shifts.

It’s subtle. The way her expression hardens, the way her lips press into a thin line... but I feel it.

The shift from mother to something else.

Something unyielding.

She is a Spartan-born queen, a woman who has endured the weight of loss and expectation for decades, and now, for the first time in my life, I feel the full force of it.

When she speaks, her voice is ice.

“Don't you dare say that ever again.”

The words hit me like a slap.

A part of me wants to back down—to apologize, to tell her I didn’t mean it—but I did mean it.

And I want answers.

“Then tell me,” I snap. “Tell me the whole story. The truth. Everything.”

Her jaw tightens. “No, Telemachus.”

“No?” I let out a short, humorless laugh. “So I’m just supposed to accept this? That you know something—everything—and won’t tell me?”

She doesn’t waver. “Some things are meant to stay in the past.”

I clench my fists, my nails biting into my palms. My blood is half hers, but it burns differently in me—wild, restless. Spartan blood clashes against Spartan blood, and we cannot meet in the middle.

We cannot come to terms.

She is steel. I am fire.

And fire does not bend to steel.

I take a slow step back, my pulse hammering in my ears. “Fine,” I say, voice tight. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll find out myself.”

I turn on my heel before she can reply.

Her silence follows me like a shadow as I turn away.

I don’t look back.

I can’t.

If I see her standing there—rigid, cold, unmovable—it’ll break something in me.

My own mother. My own blood. Hiding things from me. Holding onto ghosts I don’t even know.

I push forward, my steps quick, uneven. The weight of the tunic and the fabric wrapped around my head feel heavier now, like I’m carrying something I don’t fully understand.

I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I need to get out. Away from the gardens, away from her unreadable gaze.

I turn a corner too sharply and nearly collide with Eurycleia.

The old woman startles, clutching at her chest. “Gods, child! You look as if you’ve seen a wraith—” Her voice falters. She stares at me.

Not at me.

Through me.

My stomach twists.

Not her, too.

Not another person looking at me like I’m someone else.

“Boy,” she breathes, eyes wide with something I can’t name. “What—what are you wearing?”

I swallow, suddenly hyperaware of the cloth wrapped around my head, the tunic hanging from my frame. “I found them,” I say, trying to sound steady. “In a room."

She moves faster than I expect, gripping my arm. “What room?”

I hesitate.

Why does everyone know something I don’t?

I try to pull free, but her grip is surprisingly strong. “Eurycleia—”

“Where, Telemachus?”

“The west wing,” I snap. “Last door on the left.”

Her face drains of color.

She releases me as if burned, her fingers trembling.

“Boy,” she whispers, shaking her head. “You should not have gone there.”

My patience shatters. “Why not?” My voice rises, sharper than I intend. “Why does everyone keep saying these things? Speaking in riddles? Looking at me like—”

I stop.

I can’t even finish the sentence.

Like I’m someone else.

Like I’m someone they lost.

Eurycleia’s gaze softens, but it only makes my anger rise again.

“Child,” she murmurs. “Please, listen to your mother. Let the past rest.”

My heart pounds.

That’s twice.

Twice in the span of minutes that I’ve been told to forget. To let go.

As if I can.

As if my own reflection—glitching, shifting, mirroring—will let me.

I take a step back, shaking my head. “No.”

I don’t wait for her response. I turn and walk away, my fists clenched, my mind reeling.

They won’t tell me?

Fine.

I don’t make it three steps before Eurycleia speaks again, her voice softer, steadier.

“Your mother is the most brilliant woman I have ever known.”

I stop.

My hands are still clenched, my breath uneven, but something in her tone makes me turn my head.

“She is not just a queen, Telemachus. She is a daughter of Sparta, raised in a land where strength is everything. But strength is not just in war, nor just in the sword. Strength is in endurance. In wisdom. Your mother has endured more than you will ever understand.”

I swallow, my throat dry. “That doesn’t mean—”

“She loved your father,” she interrupts gently. “With all she had. She waited for him, through suitors and war and grief. She wove and unwove a shroud, night after night, defying them all, holding onto even the smallest hope. She ruled alone, for you, when others would have crumbled.”

I shake my head, my thoughts still tangled. “Then why? Why won’t she tell me the truth?”

Eurycleia sighs, her gaze heavy with something I don’t want to name.

“Because not all truths bring peace, child.”

I turn to face her fully, my jaw tightening. “And you think not knowing does?”

She watches me for a long moment, then reaches out, brushing her hand briefly against my cheek, like she used to when I was small.

“No,” she admits. “But don’t doubt her love. And never doubt her loyalty.”

Her hand falls away.

I don’t know what to say.

The anger is still there, simmering under my skin. But beneath it, something else lingers. Something raw. Something I can’t yet name.

I exhale sharply and turn away, stepping into the palace halls.

I still don’t know what’s true.

The library is one of the last places I ever want to be.

I spent too many hours here as a child, forced to study while the other boys trained with wooden swords. The air is thick with dust and old parchment, the shelves stretching high, rows upon rows of books and scrolls pressed together like prisoners in their cells.

I never liked this place.

But maybe here, among the histories and records, I’ll find something.

I move quickly, scanning the shelves for anything that might help. I don’t even know what I’m looking for—records of Ithaca’s past rulers, family trees, anything with his name.

Polites.

The name rings in my head like an echo, over and over.

Who was he?

Why does he linger in my mind like a ghost?

Frustration burns in my chest as I pull book after book from the shelves, flipping through brittle pages filled with dates and laws, treaties and taxes. Nothing.

I clench my jaw. Think, Telemachus. Where would a name like that be recorded?

Then, suddenly—

Thud!

Something heavy crashes onto my head.

I curse, stepping back as a book tumbles onto the floor at my feet. Rubbing the sore spot, I glare up at the shelf it fell from. What the hell was that?

But then I pause.

The book is old, its cover worn, but as I pick it up, something catches my eye.

Inside, in the margins, there are notes. Small, careful writing, each stroke of ink measured and precise.

I run my fingers over the words. This wasn’t written by a careless scholar or a lazy student. This was someone who thought as they wrote, who argued with the text, who left their own thoughts beside the lessons.

Something about it feels… familiar.

I flip through more pages, and then I turn to the shelf where the book had fallen from.

There—

More books, each one bearing the same neat script. Some are about history, others about philosophy. I pull them down, flipping through their pages, scanning the words left behind.

And then—

My breath catches.

I know this handwriting.

I’ve seen it before, over and over.

I rush across the library, my fingers trembling as I reach for a set of scrolls tucked into the far shelf. The ones I had studied as a boy—the scrolls on government, castle duties, science, politics. The same ones my mother made me read when I was too young to understand why they mattered.

I unroll them, my eyes scanning the pages.

And there, at the edges, in faded ink—

The same handwriting.

The same script that annotated the books.

The same script I once followed as I memorized laws and treaties.

And at the very corner, written so faintly it had almost disappeared with time—

Πολίτης.

Polites.

My blood turns to ice.

I don’t hesitate. I clutch the scrolls to my chest and storm through the aisles, past rows of books and wooden shelves, straight to the librarian’s desk.

The old man is hunched over a piece of parchment, scribbling carefully, his quill scratching against the paper. He barely looks up as I approach.

"I need access to the castle’s official records," I say, my voice sharp.

The librarian exhales through his nose, as if he expected this. "I’m sorry, young prince, but I mustn’t give them to you."

I narrow my eyes. "Why not?"

He finally looks up, his face calm but firm. "You are not the reigning king of Ithaca."

My hands clench into fists. I knew he would be difficult, but this is ridiculous.

"I am the prince of Ithaca."

"Yes," he says simply, dipping his quill back into the inkwell. "But the laws are clear. Only the ruling king may access certain records. Even if you are to inherit the throne one day, you are not king yet."

I grit my teeth. I try again.

"What if my mother allows it? Queen Penelope still rules in my father’s absence—surely she has authority."

"The queen is wise," he says, nodding slightly, "but even she follows the laws of Ithaca. These records are for the eyes of the king alone."

I exhale sharply, frustration curling in my chest. "Do you even know why I’m asking?"

"It does not matter."

I huff, my patience unraveling. "I could order you to give them to me."

"You could," the librarian agrees, his tone infuriatingly patient. "But I would not obey."

I glare at him, my hands trembling with barely restrained anger. He isn’t going to break.

Think, Telemachus.

And then—

It clicks.

I lean forward, lowering my voice. "What about the Archive of Polites?"

The librarian freezes.

His fingers tighten ever so slightly around his quill. His eyes flicker, just for a second.

And that’s all I need.

A slow smirk creeps onto my face.

"Ah," I breathe. "So everyone knows that name."

The librarian’s face hardens, but he doesn’t speak. His eyes flick back to his parchment, his posture stiff.

I take a step closer. "You hesitated."

No response.

"You know exactly what I’m talking about."

Still, silence.

"You knew him."

His hand tightens around the quill. His knuckles whiten.

I almost laugh.

"So," I say, my voice quieter now, sharper, "you won’t give me the official records. But what about his records? The Archive of Polites. Where is it?"

The librarian exhales slowly, placing his quill down with deliberate care. He finally looks up at me, and for the first time, I see something beneath his calm mask—something like apprehension.

"This is dangerous knowledge you seek, young prince," he murmurs.

I lean forward. "Why?"

He regards me carefully, as if weighing his next words. "Because some things are meant to be forgotten."

A sharp pang of anger stabs through me. There it is again. That same infuriating dismissal. The same avoidance. First my mother, now him.

I slam my hands on the desk. "Well, I don’t want to forget."

The librarian doesn’t flinch. He merely sighs, as if he’s dealing with a stubborn child.

"Tell me, Telemachus," he says. "Why do you chase ghosts?"

I stare at him. "Because they won’t stop chasing me."

His expression shifts, just a little. A flicker of something in his gaze—recognition, maybe. Or pity.

For a moment, I think he’s going to refuse me again.

Then, slowly, he rises from his seat.

"Follow me."

I follow him through the aisles of scrolls and shelves, deeper into the library than I have ever gone before. The torches flicker as we descend a narrow stone staircase, the air growing cooler with each step.

My heart pounds.

The librarian stops before a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron. He hesitates, then presses his hand against it, as if in silent thought, before finally pushing it open.

The room beyond is small, almost cramped, lined with shelves that sag under the weight of scrolls and bound parchments. The air smells of dust and ink. A single oil lamp casts a dim glow over the space.

The librarian steps aside. "Whatever you seek," he says, his voice low, "you will find it here."

I swallow hard and step inside.

The door creaks as it closes behind me.

For a moment, I just stand there, staring. The room is filled with records, but unlike the rest of the library, these aren’t arranged neatly. Some are stacked haphazardly, others left open on a wooden desk in the center of the room. It feels… abandoned. Forgotten.

I take a deep breath and move toward the desk. The parchment on top is old, the ink faded, but the handwriting—

I know this handwriting.

It’s the same as the annotations in the books upstairs. The same neat, careful script I spent my childhood reading while studying government, politics, war strategy.

I lift the page, my hands trembling slightly.

At the bottom, written in Greek, is the name that has been haunting me.

Πολίτης.

Polites.

The name burns into my vision.

I clutch the parchment tighter. Who were you?

I glance around, my eyes scanning the shelves. There must be more. There has to be more.

I start pulling scrolls from the shelves, opening books, flipping through pages. The more I read, the more I realize that this isn’t just some forgotten archive.

This was someone’s life.

Detailed accounts of political dealings, military strategies, letters written but never sent. Observations of the palace, of Ithaca’s people, of the war.

And in between...

Notes. Personal ones.

About my mother.

About me.

I read faster, my breath short.

"The boy is quick-witted, but restless. He reminds me of—"

The sentence cuts off, the ink smudged.

I flip to another scroll.

"Penelope will be carrying the weight of a kingdom alone. She deserves better than this fate."

My chest tightens.

I flip through more pages. Some notes are carefully penned, others hastily scribbled, as if written in frustration.

I reach for another book, the one bound in worn leather, and its pages frayed with age.

I open it.

And then—

There.

A drawing.

Sketched in ink, faded but unmistakable.

It was a young man with a cloth wrapoed around his forehead, and he was holding a child in his arms—a baby boy with unruly curls and wide, curious eyes

I know that face.

It’s me.

I stare at it, my heartbeat thundering in my ears.

Beneath the sketch, a single line is written in careful, deliberate script.

"My little wolf."

The air leaves my lungs.

The room feels too small, too still.

I squeeze my eyes shut, my fingers tightening around the parchment.

Not mine. Not his.

Πολίτης.

I open my eyes. The drawing is still there. The words are still there. The truth, pressing down on me with the weight of a thousand unspoken stories.

And for the first time, I begin to understand.

I trace the ink with my thumb, as if touching the words will somehow make them speak. As if they will somehow summon the voice of the one who wrote them.

Who was Polites to leave behind words like this? To write of my mother? To sketch my face?

The pieces are falling into place too quickly, too chaotically.

I clutch the scroll and rush back toward the librarian. The door slams against the stone wall as I push through it. He is exactly where I left him, hands clasped behind his back, as if he knew I would come storming out like this.

"You knew," I breathe, holding up the parchment. "You know who he was."

The librarian watches me carefully, but he doesn’t answer.

I grit my teeth, frustration bubbling over. "Tell me the truth. You kept this from me—this entire archive. Why? Who was Polites?"

Still, he says nothing.

My grip tightens around the parchment. "Was he my father?"

That makes him flinch. It’s barely noticeable, but I catch it.

Something dark and painful twists in my chest.

I shake my head, stepping closer. "No, that’s not it, is it?" My voice is shaking. "But he was someone important. Someone my mother mourns. Someone you won’t let me know about."

The librarian exhales slowly. "Some things," he says, "are better left in the past, young prince."

The same words my mother said.

Fury surges through me. "Why does everyone keep saying that?" My voice rises, echoing against the stone walls. "Everyone is acting like a bunch of talking parrots! Why won’t anyone tell me the truth?"

The librarian lowers his gaze. "Because the truth is not always a gift, Telemachus. Sometimes, it is a curse."

I stare at him, my chest heaving.

His words should make me hesitate. They should make me stop.

But they don’t.

If anything, they make me more determined.

I turn on my heel, the parchment still clutched in my hand, and storm out of the library.

I don’t know where I’m going.

I just know one thing—

I will find the truth.

Chapter Text

The air is cool outside, the morning sun already burning off the mist that hugged the coast. I make my way up the narrow steps that lead to the wall—a place few wander, especially not sons of kings.

But I come here often.

To breathe.

To balance.

To pretend the world below is not so heavy.

My feet climb the edge of the stone wall like I used to as a boy, arms outstretched like wings. The scroll is still in my hand, folded now, tucked into the fabric of my belt.

“Careful,” a voice says, smooth as always. She’s here. She always is when I don’t ask for her.

I glance sideways to see Athena appear beside me, her cloak flickering slightly in the breeze, as though the air makes room for her. She walks calmly along the narrow edge like she’s weightless.

“Not afraid of heights, are you?” I murmur, eyes on the stretch of land and sea far beneath us.

She smirks. “Not in the slightest. But I am afraid of your recklessness.”

I don’t laugh. I just keep walking, one foot in front of the other. “It’s not reckless to want answers.”

“No,” she replies, “but it is reckless to chase them into the sea without knowing how to swim.”

“Swim?” I say, lifting my chin. “I’m thinking of sailing.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Oh? And who taught you how to sail?”

I glance at her, deadpan. “No one.”

Athena narrows her eyes. “You can’t sail, Telemachus.”

“Yet,” I correct, turning on the wall so I walk backward, facing her. “I can’t sail yet.”

“You’re not ready.”

“I wasn’t ready for any of this,” I snap. “And yet here I am—sleepless, lied to, chasing ghosts. What am I supposed to do? Wait here while everyone else decides what’s best for me?”

Athena crosses her arms, the wind tossing her dark hair like seaweed in a storm. “You think you’ll find the truth out there?”

I nod. “I know I will. Or at least I’ll find something real. Something that isn’t whispered behind my back or buried in locked archives.”

Athena exhales through her nose, a strange softness entering her expression. “And what will you do if the truth hurts more than the lie?”

I look away, eyes fixed on the horizon. The sea shimmers, beckoning. I can almost feel it pulling me forward.

“Then I’ll hurt,” I say. “But I’ll know. And that’s better than this.”

There’s silence for a long moment, the wind our only witness.

Athena steps forward, and when she speaks again, her voice is quiet. “There is only one thing more dangerous than chasing the truth, Telemachus.”

I glance at her. “What’s that?”

“Running from it.”

I pause. Let the weight of that settle. Then I leap from the wall onto the stone path below, landing on both feet.

“Well then,” I say. “I guess I’m sailing.”

I hop down from the wall to a narrower ledge, the kind Mother would scold me for even looking at. But my fingers are already reaching into my belt, pulling out the scroll with his name—Πολίτης—written like a whisper from the past.

I hold it up to the light. “Look at this,” I say to Athena, unfurling the parchment. “Same handwriting. Same margins. Same annotations in the old political scrolls. My entire education—history, rhetoric, strategy—it wasn’t random. Someone left this trail.” I glance at her. “Polites. Who was he?”

Athena watches me with her usual calm, her face unreadable. “You already know what the name means.”

I nod. “The man of the city. Or, someone for the city. But that doesn’t explain why he knew everything I needed before I ever asked. Why he taught me from the shadows.” My voice lowers. “Why he looks like me.”

I turn a bit too fast, the breeze catching the edge of my tunic—and the scroll. My foot slips on the stone. The sky flips and tilts. For a wild second, I’m falling.

My body twists instinctively, arms flailing—but something catches me. Or rather, someone. My fingers latch onto Athena’s outstretched arm like it’s the limb of a tree I climbed as a boy. I dangle there for a moment, heart thudding, my legs swinging.

She doesn’t even flinch.

I grin up at her like a fool. “Well. That could’ve gone worse.”

“You are a menace,” she says, but there’s a flicker of amusement in her eyes.

I hoist myself back up and dust off my hands. “See? That’s why I need to sail. I’ve clearly outgrown Ithacan masonry.”

Athena just shakes her head as I roll the scroll back up with care. But the grin doesn’t leave my face. For the first time in days, I feel awake.

The sun had sunk far past its zenith by the time I slipped back into the royal archives, scrolls and fragments still strewn from earlier, as if they had been waiting for me to return and finish what I had started. My mind was burning now—not with grief, or confusion, or even anger—but with determination.

If no one would give me the truth, I’d gather it myself.

I pulled the old oiled leather satchel down from the upper shelves, the one marked with the royal seal, faded and dust-covered. Inside, old maps lay curled beside brittle dispatch scrolls, all labeled with scribal flourishes: Corinth, Sparta, Pylos, Ephyra, Aegina, and beyond. Most were simple reports of trade or alliances—but some… some bore names that struck chords deep in my bones.

I laid them out on the long cedar table and began sorting: military logs, naval records, state correspondence. And then I found it—an old ledger from Ithaca’s war-era communications. The handwriting was unmistakable. Sharp, neat, and subtly angled. Polites again.

One entry read: "Dispatch sent to King Nestor of Pylos. Status of morale: high. Odysseus continues to advise. Polites commands second naval flank."

Another: "To Menelaus in Sparta. Requesting safe passage and refuge, should return journey fail. Odysseus trusts him above all."

And then, finally, one that shook me: "Contact lost with Eurylochus. Believed to have fled east from Thrinacia. Unconfirmed sighting near Argos.”

Wow... uncle Eurylochus was a menace too.

My fingertips grazed the ink. These were names I knew only from stories. Nestor of Pylos, the wise king. Menelaus of Sparta, husband of Helen. Eurylochus, father's brother-in-law and one of his most trusted captains. And Polites, always there in the margins—never the subject, always the scribe.

I opened the large, cracked leather map of the Peloponnesus. My eyes darted across its coastline, noting the marked cities: Pylos on the western shores, Sparta deep inland, Corinth on the isthmus. Then I looked eastward, toward Argos, and even further toward the islands that once served as waypoints for the returning ships of the war.

Using charcoal and a straightedge, I began plotting the path.

Phase One:
Pylos. Nestor. Oldest and wisest. If anyone kept records, or had memory of Polites and Father, it would be him.

Phase Two:
Sparta. Menelaus. More warlike, perhaps guarded. But bound to Father by years of blood and loyalty. A dangerous place to pry—but necessary.

Phase Three:
Argos. Search for signs of Eurylochus. If he's alive, he knows more than anyone what happened after the war.

I scribbled notes beside each phase—expected travel time, dangers, and diplomatic approaches.

Then came the hardest question: how many men?

I flipped to the naval registry. Ithaca could spare maybe two ships without risking its coastal defense. Each held twenty oarsmen. One ship for crew and supplies. One for diplomacy and protection. That made forty. Add in five of the palace guards for close-range protection. I jotted it down.

> 40 men total.
2 ships.
Enough rations for three weeks.
Sail by new moon—winds should favor eastward journey.

Then I added in a new section. Expenses. Rations, repairs, bartering gifts for the kings. I began calculating:

Rations for 40 men × 21 days = 840 meals.

Wine and oil for trade: minimum 10 amphorae.

Linens, armor maintenance, bronze tools.

By the time I finished, the parchment was crowded with lines, notations, and ink-smudged figures. The strategy teacher would have been proud.

I leaned back in the chair, chest heaving not from effort, but from something I hadn’t felt in days. Purpose.

This wasn’t madness. It wasn’t boyish fantasy. It was strategy. It was logic. It was the only way forward.

My eyes wandered again to the name Polites, still scrawled in the margins of one of the scrolls. I circled it once more. Beneath it, I wrote in my own hand:

"He knew everything I would need. Maybe he knew I’d come searching. Maybe this plan… is what he left me.”

I folded the maps and scrolls carefully. Tomorrow, I would speak with the shipwrights. Tonight, I would prepare my mother. Or try to.

The torchlight in the corridor flickered against the stone walls as I approached her chambers. The air smelled faintly of lavender and warm oil—a scent I’d always associated with her, even as a child. But it was the silence that unsettled me most. Not the hush of night, but the kind of silence people wrap themselves in when they’re trying not to cry.

I stopped at the doorway.

There she was—seated at the loom. The very same loom I remembered hiding beneath when I was a boy. Only now, the threads that once held scenes of valor and sea voyages were unraveling in her lap. Her fingers moved with practiced grace, undoing her own work one loop at a time, as if time itself could be rewound by fraying thread.

I almost said it.

I had the words—I’m leaving, Mother. I’m going to Pylos, to Sparta, to Argos. I’m going to find out who Polites really was, and why no one will tell me his name without swallowing grief.

But then she looked up at me.

Her eyes, dark and tired, found my face. She didn’t say anything at first—just looked. And in that look, there was something ancient and exhausted, as if she had been waiting for this moment not for days or weeks, but for decades. Her gaze dropped slightly, then narrowed.

"You have charcoal on your hands," she said softly.

I blinked. Looked down. The pads of my fingers were blackened, smudges trailing up my wrists from where I’d gripped the scrolls and maps.

I cleared my throat. "I was in the study. Arithmetics." I didn’t dare look her in the eyes. "The equations with rations, you know, calculating grain for the storages. I… thought I’d try to be useful."

Her lips twitched. Not a smile. Something more tired than that. She nodded slowly and turned back to the loom.

The threads unraveled in her lap like questions without answers.

I sat down across from her on the cushion-strewn floor, watching her fingers move, thread sliding free from the fabric. I didn’t say anything else. Not yet. Not tonight.

Somehow I knew—if I told her what I planned, she’d only start undoing more than her tapestries. She’d start undoing me, too.

Her fingers moved rhythmically, pulling each thread as if each one was a sigh made tangible. The slow shick of the loom echoed faintly through the chamber. I watched her. I’d always thought weaving was just something she did to pass the time, to delay the suitors, to give the servants a reason to speak her name with reverence. But now—seeing her undo her own creation—I realized it was something else entirely.

It was grief.

It was survival.

It was memory.

“Do you ever finish them?” I asked quietly.

She didn’t look at me. Just a pause in her fingers. A thread stilled, suspended between her hands like a thought that had frozen mid-air.

“No,” she said. “Not really.”

I waited. She didn’t explain further.

I pressed my hands between my knees, hiding the charcoal marks. I could still feel the imprint of the stylus between my fingers, the smooth waxy scroll I’d scribbled on with numbers and coordinates.

I hadn’t told her any of it. Not the maps. Not the scrolls I’d stolen from the archivist’s room. Not the names of ships or the equations I’d done in the flickering candlelight. I’d mapped the routes from Ithaca to Pylos and beyond. Calculated the food a crew of twenty-four men would need for two months. Water casks. Salted meat. Olive oil. Silver coins for bribes. I’d even estimated how long it would take if the winds were not in my favor.

But now… none of that seemed real in this room. Not in the glow of her lamp. Not with the smell of lavender and the soft rustle of unraveling thread.

“Mother…” I started, then stopped. My voice cracked slightly, and I coughed. “Do you think he… do you think father would have wanted me to wait here forever?”

She finally looked at me.

It wasn’t anger in her eyes. It wasn’t sadness either.

It was something quieter. Something like fear wrapped in love.

“I think he would have wanted you to be safe,” she said. “And to be wise.”

“I’m not a little boy anymore,” I said quickly.

“You are still my son,” she interrupted. Not harsh. Just firm. “And no journey begins just because your blood burns with questions.”

“But if I don’t leave, if I don’t try, then what am I? A shadow of his story? A ghost haunting the corridors he once walked?”

The loom was quiet now. Her hands rested on the threads, unmoving.

“I dreamed of him,” I added softly. “But I don’t think it was just a dream. There was a man. His name was Polites. You—when you saw me dressed like him this morning, you… you knew. Didn’t you?”

She didn’t answer.

I watched her turn away, gathering the frayed ends of her weaving as if collecting her thoughts. Or protecting them.

I wanted to push her. I wanted to say "Tell me the truth. Please. Just once." But instead I said, “I’ll wash my hands. Don’t want to smudge your tapestries.”

That made her smile. Just a little.

But not enough to stop unraveling.

She didn't stop pulling the threads loose. One after another, as if each one held a word she couldn’t say aloud.

I stood there a while longer, watching the delicate motion of her fingers. Her face was turned, unreadable in the lamplight. She had grown softer with the years, yet somehow stronger too—like water that had learned to carve through stone. I wanted her to turn around. I wanted her to say Go. I know you have to.

But instead, she said, “Did you really study today?”

I stiffened slightly. “Yes,” I lied. “In the library.”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “Then tell me what a cube root is.”

I blinked. “Why would I need that?”

She turned away again. “Mm. Just wondering if your education has improved.”

It wasn’t an accusation. It was something else—teasing, almost. But with a hint of sorrow behind it.

“I was reading about taxes,” I tried again. “And trade. You know, for… for when I have to take the throne one day.”

“You’ll take it when you’re ready,” she said, gently. “And no sooner.”

I hesitated. My fingers twitched toward the scroll in my waistband, still tucked behind my tunic. A draft of a letter to Menelaus. A list of ports where father's ship had supposedly docked. The equations I had checked twice about how long it would take to reach Pylos if the winds carried east.

“I saw your weaving in a dream,” I said instead.

That caught her off guard.

She turned slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I saw it. I think it was a dream. Or… maybe something more. But the thread—it was red and gold and it shimmered like sunlight in wine.”

A pause.

Her hands rested on the unfinished tapestry.

She whispered, “That was the wedding cloth.”

I blinked. “Yours?”

She nodded. “We began it together. Me and your grandmother. I never finished it. Never had the heart.”

There was a silence between us that filled the whole room. It was ancient and heavy. And I suddenly understood that some things had been left undone not by accident—but by design. A grief that needed somewhere to sit, year after year.

I stepped forward, close enough that I could see the patterns woven into the loom. The beginnings of laurels and olive branches, half-finished figures of sea beasts and stars.

“I think I’m going to leave,” I said quietly.

Her fingers flinched. Barely.

I could feel her breathing change—but she didn’t look at me.

“I won’t ask for your blessing,” I added, quickly, “because I know you can’t give it. But I need to go.”

Still, she didn’t speak.

“I need to know if he was real,” I whispered. “Polites. The man from the mirror. The one from the scrolls. If he was a friend, a brother, a shadow. Or—” I hesitated. “Or maybe he was more.”

She slowly stood. Her hands dusted off her skirts. Her eyes found mine at last.

“You will find many names on the road, Telemachus,” she said softly. “And some of them will wear your father’s face. But do not mistake a name for a truth. Or a shadow for the man.”

I swallowed hard. “Then give me something that’s real.”

She stepped forward and placed her hand against my cheek.

“You,” she whispered. “You are what’s real.”

My throat burned. My hands clenched.

But I didn’t say anything else.

I just nodded, turned away, and left the chamber. The scent of lavender and thread stayed with me, all the way down the corridor.

The castle never truly sleeps. Even at night, there are footsteps in the corridors—servants murmuring, guards shifting at their posts, the distant clatter of kitchens preparing food for the next day. But if you know which doors creak, which floorboards groan, which corners the moonlight doesn’t touch—you can move through it like a ghost.

I did.

And I used every ounce of it.

My preparations had to be careful. Quiet. Because the moment the suitors caught wind of it, they would plant themselves in my path like anchors and claim it was all too dangerous, all too impulsive—like everything else I did.

So I chose only those I trusted. Men who had served Ithaca since before I was born. Some of them my age, others older, weathered from campaigns I only read about in scrolls. I found them where I always found them—tending horses, sharpening weapons in silence, sweeping dust from stone.

They didn’t ask why I wanted them. They knew better than to ask. Some of them watched me with a look I couldn’t name—half loyalty, half recognition, as if something in my voice reminded them of someone else.

Odysseus.

Or maybe Polites.

We met in the stables, in the shadow of the wall, under the guise of night-duty drills. I handed out instructions carefully written in wax, not ink, so they could be melted after reading. I drew up the route twice, burned the wrong one. I split the supplies among different servants so no one would carry too much. And I assigned our departure for the moment just before sunrise—when shadows are long and sleepy eyes don’t focus well.

Pylos. That’s where we would start.

According to the scrolls, father had once received sacred counsel from Nestor there—something about Poseidon’s wrath and a ship that nearly broke on the reefs. If anyone knew where my father had vanished—or where his shadow had fallen last—it would be the old king of Pylos.

I unrolled the map again in the storeroom behind the armory, laying it flat against a crate of salted fish. My hands, still blackened faintly from charcoal, traced the route down the Ionian coast, across to the Peloponnese. We’d need to hug the shoreline—my sailing skills were next to nonexistent.

I made notes in my head:

Two weeks to Pylos with fair wind.
Sixteen men to crew the ship.
Rations for twenty days, minimum.
Two archers, three men with spears, one healer if I could find one discreetly.
One man with a strong voice to parley at sea.

That would do.

I’d pay them from what I had in the vault—my inheritance, or what little hadn’t been spent by those parasites drinking my family’s wine.

I folded the map again. My palms were sweating, despite the cold stone floor under my feet.

Part of me wanted to run straight to the shipyard and shout it out loud: "I’m leaving. I’m sailing out into the world to find out what none of you would tell me." But I knew better. I knew what kind of chaos would rain down from that.

So I kept it quiet.

And every night, I practiced tying knots and tracing stars.

Every day, I walked past the suitors as if nothing had changed.

And every moment, I could feel the wind shifting—like it was waiting for me. Like he was.

The sea shimmered gold in the morning light, stretching endlessly behind me like a world I had already left behind. Ahead, the coast of Pylos unfolded—lush green hills cradling the terraced city, white columns gleaming from the palace at its summit like the teeth of some ancient, sleeping god.

The ship rocked beneath me as we neared the dock, and I braced myself against the mast, jaw tight. Salt clung to my skin, stung my eyes, dried stiff on my lips. My knuckles were raw from rope-burns. I had hardly slept the past few nights, pacing the deck with maps in hand and scrolls tucked under my arm, whispering names and strategies to the wind. My stomach churned with every wave—not from seasickness, but from the weight of what was about to happen.

I was a prince. I had to look like one. I had to be one.

“Back straight,” I muttered to myself. “Eyes up. Easy stride. Like you’ve done this a thousand times.”

I imagined how my father must have looked arriving in foreign ports. Poised. Commanding. Effortless. I didn’t remember him, but the stories carved his image deep into my mind. He never fumbled. He never tripped.

I flexed my fingers, then let my hands fall to my sides. The ship bumped gently against the dock. Crew members rushed to tie ropes and lower planks. My men—only a dozen I could trust—stood behind me, silent, waiting for my first step.

The dock glistened wet in the sun.

Don’t trip, I reminded myself again.

I stepped forward. My heel caught something slick—fish scales, sea slime, some cursed trick of fate—and my boot slid out from under me.

There was no time to recover. I hit the dock hard, the impact rattling my teeth, knocking the air from my lungs. A gasp rose from the sailors. One of the guards rushed forward.

“Prince Telemachus!”

“I’m fine,” I barked, scrambling to sit up with as much dignity as I could summon. My palms were scraped. My tunic clung to the damp planks. I tried to swat off the grime like it was dust. “Back to your posts.”

My voice cracked slightly. They hesitated, but I gave them a glare sharp enough to make them step back, mumbling apologies.

I climbed to my feet, biting the inside of my cheek to ignore the sting of humiliation. My legs were trembling, but I squared my shoulders.

"You’re Odysseus’ son," I told myself. "You are a warrior. A prince. Start acting like it."

I brushed off my sleeves and lifted my gaze.

And froze.

Standing at the base of the dock, perfectly framed by the marble gate and flanked by two guards in bronze and teal, was a young man. About my age. Maybe a year older. He didn’t wear a crown, but he might as well have. His presence commanded the eye without effort.

He was beautiful in a way I hadn’t expected. Not the sharp, untouchable beauty of statues. No—there was something living about him. Earth and salt. His skin was sun-brushed olive, and his long dark hair was tied back in intricate golden hoops that gleamed like coins. The fabric of his chiton was fine, dyed deep turquoise and cinched in a way that draped elegantly from his frame. He had shoulders built from swordplay, not poetry, and yet his face was gentle—serious, yes, but almost... kind.

His lips twitched, just barely. A smirk he was clearly holding back.

And I, idiot that I was, pointed a hand and said, far too loud: “Heeeyyyy, you’re not King Nestor!”

The words rang out like a slap.

Silence.

The young man blinked once, slowly, then inclined his head in a perfect, graceful bow.

“Welcome to Pylos, Prince Telemachus of Ithaca,” he said, his voice like rich olive oil—smooth, deep, dignified. “I am Peisistratus, son of Nestor. My father sends his greetings and awaits your arrival.”

I gawked for a breath too long. Then scrambled to recover.

“Ah. Right. Of course. Yes. Good. Excellent.”

Gods above, kill me now.

Peisistratus straightened and turned smoothly, gesturing for me to follow him toward the palace. His guards fell into formation, and my men gathered themselves with sidelong glances, no doubt trying not to laugh.

I took a shaky breath and lifted my chin. I stepped forward with the air of a man who hadn’t just fallen flat on his ass in front of foreign nobility.

And even though my ribs ached and my pride lay broken on the dock behind me—I couldn't help but glance one more time at Peisistratus.

There was a warmth in his gaze, not mockery.

He didn’t say anything cruel. He didn’t even laugh.

But the corner of his mouth lifted just a little higher.

Chapter Text

The great hall of Pylos was nothing like the megaron in Ithaca.

There was no darkness here—no soot-stained rafters or low, smoky torches. Everything gleamed. The wide stone floor was polished to a mirror sheen, sunlight streaming down through a high oculus in the center of the ceiling. Pillars lined the walls like sentinels, each etched with sea motifs: waves curling like ropes, ships in full sail, dolphins leaping in pairs. It smelled of salt, sea lavender, and fresh bread, of oil lamps and clean linen.

For a moment, I stood there like a statue, overwhelmed by the scale, the brightness, the newness of it all.

At the end of the hall, on a broad wooden throne inlaid with pearl and gold, sat a man with a beard the color of sea foam and a frame still broad, still unbent by age. His eyes were sharp enough to gut you, but they softened when they landed on me.

“Prince Telemachus,” he said, rising to his feet.

I blinked.

That was it? No servants calling my name? No drawn-out titles?

Just... Prince Telemachus.

King Nestor crossed the hall toward me with a sure-footedness that didn’t match his years. His garments were simple but elegant—deep blue with a lion’s head clasp on his shoulder, and his arm was wrapped in a bracer of sea-polished bronze. I tried to copy the way he carried himself.

I bowed quickly, then awkwardly, unsure of the exact protocol.

He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he smiled. “You’ve made good time. I had not expected you for another few days.”

“We had strong winds,” I said, trying to make my voice deep and princely. “And we knew your people were expecting us.”

“I see.” His gaze flicked past me to the young man now stepping calmly to his side. “And I see you’ve already met my youngest son, Peisistratus.”

I turned toward him, startled despite myself.

Peisistratus stood there quietly, one hand behind his back, the picture of diplomatic grace. He inclined his head just slightly, lips pressed together.

“Uh... yes,” I said, too quickly. “Yes, we met. He... greeted me at the docks.”

“Peisi,” Nestor said fondly, clapping a hand to his son’s shoulder, “has been eager to meet you. He doesn’t say much when he doesn’t want to, but I know he’s been curious. He was about your age when Odysseus last visited Pylos. You have his eyes.”

My throat caught.

That again.

Everyone kept saying it, and it didn’t make it any easier to hear.

Peisistratus was still watching me. Not coldly, but not warmly, either. Just watching. Measuring.

I forced myself to speak. “I’m honored to be here, King Nestor.”

“And I am honored to host the son of Odysseus,” he replied. “You are welcome here, Telemachus. We shall eat, rest, and talk later of kings and seas. For now, you must be tired. Peisi will show you to your quarters.”

I nodded, grateful and flustered all at once.

Peisistratus stepped forward and gestured. “This way, Prince.”

I hesitated for only a moment before falling into step beside him.

The hall's brightness faded behind us as Peisistratus led me down a long corridor flanked with murals—scenes of battles at sea, of Athena touching the shoulders of men in bronze, of olive trees weeping over the dead. Everything here seemed older than time but cared for with reverence. It made Ithaca feel... quiet. Dusty. Forgotten.

Neither of us spoke for a while.

I kept sneaking glances at him—at the clean, composed way he moved, at the soft sway of the golden hoops in his hair. There was a calm to him I couldn’t quite understand, like he’d lived through a storm and now walked in still water.

He broke the silence first, his voice even: “You slipped on an eel.”

I blinked. “What?”

“At the dock,” he said, not looking at me. “You stepped on a river eel. They cling to the stones after rain. I warned them to clean the dock properly.”

Heat flooded my face. “Right. Of course. The eel.”

His lips twitched again, just barely. “You recovered quickly.”

I wasn’t sure if that was meant to be a compliment or a very polite insult. “Yeah, well. Falling on your face is a good way to humble yourself.”

“That depends on whether you stay down.”

I glanced at him again. “Do you always speak in riddles, or is this a Pylian habit?”

He gave the smallest shrug. “You’ll find we have many habits here.”

He stopped in front of a carved wooden door with an olive branch motif and pulled it open. The room inside was simple but spacious—cool air, clean linens, a basin of fresh water, and a window overlooking the coast. It was more than I’d expected.

Peisistratos stepped aside and let me pass, then lingered in the doorway. “There’s food in the side hall whenever you’re ready. We eat formally at sundown, with my father.”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

He was already turning to go when I asked—before I could stop myself, “Did you know my father?”

He paused.

Just long enough for the air to stretch thin.

“Yes,” he said, finally. “I was a little boy. But I remember him.”

I waited. Hoped for something more. A story. A detail. Anything.

But he gave me none.

“Rest well, prince,” Peisistratus said, and the door clicked softly shut behind him.

I stood in the silence of the room for a while, my fingers running along the edge of the basin. The salt clung under my fingernails. My tunic was still damp from the sea, and my ribs still ached from days ago.

But I wasn’t thinking about the fall anymore. Or the embarrassment.

I was thinking about what Nestor had said.

"You have his eyes."

But I didn’t know whose they were.

Odysseus? Maybe. Maybe not.

I reached into my satchel and pulled out the scroll I’d tucked away—the one with the name "Πολίτης" inked in the corner in that same familiar handwriting. My thumb brushed over it.

Polites.

That name still sat in the center of my chest like an ember waiting to be stirred.

If I was ever going to find out the truth—about my father, about him—it would begin here. In Pylos. With the people who remembered.

I sat by the window as the wind from the sea rolled in, lifting the bandana tied around my forehead. The one I'd found. The one I'd wrapped like I’d seen him wear.

Not Odysseus.

Not mine.

Polites.

And maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t his only legacy.

I lay on the cool linen bed for a while, letting my muscles relax, letting my brain catch up with the weight of the past few days. The sea was still murmuring beyond the open window, a lullaby of sorts, but I knew better than to fall asleep again—not before a formal royal dinner.

Eventually, I rose and began to dress.

I chose the most polished tunic I had—dark blue, embroidered along the cuffs with gold thread, the Ithacan emblem stitched at the shoulder. It was the only one not wrinkled from the journey. I tied the band across my forehead again—half out of habit, half for courage. Looking in the bronze mirror for a moment, I stood straighter.

Not a boy anymore.

Or at least... trying not to be.

I made my way through the halls, quiet and shadowed now that the sun had begun to lower, washing the marble with gold. I followed the scent of roasted meat, saffron, and honeyed wine until the air grew warmer with noise and light ahead.

But just as I rounded a corner near the entrance to the dining hall, someone collided with me.

A thud and a startled gasp, and I found myself blinking down at a slight figure, scrambling back a step. A boy. No... maybe a young man, slender and wide-eyed.

He didn’t say a word. Just bowed so low I thought he might fold in half.

“Hey! Wait, are you okay?” I asked, putting a hand out instinctively.

But the figure just straightened and darted off again, disappearing into one of the side corridors without another word.

“Well... damn,” I muttered.

Servant, probably. Maybe an errand runner. But something about how fast he moved, and how he hadn’t looked me in the eye made me pause.

Still, I shook it off and adjusted my tunic. I had a dinner to attend. And if the rumors were true, Nestor’s table was as heavy with stories as it was with food.

The great hall was transformed for evening.

Low tables were set with carved goblets and bronze bowls brimming with fruit, fresh bread stacked beside clay jars of olive oil and honey. Tapers flickered in wall sconces, casting warm amber light across the polished stone.

King Nestor was already seated at the head of the table, surrounded by members of his household. His elder sons flanked him—tall, broad-shouldered men with weatherworn faces and callused hands. But there, seated slightly apart in quieter grace, was Peisistratus.

His hair was now tied back in a thick knot, and he wore a high-collared tunic that shimmered faintly under the firelight. Still elegant. Still composed.

His gaze met mine as I stepped in, and just for a second, I thought I saw the smallest flicker of amusement at the corners of his mouth. Maybe at my slightly breathless entrance. Or maybe the bandana.

“Prince Telemachus,” Nestor greeted, raising a goblet. “Come, sit. Eat. You must be starving.”

“I am,” I admitted, voice steady. “Though I might be hungrier for answers than olives.”

He let out a laugh like a wave hitting shore. “Ah, Ithacan. You’re your father’s son after all.”

I moved to take my seat beside him—right across from Peisistratus.

And as the servers brought out the first course, and the music began to rise in a distant corner of the hall, I braced myself not just for dinner, but for the stories that would follow.

The scent of roasted lamb and sweet figs filled the room, mingling with the warm light of the torches and the soft murmur of conversation. A lyre played somewhere near the far end of the hall—slow, elegant, meant to soften the edges of the night.

I took my seat beside one of Nestor’s older sons—Thrasymedes, I thought his name was. He nodded respectfully but didn’t say much. Across from me, Peisistratos sat with his back straight, sipping wine as if he didn’t have a single thought in his head that wasn’t perfectly balanced and intentional.

I hated how effortless he looked.

King Nestor reached for a platter, carved himself a thick slice of meat, and passed it down. “Eat, Telemachus,” he said. “Travel drains a man’s strength faster than war.”

I obeyed, though my appetite came second to the tension pulling tight in my chest.

They talked at first of trade. Of weather. Of Pylos’s sea routes and the yields of the season. I listened, trying to find the right moment to break in, to steer the conversation—to get to the point.

Eventually, it came.

Nestor leaned back, dabbing his fingers with a cloth. “Tell me, then. What does the Prince of Ithaca seek on my shores?”

The hall quieted just slightly. Even the music slowed.

I put my goblet down.

“My father,” I said. “Or the truth of what happened to him.”

Nestor watched me for a long time. His expression didn't shift, but I could feel something ancient moving behind his gaze. Regret, maybe. Or memory.

“Odysseus,” he said slowly. “The cleverest man I ever knew. And the most cursed by the gods.”

That hit hard.

He continued, “I wish I could tell you he made it home... but when Troy fell, we all left together, and not all of us returned.”

He gestured to a servant to refill the wine.

“I made it home quickly,” he said. “Agamemnon too. Menelaus wandered. And Odysseus... he vanished.”

My throat tightened. “You never heard anything? Not even whispers?”

“Oh, I heard whispers.” Nestor leaned forward. “That he angered Poseidon. That he was caught between goddesses. That he saw monsters none of us could imagine. But whispers won’t bring him home, Telemachus. And they won’t tell you what he was really like.”

“I don’t care about the myths,” I said, louder than I meant to. “I just want to know him.”

Peisistratus’ gaze flicked to me, something unreadable behind it.

Nestor’s voice softened. “Then you must walk in his shadow. Speak with the men who knew him—not as a story, but as a man. Menelaus is in Sparta now. If anyone heard news of Odysseus in these last years, it would be him.”

My fingers tightened on the goblet.

Sparta.

Another kingdom. Another step.

Another truth to chase.

I nodded. “Then I’ll go.”

“You’ll do no such thing alone,” Nestor said firmly. “Peisistratus will accompany you.”

I looked up, surprised.

Peisistratus set down his goblet and gave a quiet nod, as if he’d already known.

“Wait, really?” I blurted. “He agreed?”

“I did,” Peisistratus said calmly. “If the journey brings you closer to your answers… then I will help.”

I stared at him, trying to read past that perfectly calm expression. Why would he want to come with me? A stranger. An awkward boy playing hero.

But there was no sarcasm in his voice. No arrogance. Only quiet certainty.

The rest of dinner blurred around me—sweet wine, flickering light, passing platters, and half-heard conversations. I nodded politely when needed, answered a few curious questions from Nestor’s older sons, and tried not to let my mind spiral too fast.

But when the plates were cleared and the servants stepped back, giving us space, I leaned forward, heart pounding a little harder than before.

“King Nestor,” I began carefully. “May I ask you something... else?”

He glanced at me over the rim of his goblet. “You may.”

“Do you remember a man named...” I hesitated, wondering if I should be more subtle, more clever. But the name pushed itself up like it always did. “Polites?”

The effect was subtle, but I saw it.

Nestor’s hand froze midair for the briefest moment before he placed his goblet down. His smile didn’t falter, but there was something behind it now—something old and sharp.

Across from me, Peisistratos stilled too, gaze flicking toward his father.

“Polites,” Nestor echoed, as if tasting the name. “Now that’s not one I’ve heard aloud in a long time.”

My throat felt dry. “So you do know him.”

Nestor didn’t answer immediately. He folded his hands together and studied me—not in a threatening way, but with a gravity that made me feel like I’d just stepped on something sacred.

“Why do you ask?” he said at last. “That name didn’t just come to you in a dream, did it?”

I blinked. Because... it kind of did.

My hesitation must’ve given me away, because Nestor’s smile softened into something gentler. Sadder.

“Polites,” he said again, quieter now. “Yes. I knew him. He was one of Odysseus’s closest companions. Loyal, brilliant, a man with a silver tongue and a lion’s heart. They were rarely seen apart in Troy. There was a rumor among the soldiers that where Odysseus was the mind, Polites was the soul.”

I stared at the table. At the golden curl of olive oil in my goblet. The words felt like a key in a lock.

“So he wasn’t just...” I shook my head. “He wasn’t just a soldier, was he?”

“No,” Nestor said. “He was more.”

Peisistratus shifted in his seat, and I looked up to find his gaze already on me—not judging, not pitying, just... watching.

I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

My pulse was thunder in my ears.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

Nestor gave a small nod. “Why him, though?” he asked again, more gently now. “Why Polites?”

I glanced down at the band around my forehead, at the edge of the scroll tucked inside my tunic.

And I said, quietly, “Because I think he found me before I ever knew his name.”

The dinner ended with a slow fade—conversation drifting into murmurs, the lyre falling silent, and servants moving quietly to clear what was left. I stood when Nestor did, giving him a respectful bow as he clasped my shoulder with surprising strength and warmth.

“You’re welcome to rest here as long as you need, Telemachus,” he said. “When you're ready for Sparta, you will have what you need.”

“Thank you, King Nestor,” I said sincerely, bowing my head again. “And… for telling me about Polites.”

He paused. “There are many stories that didn’t make it into the scrolls, son of Odysseus. Some because they were lost. Some because they were... loved too fiercely.” Then he turned and walked off with his older sons, leaving me standing there alone.

Well... mostly alone.

“You coming?”

I turned. Peisistratus had lingered in the archway, one hand resting lazily against the stone column, the other holding a fig he'd apparently snuck from the table.

“Where?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Just walking. Thought you might need air.”

I hesitated, then nodded and followed him.

The palace gardens were quieter now, lit by moonlight and a few stray torches. Laurel and cypress trees loomed around winding paths, and the night air was cool on my face. We walked in silence for a moment, the gravel crunching softly under our sandals.

It was Peisistratus who spoke first.

“So,” he said, glancing sideways at me. “Ithaca's much different, huh?”

I snorted. “That obvious?”

“A bit.” He smiled. “You carry yourself like someone who’s trying very hard not to look lost.”

“I’m not lost,” I said, defensive without meaning to.

“I didn’t say you were.”

We walked a little farther before he asked, almost too casually, “So… do you always wear the band like that?”

My hand went instinctively to the cloth across my forehead. “It’s... new.”

“I like it,” he said after a pause. “It suits you.”

I looked at him warily. “Why are you being nice?”

Peisistratos raised a brow. “Would you rather I be mean?”

“No, I just—” I exhaled. “Never mind.”

A beat passed. Then I turned to him. “Why did you agree to come with me? Really?”

He stopped walking. So did I. The moon lit the angles of his face, and something shifted in his expression—less princely now, less put-together. More… honest.

“Because I want to prove myself,” he said quietly. “My brothers all went to war. Fought in Troy. Came back with scars and stories and the favor of kings.”

He glanced down, kicking a loose pebble. “I stayed. I studied. Played host. Learned court politics. Good little son.”

“And now?”

“I’m twenty-five and I’ve never left Pylos. Never been to war. Never been anywhere worth writing about.” He looked up, meeting my eyes. “And if I stay here forever, that’ll be my whole story.”

I blinked. I hadn’t expected that.

“You could marry,” I said without thinking. “Settle down, start a family.”

He laughed, short and sharp. “No. That’s... not an option for me.”

Something in his voice stopped me from asking further.

“Oh,” I said, quiet. “Okay.”

“I’m not like my brothers,” he added, looking ahead again. “And my father knows it. But he doesn’t say anything. He just... waits.”

That hit too close.

“Same,” I said, rubbing my arm. “I mean, my father was gone before I could even speak. But every man in that castle still expects me to live up to him. Be him.”

Peisistratus tilted his head. “That’s a long shadow.”

I nodded. “There are suitors in our halls. Over a hundred. They eat our food. Disrespect my mother. I try to push back, but they laugh. I’m not strong enough. Not yet.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I’m tired of waiting,” I said. “I want answers. I want to do something.”

Peisistratos studied me for a long moment. “You’re braver than I thought.”

“Don’t say that,” I muttered. “You’ll jinx it.”

He chuckled. “Fine. You’re reckless then.”

“I’ll take reckless,” I said, and for the first time in days, I actually meant it.

We reached a small bench beside the garden pool, and both sat, the moonlight glinting off the water in pale silver arcs.

“We’re both trying to escape a name,” he said after a long silence.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “Or at least understand it.”

Peisistratus leaned back on the bench, one hand resting behind his head, the other absently picking at the edge of his cloak. “Do you ever wonder,” he said, his voice quiet, “what your life would’ve looked like if you weren’t born royal?”

I glanced at him, then at the reflection of the moon rippling in the pool. “Every day.”

He smiled, not mockingly—more like he’d expected that answer. “Same. Sometimes I think maybe I’d be a fisherman. Wake up with the sea. Come home sunburnt and quiet. No court. No expectations.”

“Wouldn’t last a week,” I said. “You’d complain about the smell.”

He laughed. “Fair.” A beat. “What about you?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe I’d like books more if I didn’t grow up being forced to memorize every law in Ithaca by the time I could walk.”

Peisistratus tilted his head. “You really hated studying?”

“It’s not that I hated it,” I muttered. “I just hated feeling like it was all I could do. My mother never let me train. She thought I’d die young if I tried to be like my father.”

“And instead,” Peisistratus said gently, “you snuck out and trained in secret.”

I looked at him sharply. “How do you know that?”

He smirked, eyes flicking toward the cut on my knuckles. “You’ve got the hands of someone who doesn’t quite know how to hold a sword properly yet... but desperately wants to.”

I huffed. “Great. Guess I’m obvious.”

“Not to everyone,” he said. “But I’ve been watching people lie about themselves since I was twelve. You’re not very good at it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s rich coming from you.”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

I met his gaze steadily. “You smile too easily. You say the right things. You don’t ask anything directly—you circle around everything like you’re afraid to touch it. You’re not really trying to prove anything to your father, are you?”

He stared at me, unreadable for a second. Then he looked down and laughed softly through his nose. “Gods, you're smarter than you look.”

“Well, thank you for noticing.”

Peisistratus leaned forward, elbows on his knees now. His voice was softer. “You’re not wrong. I mean… yes, I do want my father to see me as more than just the son who didn’t go to Troy. But I also…” He hesitated. “I wanted to meet you.”

I blinked. “Me?”

“Not 'you' you,” he said quickly, then winced. “That sounds wrong. I meant… I wanted to see what kind of boy Odysseus’ son turned out to be. We grew up hearing stories about him. About all of you. Ithaca always felt like this far-off, cursed place no one visited. I guess I wanted to know if the stories were real.”

“And?” I asked, wary. “Do I live up to the stories?”

Peisistratus gave a little shrug. “Not yet."

I blinked again. “Excuse me?”

He chuckled, standing now and offering me a hand. I took it mindlessly, letting him pull me up.

“Don’t laugh at me,” I muttered. “I might still become a legend.”

“I’m counting on it,” he said, walking ahead through the garden. “But until then, I like the angry boy who fell off a ship better.”

I rolled my eyes and followed. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Nope.”

And for the first time in what felt like years, I didn’t mind.

Chapter Text

The morning came in with pale gold, like a quiet apology for the heat to come. I didn’t dream, which felt like a blessing. No storm-tossed seas, no faceless suitors, no empty throne. Just sleep. Honest and still.

I washed my face in the basin beside the doorway, staring into the water like it might give me advice, or at least a warning. It didn’t. I straightened my chiton and stepped out into the courtyard.

And walked directly into someone.

I staggered back with a grunt, blinked... and it was him again. The same wide-eyed boy from yesterday, with the half-open mouth like he was perpetually on the verge of saying “oops.”

He yelped like a startled goat, and then he ran.

Again.

I blinked. “Oh no. Not today.” I ran after him. My sandals slapped the stone like I was chasing a thief, which, I guess I kind of was. “Hey! Wait! Come on, you little—just stop!”

He turned a corner just as I did and—

Smack!

I barreled into a solid chest and nearly fell over. Arms grabbed me before I could hit the dirt.

“Telemachus?”

I looked up. Peisistratus blinked at me, already dressed, already exuding that effortless calm that made me feel like I was always a little too much.

I groaned. “Gods damn it. He ran again.”

Peisistratus tilted his head. “Who ran?”

“That kid!” I flailed in the direction of the corridor. “Same one from yesterday. Skinny. Nervous. Runs like he stole something.”

Peisistratus blinked slowly, like he was flipping through a mental list. “Brown hair, kind of always looks like he’s about to cry? Big eyes? Mumbles a lot?”

I snapped my fingers. “Yes. That. That’s the one.”

He smiled faintly. “That’s just Eratus. He’s a servant here. Very shy.”

I stared at him.

“Shy?” I echoed.

Peisistratus nodded.

“That boy looked like he saw Hades himself. Or like I was Hades.”

“He’s just… easily startled. Don’t take it personally.”

“He literally ran away twice.” I threw up my hands. “Do I have that kind of face?”

Peisistratus stifled a laugh and threw an arm around my shoulder. “You have a face that’s too serious before breakfast. Come on. You’ll feel better with food.”

I sighed, letting him steer me toward the hall. “If he runs again tomorrow, I’m tackling him. Just so we’re clear.”

“Let me know first,” Peisistratus said, amused. “I’ll bring a laurel wreath to crown your victory.”

“Gods,” I muttered, but I smiled anyway.

We walked toward the hall in silence, our footsteps swallowed by the morning hush that still lingered over Pylos. I could hear the gulls crying distantly over the shore, and somewhere, a woman’s laugh echoed faintly—sharp and bright as a dropped coin.

The doors of the palace opened before us like the mouth of some great beast, though there was no menace in it, just the warmth of hearth and bread and the low hum of conversation. I followed Peisistratus in, my sandals soft against the stone, my eyes adjusting to the gold-flecked shadows within.

The table was already laid—bread, olives, dates split open and filled with crushed walnuts, figs that glistened as though freshly plucked. Steam curled from a shallow bowl of lentils. I wasn’t used to this kind of hospitality, this kind of calm. My stomach growled, humiliatingly loud. Peisistratus grinned but said nothing.

We sat. The food was good. The kind that fills you without weighing you down. I was halfway through a piece of bread when King Nestor looked up from his own plate and gave his son that unreadable smile of his. The kind that seems gentle and knowing and vaguely suspicious all at once.

“My son,” he said, tearing off a bit of bread and dipping it into the oil, “why wouldn’t you take our guest around? Show him the stables, the bay, the old tombs. He’s come far to see our coast.”

Peisistratus wiped his hands on a cloth and gave me a glance that was half amused, half dutiful. “Of course, Father,” he said. “I thought to let him rest, but—”

“I’ve rested,” I cut in, surprised by my own voice. “And I’d like to see it. All of it.”

Nestor nodded once, then looked down again at his food.

After breakfast, Peisistratus led me out into the bright morning air, his footsteps sure and steady on the smooth stone paths of Nestor’s palace grounds. The sun was climbing higher now, casting warm light over the terraced gardens where lavender and rosemary thrived, their scents mingling sweetly with the salty breeze drifting in from the sea.

“Come on,” Peisistratus said, with a half-smile that seemed like a secret between us. “I’ll show you around.”

We wandered first to the stables, where strong horses stamped their hooves and flicked their manes. Peisistratus ran a hand along the sleek neck of a dark mare, her eyes calm and steady.

“These are the finest horses in all the region,” he said, watching me carefully. “If you ever plan to ride, I can teach you. It’s not as simple as it looks.”

I smiled, feeling the familiar weight of expectation settle in my chest. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet.”

He just shrugged, but his eyes softened.

From there, he took me down winding paths toward the beach, where the sand gleamed pale under the sun and the sea stretched endlessly, glittering like scattered jewels. The waves whispered secrets as they lapped the shore, cool water brushing over our feet when we dared step in.

“Most people don’t come here unless summoned,” Peisi said, glancing at me. “I thought you might like it.”

The wind tugged at his long hair, golden hoops catching the sunlight. I found myself watching the way he moved—effortless, but careful, like every step had meaning.

We walked side by side, our shadows long and mingling on the sand.

At one point, he stopped and picked up a smooth shell, turning it over in his hand before handing it to me.

“For luck,” he said softly.

I stared at the shell, then at him. His gaze didn’t waver.

The waves whispered softly as we walked side by side, sand cool beneath our feet. I kept stealing glances at Peisistratus — at the way the sunlight caught the golden hoops in his hair, at the calm ease with which he carried himself. It was hard not to compare myself.

“I don’t know,” I said finally, breaking the quiet. “Maybe I’m just too feminine for this—too scared, too soft. I’m not the type to fight and charge into war without a second thought.”

Peisistratus glanced at me, a slow smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “You? Too feminine?”

I snorted. “Don’t make me laugh. I grew up with my mother and her servants. No father figure to teach me how to be a man. I’m all nervous stutters and awkward sword swings.”

Peisistratus shook his head, voice gentle but firm. “You’re quite masculine, honestly. Stern. Serious. You carry yourself like someone who’s had to grow up faster than most. That takes strength, Telemachus—more than just muscle or bravado.”

I looked away, the tide pulling at my toes. His words settled on me, warm and steady, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to believe them yet.

“Maybe,” I said quietly.

We kept walking, the water lapping higher now, soaking the hems of our chitons. Peisistratus didn’t press me for more, which I was grateful for. I liked the silence between us — not heavy, not uncomfortable, just there. Like a place to rest.

Eventually, we came upon a flat stretch of rock jutting into the sea. He leapt up first, then offered me a hand without a word. I hesitated, then took it. His grip was warm, calloused, and sure. When I stood beside him, he didn’t let go right away.

“This was my favorite place when I was younger,” he said, eyes on the horizon. “Before my father started taking me to the war camps. I’d come here and pretend I was a fish instead of a prince.”

I laughed softly. “A fish?”

“Mm. A fast one. Free.”

That word echoed in me, and I wondered what it would feel like to not have all of Ithaca on my shoulders, waiting for a father who might be bones by now.

He glanced at me, catching whatever shift had flickered across my face. “You can breathe here, can’t you?”

I nodded. “More than I have in weeks.”

We sat, knees almost touching, and watched the sea flicker under the sun. A fishing boat bobbed in the distance, and a gull circled above. I could feel my heartbeat in the hollow of my throat, calm but aware.

Peisistratus leaned back on his elbows, letting the wind tug at his hair. “You know,” he said casually, “you’re braver than you think.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You barely know me.”

“I know you sailed to a land of strangers to ask questions most sons are too scared to say out loud. I think that counts.”

I looked down at my hands. There was a burn there, a small scar from trying to cook something over an open flame when I was thirteen. I traced it with my thumb. “Maybe I just needed to do something. Anything.”

“That’s bravery too,” he said.

I got strange prickling sensation behind my ears. Like the kind you get when someone’s watching you—not from across a hall, but from behind a tree.

Peisistratus stopped mid-laugh, fig juice still on his lip. “You feel that?” he said, low.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “That’s not the wind.”

We both stood at the same time, silent as stones, eyes sweeping the orchard. He snatched a branch off the ground like he meant to duel a ghost.

Then, a rustle.

A figure slipped out from behind one of the olive trunks. I blinked.

It was him. Again.

The boy I’d collided with earlier. Twice now.

Peisistratus dropped the branch with a groan. “By the gods, man, you scared the shit out of me.”

The boy didn’t say anything. His eyes were on me, like he was trying to decide whether I was real.

I gave the world’s most awkward wave. “Hi?”

Peisistratus slapped a hand on my back. “Don’t worry, he’s a cool guy. I promise.”

The boy slowly lifted one hand and pulled back his cap.

Underneath: golden-brown skin that caught the sun like bronze. Dark curls that spilled across his forehead. Lips just a little too full for his smirk to look anything but dangerous.

“You look like a—” I started, then hesitated.

Peisistratus cut me off. “He’s from Opus.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling immediately stupid. “Let me be the bigger person, then.”

I stepped forward, extended my hand. “I’m Telemachus. Prince of Ithaca.”

He stared. Unblinking. Then bowed, low and sharp—but didn’t take my hand.

“Eratus,” he said. “My prince.”

Something about the way he said my prince made the hairs on my arms lift. I couldn’t tell if it was sarcasm or reverence—or worse, sincerity.

“Hey,” I said, glancing at Peisistratus. “Why don’t you greet him like that, too? He’s your lord.”

Eratus looked at Peisistratus then, and something in his face shifted. Cold. Calculating.

He didn’t bow.

Peisistratus just laughed under his breath. “Don’t take it personally. He hates everyone.”

“Not true,” Eratus said.

“Oh? Who do you like, then?”

Eratus didn’t answer. Instead, he glanced toward the horizon. “King Nestor is looking for you.”

“Why?” Peisistratus asked.

“I don’t know. But you better go.”

He turned to leave. Just like that. Like he hadn’t slithered out of the trees like a dryad five minutes ago.

“Hey,” Peisi said, catching his wrist before he could vanish again. “Do me a favor later?”

Eratus didn’t pull away, but his fingers twitched. “What.”

“Play the lyre for us?”

A long pause. His eyes flicked between us. His lips parted just slightly—then closed again.

“I’ll think about it.”

And then he was gone.

But the orchard didn’t feel empty.

Not anymore.

We entered the hall of King Nestor, his back straight as an oar, his white beard catching the golden lamplight like sea foam. I started to peel away, thinking this had nothing to do with me. “Alright, I’ll just wait outs—”

“No, no, Prince Telemachus,” Nestor said, gesturing firmly. “Stay. It concerns you as well.”

I stilled, glancing quickly at Peisistratus, who only lifted an eyebrow as if to say don’t look at me. I stepped beside him.

“Menelaus has sent word,” Nestor began. “He wishes for you both to come visit him as soon as the winds allow. Even tomorrow. He has… many things to attend to in the coming weeks, and his time is narrowing.”

“Tomorrow?” Peisistratus said, a bit too sharp, and then cleared his throat. “I mean—so soon?”

“He insists,” Nestor said. “It seems he has more to tell Telemachus than he had time to say before. As for you—” He nodded toward Peisistratus. “He always liked your company. And your songs.”

That made Peisistratus shift on his feet and smile crookedly, muttering something about how flattery from kings ought to come with wine.

Then Nestor turned to me. “Prince Telemachus. Would it be alright if I sent a few of my men with you? To help man the ship and keep you safe on the journey. No charge, of course. I’ll see that they’re well-fed and provisioned.”

I blinked, not expecting that level of hospitality. “Uh—yes. Of course. That’s very kind of you.”

He nodded slowly, like he’d expected no less. “Then you set sail at dawn. You’ll have fair winds. The gods have seen to it.”

Peisistratus and I exchanged a look. So much for one more restful day. But deep down, I couldn’t deny the flutter of anticipation. Maybe I’d find something in Sparta. Maybe someone else would finally know what happened to my father.

As we stepped back toward the guest chambers, Peisistratus suddenly paused, turned on his heel, and called over his shoulder, “Father?”

Nestor turned, already halfway up the dais. “Yes?”

Peisistratus hesitated only a moment, then said, “May Eratus come with us?”

I blinked, surprised. Nestor squinted slightly. “Eratus? But why? He’s just a boy.”

“He may be young, but he’s very wise,” Peisistratus said. “Knows all the names of the gods, every offering, every myth. And he plays the lyre better than any man in Pylos.”

I could see the stubbornness start to flicker behind Peisistratus’ words—not loud, not demanding, but sure.

“He brings peace,” Peisistratus added. “The sailors would sleep easier with his voice at night. So would I.”

Nestor looked at him long and hard. “Yes…” he said at last, slow and thoughtful. “Yes, he may go. But not against his will.”

Then he gave Peisistratus a look that weighed more than words, sharp and old and full of something only fathers knew how to say. “We mustn’t anger the gods by forcing anyone where their spirit does not go freely.”

Peisistratus met his gaze, jaw set, but respectful. “I’ll ask him,” he said. “I won’t make him.”

“See that you don’t,” Nestor said, and left us standing in the long silence of the hall.

As promised, Peisistratus took me to the music room, where Eratus said he'll play the lyre for us.

The music room wasn’t what I expected. It was—well, it was stunning. Light streamed in from high arched windows, catching on the polished wood of instruments lined along the walls like sacred relics. The air held the faint scent of old cedar and oil, and in the far corner, a stand of lyres shimmered under the sun like something out of a dream. For a moment, I just stood there.

“Go on,” Peisistratus said beside me, watching my face with a crooked little smile.

I hesitated, but then my hand found the curve of a lyre and lifted it carefully. It was heavier than I expected. My fingers itched to try, so I sat down on the carved bench and strummed once. The strings buzzed, a bit too sharp.

“You know how to play it?” He asked, crouching nearby, arms resting on his knees. His voice was light, almost teasing.

“A bit,” I said. “Not properly. My mother had someone teach me when I was young, but... Ithaca isn’t exactly known for music. Or time.” I gave a half-hearted chuckle and adjusted the strings again. “It’s not great.”

He said nothing, just nodded. So I started playing a soft, uncertain tune. It was clumsy, yes, but something about the notes, even off-key, felt comforting. Like touching the edge of a memory.

Then I heard it.

A second set of footsteps. Barely there. And then—him.

Eratus stood in the doorway. His hair fell over his brow, uncombed, and his eyes were... unreadable. Quiet fire, maybe. Or quiet judgment. I stopped playing.

“Oh,” I said, straightening up. “Here he is."

“You’re playing it wrong,” he said plainly, not looking at Peisistratus at all. Just me. “You’re disrespecting the god Apollo.”

I blinked. “Sorry? I—how?”

“That melody,” he said, walking in slowly, eyes now on the lyre like it was a wounded animal. “It’s meant to imitate the morning winds above Delos. But you flattened the thirds. Apollo does not walk on broken air.”

I stared at him, unsure whether to be offended or impressed.

Then he sat beside me, barely making a sound. Took the lyre from my hands—not rudely, just... naturally, like he was reclaiming something—and repositioned it on his knee. Then he began to play.

And it wasn’t just better. It was divine.

The melody unfolded like light spilling across the floor. Every note glided into the next, airy but rich, like honey wind. His fingers moved without thought, with ease, like he’d been born with them tuned to music. It felt like time stopped just to listen. The kind of playing that would make Apollo himself turn and smile.

I didn’t speak. I didn’t move.

It wasn’t just that he played well. It was that he meant every note. Like his very soul lived in the sound.

And for some reason I couldn’t explain, my chest felt full. A strange, warm ache. Not jealousy. Not quite admiration either.

Just... something else.

The melody hung in the air like a spell, fragile and golden, and I almost didn’t want to speak, afraid my voice would shatter it. But I said it anyway, because it felt wrong not to.

“That’s… beautiful.”

Eratus looked up from the lyre, a small smile curling at the corner of his lips. “Thank you, my prince.”

I winced. “Don’t call me that. Please. I’m just Telemachus.”

His eyes lingered on me a moment too long before he said, lightly, “But… you are the son of Odysseus, right?”

I nodded. “Yes.” My voice came out lower than I expected.

Then he spoke—softly, but with strange certainty. “Odysseus, of many minds. A weaver of lies and truths. I once heard he tricked a Cyclops not with a blade, but with a name.”

I blinked. “That’s… true,” I said slowly. “How do you know that?”

Eratus tilted his head, a glint in his eye that made something shift in my gut. “Let’s say… the wind tells stories to those who listen.”

That didn’t make sense. I stared at him, trying to piece something together—had he been to Ithaca? Had he met my father? But he looked so young. Not much older than me. And something about the way he said it—it was like he knew more than he should. Or wasn’t allowed to tell me.

I opened my mouth to press further, but Peisistratus cut in, his voice loud in the sudden stillness.

“Eratus,” he said, “will you sail with us tomorrow?”

Eratus blinked. “What? Why?”

Peisistratus looked earnest—gods, he always looked earnest. “Because I believe we’re meant to meet people for a reason. And I think… you’re meant to come with us.”

Eratus laughed, but there was no joy in it. “I’m not strong. I can’t sail. I can’t fight. I’ll only slow you down.”

Peisi shook his head. “Please. Fulfill my wish.” He leaned forward, his voice lowering. “And you’ll get your reward.”

There was a beat of silence.

Eratus stilled. Then slowly, slowly, his expression changed. His eyes—gods, his eyes—sparkled. Like hope had finally remembered it could live inside him.

“Yes,” he said, almost a whisper. “All right. I’ll go.”

And I—sitting right there, close enough to see every shift in his face—had no idea why.

“I don’t understand,” I said, mostly to myself, but Eratus turned to me anyway. The flicker of joy disappeared, replaced with something more distant. Older. Wiser.

“You don’t have to,” he said gently. “Not yet.”

“Not yet?” I asked, almost laughing. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He only smiled, the kind of smile that made you feel like you were standing in front of a temple statue—watched but never truly seen. “Perhaps I’ve heard your father’s name in dreams,” he said. “Or perhaps the wind speaks more than we give it credit for.”

Eratus stared down at the ground like it held the answer to some question none of us had dared to ask. I watched him, unsure if I was supposed to feel pity or fear. There was something about him—something ancient. Like he didn’t fully belong in this world, or perhaps he belonged too much.

That night, as I settled into the guest quarters of Nestor’s palace, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about what Eratus had said. About my father. About dreams and riddles and voices in the wind. I’d come here searching for answers. But all I seemed to find were more questions.

Chapter Text

The first grey hints of dawn stretched like pale fingers across the sky when I stepped out onto the shoreline. The sea was still asleep, its waves barely brushing the pebbled coast. Mist clung low to the ground, softening the outlines of the people already beginning to stir around the ship.

Our vessel—lean, dark-bellied, and noble—rested half in water, its oars tied up like arms folded in slumber. Sailors moved in careful silence, their hands deft with practice: untying knots, checking riggings, oiling the oarlocks. They didn’t speak unless they had to. The morning had the air of ritual, like something between a prayer and a funeral.

I stood still, arms crossed against the soft wind, watching the amber light slide down the masts like melted wax.

Peisistratus emerged a few paces behind me. He was carrying only a satchel, light enough to suggest he didn’t plan on returning anytime soon.

His mother, the Queen, radiant even in age, clutched the folds of her robe too tightly. She said something to him—I couldn't hear what—and Peisistratus leaned in to kiss her forehead. The King gripped his forearm in the manner of warriors and men who say goodbye with their hands because their hearts are too loud to speak.

They held each other like that a moment too long, just long enough for it to hurt.

I looked away.

Eratus was standing awkwardly beside a crate of salted fish, his pale fingers worrying the edge of his robe. He looked like he might bolt if someone coughed too loudly.

I walked toward him, if only to have something to do.

“They’ll call us soon,” I told him.

He looked up. “Will it be... rough? The sea?”

I shrugged. “It depends. It has moods.”

“Like you,” he said before he could help himself. His cheeks went red, and he busied himself with the hem again.

I stood a little off to the side, half-watching, half-lost in the rhythm. The scent of tar and salt stung my nose, and I found myself blinking too often. Maybe from the wind. Or maybe not.

I saw Nestor place both hands on his son’s shoulders. The old man’s back was bowed but his gaze still sharp as a hawk’s, cutting through morning mist and sentiment. “Do not chase glory,” he said. “It will find you if it must. Be just. Be brave. Listen more than you speak... unless your silence costs another their truth.”

Peisistratus nodded, swallowing hard. He looked so young then. Like a boy with his arms full of too many dreams. I felt something catch in my chest and looked away before I could name it.

Nestor continued, quieter now. “And care for the son of Odysseus. Ithaca has long been without its king—do not let its prince be without his friends.”

They both turned to me.

And suddenly I was being looked at like… like I was something precious. Something worth safeguarding. I didn’t know what to do with that. I didn’t grow up with speeches and warm hands on my shoulders. No one had ever looked at me and said “Protect him.” No one had ever looked at me like I needed to be protected.

My throat was tight.

I opened my mouth to say something, to be gracious, to thank the king, but the words weren’t there. Only memories. Of long halls in the palace that echoed when I cried. Of mother pacing in candlelight, her mind always somewhere else. Of arms that were folded, never open. Of longing pressed against the walls of my chest until I mistook it for anger.

I managed a small nod. “Thank you… for trusting me with your son.”

Peisistratus grinned, bright and boyish, and clapped me on the back. “We’ll be fine. What could go wrong with two sons of kings and a very mysterious boy who plays the lyre?”

I tried to smile. I really did.

The ship moved like a great animal waking from sleep. The ropes groaned, the hull creaked, and the sails shivered in the early wind before swelling full. Every sound was sharper in the morning air—oars knocking into their locks, water slapping against the side, the low murmur of men checking knots and counting crates.

The first hour was almost ceremonial. Peisistratus was still on deck with the crew, sleeves rolled, helping the oarsmen get into rhythm. The sea was calm, but I could feel every pull in the soles of my feet as if the ship’s heartbeat was syncing with mine.

The air still smelled faintly of the shore—salt, yes, but also pine resin from the docks and the faint smoke of cooking fires. A smell I knew would fade until it was replaced by nothing but open water.

Peisistratus moved like he belonged here, bare-headed so the wind could catch in his hair, calling out small encouragements to the men at the oars. There was no arrogance in it—just a kind of easy authority, the kind that came from someone raised on the deck, someone whose bloodline had ruled but whose hands had always known rope and wood.

I kept to myself at first. I didn’t know these men, and they didn’t know me. I leaned against the railing, watching the shore shrink behind us. I thought of my mom and her face, always calm, always deliberate. A queen’s mask, I suppose. She had never been cruel, only… reserved. As if affection was something dangerous to give too freely.

When Peisistratus finally stepped beside me, it startled me. He was carrying two cups of watered wine, one in each hand. He handed one to me without ceremony.

"First hour down," he said, glancing out at the open water. "Always the easiest."

I looked at him, searching for the right thing to say. Instead, I drank. The wine was bitter, but warm in my chest.

The second and third hours were slower. The rowing shifted to a steady pace, the sail caught more wind, and we slipped further into the expanse. Conversation started in pockets among the crew—fishing stories, quiet bets on how many days the journey would take.

Peisistratus stayed near me more often than not. He didn’t press me to speak, and I was grateful. But there was something in the way he moved—leaning on the railing when I did, matching his stride to mine when we walked the deck—that made me feel like I was being… seen. Not as the son of Odysseus, or a foreign guest, but as someone worth keeping near.

I told myself it was just politeness. But the way the morning sun caught the edges of his face, the way his voice carried when he spoke to others, low and sure—it lodged itself in my thoughts and refused to leave.

The sea had settled into a steady rhythm beneath us, a rolling cradle of foam and blue. The oarsmen pulled in unison, the timbers groaning softly, while the sail above us strained under a modest breeze. I had been staring out toward the horizon, letting the hypnotic pull of water and sky blur into one endless line, when movement near the prow caught my attention.

Peisistratus was crouched over a wax tablet, his brow furrowed, mouth working soundlessly as if each number tasted bitter. A knotted length of rope was looped beside him—marked at regular intervals—and he kept glancing between it, the sun’s position, and a crude chart spread across a plank. His fingers traced lines and arcs, then hesitated, erased, and tried again.

It took me a moment to realize what he was doing: using the rope’s measurements, the shadow length of the mast, and the sun’s height to calculate our latitude, then matching it to a coastline sketch so we could steer past a dangerous shoal. My father would have known how to do this. I—well, I had taught myself. Years of sitting in my mother’s hall, ignored, had given me plenty of time for the kind of books no one thought I cared to read.

I stepped closer. “Your angle’s off,” I said before I could stop myself.

He looked up sharply, almost defensive. “Off? It’s—”

I didn’t answer, just knelt beside him. My fingers swept the wax clean and redrew the triangle in quick, clean strokes: mast height here, shadow length here, sun’s angle calculated with a fraction I’d memorized from an old mariner’s text. I double-checked with the knotted rope, then aligned the chart so the promontory we were avoiding sat exactly where the calculation placed it.

“That should keep us three ship-lengths clear of the rocks,” I said, handing the stylus back.

Peisistratus blinked at the tablet, then at me, as if he’d just discovered I could speak in some secret tongue. “How—? I’ve been trying to learn that for months. My tutor in Pylos—”

I shrugged, pretending it was nothing. “Someone had to teach himself,” I said. “When no one else would.”

He didn’t reply, but his gaze lingered a moment too long. I turned back toward the sea before he could read anything more on my face.

A little later, after I stood up and wandered towards the stern, I heard his footsteps behind me. “I didn’t know you were that smart,” he said, sounding equal parts impressed and confused.

I shrugged, keeping my eyes on the shifting horizon. “Well, I can’t do anything else, pretty much. I’m just a dumb young man who can’t fight... can’t even fight a fish.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, the kind of laugh that makes you feel like you’ve just let someone in on a good secret. "I’ll teach you how to fight,” he said, a faint grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. “If you teach me… whatever that was.”

I finally looked at him then. His eyes caught the sun, deep and sharp, and his perfect dark curls were clasped into golden hair hoops that flashed when the ship tilted towards the light.

Why is my stomach doing that thing? That twist—like I’ve swallowed a knot of rope that’s tightening every time he looks at me. It’s ridiculous. Maybe I’m seasick. No… that's not possible. This feels different. My hands feel… restless. Like I should be doing something, but I don’t know what. And every time he smiles—gods, it’s like the air gets heavier. This is stupid. He’s just a dude. Just a boy with perfect curls and eyes that catch the sunlight like they own it... then why can’t I look away?

I was still trying to figure out what was wrong with me. My stomach wasn’t settling, my pulse felt too quick for someone just standing there, and every time Peisistratus frowned at the parchment, I wanted to… fix it. Not the parchment. His frown. Gods, I was hopeless.

“Again? What exactly are you doing?” I asked, approaching him again and leaning over his shoulder.

“Trying to work out the bearing,” he muttered. “But the wind keeps shifting and I can’t get the ratios to work out. You need—” He trailed off, rubbing his forehead. “This is more advanced than anything my tutors bothered with.”

I blinked. “It’s just trigonometric projection.”

He stared at me. “Just… what?”

Without thinking, I sat down beside him, taking the stylus. “Look. You’re trying to measure the distance from our current point to the island on the horizon, right? And account for the current?”

“Yes,” he said, still a bit incredulous.

“Alright, first, you need to know your baseline.” I drew a horizontal line across the tablet, marking our position on the left, the island on the right. “Measure your angle of sight from the prow at two different positions—half a stadion apart.”

He nodded slowly, watching my hands.

"Then,” I continued, sketching two intersecting lines, “you form two triangles. The distance between the base points is known. The angles,” I pointed, “you already measured. From there, it’s just applying the law of sines.”

His eyebrows shot up. “The law of what?”

“You know... ratio of the side to the sine of the opposite angle is constant.” I flipped the paper and worked it out:

a/sinA = b/sinB = c/sinC

He looked at me in a way that made the rope in my stomach twist again.

“What?” I asked.

“You make it look easy,” he said quietly. “Like the sea just… tells you its secrets.”

That made me want to laugh, except my throat was suddenly dry. "It’s just knowing how to ask the right questions,” I said, and it came out softer than I meant.

He didn’t take his eyes off me for a moment too long. And gods help me, I didn’t look away either.

Peisistratus hesitated for a second, then took the pen from me with a shy smile that somehow made my heart skip. “Alright, teach me again.”

His fingers brushed mine for a moment and I could almost swear the air thickened. I shook my head, focusing. No distractions.

“Okay,” I said, “start with the baseline.”

He leaned closer than necessary, his shoulder brushing against mine. I could feel the heat there, and I struggled to keep my eyes on the writing instead of him. “Now, measure the angle of sight.”

He squinted, tilting the paper this way and that, lips slightly parted in concentration. I reached out to gently steady his hand when it wobbled. “Here,” I said softly, “like this.” My fingers wrapped around his wrist for a brief second, steadying the pen.

His breath hitched, and I felt it too—something fragile and electric threading between us.

Peisistratus looked up, meeting my gaze, and for a moment the world shrank down to just the two of us, sitting side by side on that creaking deck. “This makes zero sense to me,” he murmured.

“It’s practice,” I replied, trying to sound casual though my voice betrayed me with a slight tremble.

We moved through the calculations slowly, me guiding his hand and his eyes never leaving mine. When he made a small mistake, I gently corrected him, fingers brushing as I pointed to the right spot.

“See?” I said, “You’ve got it.”

A shy smile spread across his face, and I found myself wanting to memorize that smile—the way it softened his features, made him look almost vulnerable in a way no one ever saw.

The ship rocked gently beneath us, the salty breeze carrying the scent of the sea, and I realized I wasn’t thinking about the dangers that lay ahead or the looming war or the suitors waiting back home. I was just here. Now. With him.

And suddenly, that knot in my stomach felt less like fear and more like… something else. Something I was only just beginning to understand.

As I guided Peisistratus’ hand, I couldn’t help but notice how close we were sitting. His warmth seeped through the thin fabric of his tunic, and the faint scent of olive oil and cedarwood lingered around him. Why does my stomach feel like it’s twisting into knots again? I asked myself, but the answer slipped away before I could catch it.

Why am I so distracted by the way his dark curls fall over his forehead? Why does the simple touch of his wrist send a shiver up my arm? I shook my head, scolding myself. This isn’t the time for daydreams. We have a journey ahead, and I need to be focused.

Still, every time our eyes met, I felt an unfamiliar heat rising in my chest. What is this feeling? Is it fear? Excitement? Longing? Or something I don’t even have the words for yet?

I’ve never had someone beside me like this—not truly beside me. My mother’s love was distant, wrapped up in duty and silence. And my father… well, he’s been a ghost in my life, a shadow I can’t grasp. But Peisistratus—he’s here, real, and somehow, that makes everything else seem both smaller and bigger at once.

I wanted to focus on the numbers, the angles, the calculations. But my mind kept wandering to the softness of his smile, the way his eyes sparkled when he finally got the measurement right.

I looked away quickly, forcing myself to concentrate again, but inside, my heart was quietly racing.

The next day, Peisistratus was demonstrating a complicated move—something with a sudden twist and shift of balance. I tried to follow, but as I twisted, my foot caught on bent piece of the ship's floor so I stumbled, and before I could even catch myself, Peisistratus was right there, his body crashing down on top of me.

I could feel the steady beat of his heart above me, and it was like a live wire against my own. His dark curls tickled my cheek, and the faint, clean scent of him filled my senses. My skin prickled where we touched—every nerve suddenly alive in a way that made my limbs feel heavy but my stomach twist with a strange, urgent heat.

A tight, unfamiliar pressure bloomed low inside me, spreading warmth that was nothing like the cold morning air around us. My chest tightened, a flutter so intense it almost made me dizzy. My face flamed hotter than ever, and my hands shook as I tried to push him off—not because I wanted to, but because my brain screamed “Don’t let him see this.”

No, it’s not that. It’s the fall. It’s embarrassment. It’s just the heat of being pinned down, I told myself desperately. It’s nothing to do with him. Nothing.

But my body betrayed me—my heart raced, my breath hitched again, and my skin tingled in places I couldn’t admit to even myself. The tightness deep inside me refused to fade. I swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the grass as if staring at it long enough might make the feeling go away.

When Peisistratus finally shifted, breaking the contact, I felt a sudden emptiness where the heat had been, like a flame snuffed out too soon.

I forced myself to sit up straighter, clearing my throat. “I—I’m fine,” I said, voice tight. “Just clumsy.”

He smiled, oblivious to the storm inside me. And I, stubborn and confused, pretended I didn’t want to sink right back into that warmth.

Peisistratus finally stepped back, brushing off his tunic as if nothing had happened. My chest still felt tight, my breath oddly shallow, the imprint of his weight lingering like a phantom across my ribs. I busied myself adjusting my belt, telling myself it was just the heat from the training, the closeness, the adrenaline—nothing more. Absolutely nothing more. Gods, why did my legs feel like they didn’t quite belong to me?

He murmured something about talking to the sailors and walked off, his shoulders moving with that calm, unhurried confidence that made my throat dry. I rubbed at my face, hoping the flush would fade before anyone saw—

“Enjoying yourself?”

I flinched. Eratus stood there, grinning like a cat who’d just caught me with a stolen fish.

“What?” My voice cracked embarrassingly, so I cleared my throat. “What are you talking about?”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting with mischief. Then he said something in that old Attic phrasing that half of me understood, half of me didn’t—a lilting little jab that sounded harmless but made my ears burn.

“What does that mean?” I asked sharply.

He smirked, switching to my dialect. “It means, I know a man who likes other men when I see one.”

I froze. The words hit me like an oar to the side of the head. “HEY! You... you little—!” I stepped toward him, hands half-raised, but he was already laughing, dodging back.

“I’m just saying,” he teased, “the way you looked at him… I’ve seen sailors look at wine like that.”

My mouth opened, then closed. I wanted to argue—gods, I wanted to argue—but instead I muttered, “I was just… hot from training.”

Eratus gave me a look that said he didn’t believe me for a heartbeat. “Sure. Very hot.”

I made a strangled noise, turning away before my face betrayed me further. The nerve of him. The absolute nerve. And yet, somewhere under my irritation, my heart was pounding again.

Eratus’ sandals scuffed softly against the packed dirt as he trailed behind me like some smug little shadow.

I stopped, spun halfway. “Why are you acting like a cat? Get away from my legs.”

He just smiled—the kind of smile that’s all teeth and not a single ounce of apology.

“I’m not acting like a cat,” he said. “Cats are quieter.”

I groaned, turning back toward the courtyard. “Don’t you have something to do?”

“No.”

I glanced over my shoulder. “No?”

He shrugged, still on my heels. “I’m only a peasant, what can I do?"

That made me stop again. “No way. No peasant is as smart as you at your age.”

His eyes brightened in that sly, infuriating way. “So you think I’m smart?”

“I think you’re… unnervingly quick. There’s a difference. How old are you even?” I asked, squinting at him. “Your voice hasn’t even changed yet.”

He tilted his head, almost birdlike. “I don’t know.”

That threw me. “You don’t know?”

“I don’t know when I was born.”

The way he said it—casual, but with something hollow under it—made the air feel heavier for just a moment. I opened my mouth to push, to ask more, but Eratus only smirked again, and somehow the weight of the moment slipped away like water off a stone.

I frowned. “What do you mean, you don’t know? You’ve got to know when you were born.”

“I don’t.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Eratus said, tilting his head like a bird assessing prey. “When you are outside the count of seasons, numbers stop meaning anything.”

I stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

Instead of answering directly, he said, “Some days I am older than the trees. Some days I am younger than the wind. Today…” He smiled again, sharper this time. “Today I am younger than you.”

The words sent a shiver crawling down my spine.

“Alright,” I said warily, “you’re… weird. You know that?”

He tilted his head. “You ask too much and too little at the same time. Like a man with a cup in the river who’s afraid to fill it.”

I stared at him, uncertain whether to be annoyed or unsettled. His riddles were starting to itch in my head. I was about to tell him to stop when I finally looked him in the eyes—really looked—and my breath caught.

They weren’t just brown. They weren’t hazel. They glistened gold. Not like sunlight—sunlight is warm and human. This was gold like the metal itself: ancient, unyielding, and far too sharp for the boyish face it belonged to.

Eratus smiled again, but it wasn’t the kind you give a friend. It was the kind that knows more than it should.

Eratus’s shadow fell across my shoulder before he spoke.
“You know… I don’t understand why he favours you so much.”

My breath hitched. “What are you talking about?”

He tilted his head, catlike again, but this time his gaze was too sharp, too knowing. “You visited his island, didn’t you?”

I frowned. “Whose island? Pylos?"

Eratus’s smile stretched—not kind, not cruel, but too thin, too deliberate. “No. The one in your dreams.”

That made me pause. The back of my neck prickled. “What?”

“In the dream,” he went on, as though narrating something I’d forgotten, “there was music. A boy with quick fingers, plucking strings. Sunlight burning the sea gold. That was Delos.”

I stared at him. My mouth was suddenly dry. “Polites,” I muttered, remembering it clearly now—the sound of a lyre, the salt-heavy wind, the water so bright it hurt to look at.

Eratus’s eyes glistened then—gold again, flashing like molten metal in the sun. My pulse thudded in my ears.

“That was Delos,” he repeated softly, “and the god saw you there. He sees you still.”

I swallowed. “The god? Apollo? Wait, no, I’m just—”

“A thread,” Eratus interrupted, “in a tapestry you can’t see. A note in a song you didn’t write. A shadow cast by a sun you never asked for.”

I stepped back without meaning to. “You’re not making sense.”

“That’s because you’re still walking the road blind,” he said, voice almost gentle. “But the road knows you.”

The way he looked at me then—like he knew exactly what I would dream tonight—made my stomach twist.

His strange smile lingered, his voice dropping into that low, almost humming register that made every word seem older than him. "Ἐν τῷ λυκαυγὲς τέκνον τοῦ τόξου βαδίζει· φῶς χρυσὸν ἐν φλεβῶν αὐτοῦ, αἷμα ἀπὸ θεοῦ."

The syllables rolled like distant thunder. Before I could ask what it meant, Eratus had already stepped away.

I stood frozen, the words echoing in my skull. I mouthed them again, haltingly, dragging scraps of his tutor’s lessons from memory.

“At the wolf’s-light… the child of the bow walks… golden light in his veins… blood from a god.”

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Child of the bow? That was Apollo’s epithet. But... does Apollo even have mortal children or...

And yet—gold in the veins. The memory of Eratus’ eyes glistening like molten sunlight burned in my mind.

Suddenly, the grove seemed darker.

Chapter Text

The wood creaked softly as I went to the sleeping areas, only to find a shadow already there, stretched out on the other side of the shared sleeping space.

“What—what are you doing here?” I whispered.

Peisistratus chuckled, that deep, easy kind of laugh that made it sound like everything in the world was fine. “Would you rather share with Eratus?”

“…Umm,” I started, unsure why my mind blanked at the thought.

“Gods, prince,” he teased, “you’re spoiled, aren’t you? You like your personal space.”

“It’s not— I just—”

“Well, you’d better get used to it. One day you’ll be married.”

Married. Right.

I kept my face still, but in my head the thought was sharper: I haven’t even seen a woman—other than my mother, my grandmother, and my aunt—since I was born.

The ship swayed, ropes creaking outside. I turned my head—and froze.

Peisistratus was undressing. No hesitation, no awareness of me watching. Just pulling his chiton over his head in one smooth motion, revealing that tanned, carved-looking torso I’d only caught glimpses of before. Shoulders broad and golden in the lamplight, every line of muscle moving like it had been shaped for the sole purpose of… being looked at.

I caught myself staring and shook my head. “H-hey! Why are you stripping in front of me?”

He glanced over his shoulder, smirking. “Come on, prince Telemachus, we’re both men.”

That smirk. The bare skin. The warm flicker of the oil lamp along the ridges of his collarbones.
I could feel my ears heating.

“What?” he said, stepping closer now, barefoot, the deck giving just slightly under each step. “Never undressed in front of other men?”

I swallowed. “Uh—n-no! I did. Obviously.” The words came out thin, stretched, obviously false, but I didn’t dare correct myself.

To prove it—or something equally stupid—I started taking off my own chiton. The cool air brushed over my chest, my skin prickling in the sudden exposure.

I turned to the little bronze mirror mounted on the wall. My reflection looked… slight. Soft. Untouched. Next to him, in the background of the mirror, Peisistratus looked like a sculpture—one of those war-hero statues in the agora.

I dropped my gaze.

Then his voice: “Wow, gentle boy.” I looked up sharply, and in the mirror I saw him smiling—not mocking, but soft. “You look like the gods molded you.”

The words went through me like an arrow. My heart kicked hard, and my chest felt too tight for a moment. I told myself—brotherly comment, that’s all. Nothing else.

Trying to match the tone, I blurted, “You, uh… you look like—you could make Ares jealous.” As soon as it left my mouth, I knew it sounded… wrong. Too much.

I winced and tacked on, “Appreciate it, bro.”

Peisistratus’s face shifted, almost imperceptibly, but I caught it. The faintest blush across his cheekbones, quickly half-hidden as he turned away.

I didn’t know what to make of that, and I really didn’t want to know.

We sat cross-legged on the bedding, the low hum of the sea just beyond the wooden walls. My head was bent over my own hands, pretending to fidget with the edge of my blanket, but out of the corner of my eye I noticed Peisistratus reaching up to his hair.

The golden hoops—those intricate little clasps that kept his curls bound—came loose one by one, each making a soft click against each other as he set them on the bedding beside him. His movements were unhurried, almost ceremonial, and I found myself watching without meaning to.

When the last one was gone, he shook his head lightly. The curls fell forward and then back, catching the lamplight in dark, warm waves. Freed from the bindings, his hair seemed to swell into its full volume, spilling around his shoulders like a lion’s mane.

It was the kind of thing you saw on the statues of heroes—frozen in marble, eternally perfect. Only this was alive.

I realized my eyes were fixed, my chest too still, and I forced myself to glance away, like the sight was nothing worth noticing. But even turned away, I could see it in my mind: the dark gold sheen, the curve of his neck now exposed where the clasps had held the hair tight.

My stomach tightened again, though I told myself it was just from the motion of the ship.

Peisistratus yawned, murmured a soft “Good night, Prince,” and rolled onto his side, turning his back to me. His hair spilled across the bedding like a shadow. The lamplight flickered once, then went out, leaving only the dark sway of the cabin.

I lay there, staring at the wooden beams overhead. The boards creaked softly with the ship’s movement, but my mind wouldn’t still. Every time I closed my eyes, I found them opening again—my thoughts darting between home, the open sea, and the strange warmth in my chest that came when Peisistratus smiled.

Somewhere between one wave and the next, sleep finally took me.

It wasn’t peaceful.

I was standing on the deck in broad daylight, but the sky overhead was black and green, a storm that had no beginning. The waves were taller than the mast, the ship groaning and screaming as wood splintered under the strain.

And then I heard it—laughter. Deep, rolling laughter that seemed to come from inside the sea itself.

The horizon tore open, and from it rose a figure so vast I could barely comprehend it. Bronze skin glistened with seawater, hair like tangled seaweed, eyes burning like storms. A trident glimmered in one massive hand.

Poseidon.

He didn’t speak, not in words, but his gaze bored into me—into my bones—and I understood.

You don’t belong here.

You will be swallowed.

The waves surged toward us, faster than thought. Sailors screamed. I could hear Peisistratus calling my name somewhere, but my feet wouldn’t move. The deck tilted violently. A mast cracked and fell, missing me by an arm’s length. Salt water blasted into my face, stinging my eyes and burning my throat.

And then the trident came down—not striking the ship, but the sea itself. The impact sent up a wall of water so huge it blotted out the sky. It collapsed toward us with a roar louder than war.

The last thing I saw before the water took me was Peisistratus’s face—his arm outstretched, reaching for me—and then the wave swallowed us whole.

Salt burned my lungs as I thrashed in the dark, sinking deeper, the light above getting farther and farther away. My chest was going to burst. I opened my mouth to scream—only water came in. My vision dimmed.

And just before it all went black, I felt something—like a hand on my shoulder, firm, holding me still. But when I turned to see whose it was, there was nothing there but the cold, endless sea.

“Telemachus… Telemachus… hey! Telemachus!”

The voice came from far away at first—muffled, as if I were still underwater—but then it cut through the darkness sharply. My eyes flew open.

I jolted upright with a gasp, my chest heaving, sweat clinging to my skin. For a moment, I couldn’t tell if the creak beneath me was the deck of the ship or the boards in my nightmare. My breaths came too fast, my vision flickering between the dim cabin and the memory of the wave swallowing us whole.

“Hey, hey—it’s fine, it was just a dream, Telemachus.”

Peisistratus’s voice was close, low and steady. He was sitting right next to me, one knee drawn up, his hair messy from sleep.

“It—It was Poseidon,” I blurted, my words tumbling out too fast to control. “There—there were screams—people—there was a storm—” I swallowed hard, my chest tightening as if the salt water was still inside me. “You were—” My voice broke. “You were drowning, and I was drowning, and—”

I couldn’t breathe. My hands were shaking.

“Hey, hey—look at me.”

He cupped my face in both hands, warm palms holding me still. “Look at me, Telemachus. You’re safe. You’re okay.”

His voice was firm, not asking—commanding me back into the present. I forced my eyes up to his, saw only deep calm there, nothing of the storm. My breaths started to slow, but the trembling stayed. And then, without warning, it all broke.

I cried. Not the silent, tight-jawed kind—I was sobbing.

Peisistratus blinked, his thumbs still resting against my cheekbones. “What’s wrong?”

“This is so embarrassing,” I choked out between gulps of air. “I’m—I’m just a baby. When I’m supposed to be a man. I was babied my whole life, I—” My throat tightened so hard it hurt. “I can’t survive the open sea. I can’t—”

“Hey,” Peisistratus interrupted, his voice sharper this time, cutting right through my spiral. “That’s not true. You sailed to Pylos with no knowledge, no teaching about sailing. That is bravery, Telemachus.”

His eyes didn’t leave mine. “You’re already doing it.”

Peisistratus didn’t move his hands right away. He kept them on my face until my breathing stopped rattling in my chest. His thumbs moved slowly, not quite stroking, but grounding me—just enough warmth to remind me I wasn’t in that black water anymore.

“Better?” he asked softly.

I nodded, my throat still raw. “Yeah.”

He hesitated, studying me as if checking for cracks, then finally let his hands drop. We lay back down, facing opposite directions, but my mind wouldn’t let go of the storm. I could still hear the timbers splitting, smell the sea foam. My body tensed on its own, as if bracing for the next wave.

And then the shivers started.

It wasn’t the cold, I knew that. My blanket was pulled up to my chin, but something inside me still shook, like my bones were remembering drowning.

I didn’t say anything, but Peisistratus must have noticed.

The bedding shifted behind me. A slow, deliberate movement. Then an arm, solid and warm, slipped over my side, settling across my ribs. I froze, caught somewhere between alarm and… something else I couldn’t name. His chest pressed gently into my back, his breath warm against my neck.

He didn’t say a word, just tightened his arm slightly, enough that I could feel the weight of him, enough that the shivering began to ebb. My muscles, one by one, unclenched.

The ship creaked quietly around us, and I became painfully aware of how close we were. I could feel his heartbeat against my spine—steady, unbothered, like the sea on a windless day. My own was still too fast, and the difference made something twist low in my stomach.

I told myself it was just relief.

His hand rested against my sternum, not gripping, but anchoring me there, keeping me from drifting away into another nightmare. The warmth spread from where his arm wrapped around me, down into my legs, loosening the last of the shaking.

“Sleep,” he murmured into my hair, so quietly I almost thought I imagined it.

I closed my eyes.

But sleep didn’t come right away. Nt because of the fear, but because every time he exhaled against my neck, my stomach did that strange, restless lurch again.

I woke to the sound of gulls.

The deck above us creaked with the footsteps of sailors starting their morning, but the first thing I became aware of wasn’t the noise. It was the weight.

An arm, still slung heavily over my side.

Peisistratus’s arm.

I froze, every muscle going stiff, even though part of me screamed to keep still and not ruin whatever this… arrangement was. The heat from his body was still wrapped around me like an extra blanket, his chest rising and falling against my back in the slow rhythm of sleep.

He was still asleep. I had woken up first.

My mind spun. What was I supposed to do? Wiggle out? Pretend I was still sleeping? Gods, why was my heart beating so fast? This wasn’t… I mean, it wasn’t that. It was just Peisistratus being… Peisistratus.

Strong.

Warm.

Safe.

But my skin burned everywhere we touched—his forearm against my ribs, his breath ghosting over the back of my neck. The urge to shift closer fought with the urge to leap away before he woke up and realized I’d been enjoying this.

The worst part? My body had relaxed so much in his hold that I’d practically molded myself against him during the night. My calf hooked slightly over his, our knees brushing. It felt too close. Too comfortable.

I swallowed hard, trying to blame it on the cramped sleeping quarters. Ships didn’t exactly allow for privacy.

His breathing changed just slightly, and I panicked, shutting my eyes tight like a child caught awake after curfew.

A low hum came from behind me. “Mm… you stopped shaking,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

I wanted to disappear into the bedding. “Y-yeah. I guess I… slept okay.”

He gave a soft, satisfied noise, and—gods help me—his arm squeezed me once, firmly, before withdrawing. The absence of his warmth was immediate, and more jarring than it should have been.

By the time I sat up, he was already stretching, golden hair catching the early light like some lion-headed hero. He glanced at me with that lazy, gentle smile, completely unaware that my stomach had just dropped into my sandals.

“Morning, prince,” he said, ruffling my already-messy hair like I was some boyhood friend instead of… whatever I was supposed to be to him.

I forced a scoff. “Stop calling me that.”

But my voice cracked halfway through, and I could still feel the phantom weight of his arm around me as I reached for my sandals.

I could hardly look at him.

It wasn’t that I was angry. It wasn’t even that I thought what happened in the night was inappropriate. No—what burned in my chest was far worse. It was shame.

Not because Peisistratus had been kind to me. But because I’d… enjoyed it too much.

Every time I caught a glimpse of his dark curls in the morning light or saw the way his tunic clung to his shoulders, my stomach twisted, and the memory of his arm around me came flooding back. His warmth. The way my breathing had matched his. The quiet safety of it.

Gods, I hated myself for replaying it in my head.

So, I avoided him.

When he went to the prow, I found work at the stern. When he busied himself with the rigging, I made a show of examining the oarsmen. If he caught my eye across the deck, I immediately looked away, pretending to study the clouds or the waves or even the chipped paint on the ship’s rail.

It was pathetic. And I knew it.

At one point, just after midday, I heard his voice behind me—close. “Telemachus—hey, wait a moment.”

The sound of my name on his tongue sent a stupid jolt through me, but before I could answer, one of the sailors shouted over from the mast, “Prince! We need your eyes on the map!”

I latched onto the excuse like it was a lifeline. Turning toward the sailor, I pretended I hadn’t heard Peisistratus at all. “Coming!” I called back, walking quickly—too quickly—away from him.

The man had the chart spread out over a crate, a mess of lines and angles scratched in charcoal. They were trying to judge our exact position in relation to a chain of islands barely visible on the horizon.

I knelt beside the chart, grateful—desperately grateful—for the distraction. Numbers. Geometry. Wind angles. Things I could understand. Things that didn’t make my palms sweat for inexplicable reasons.

I set to work, tracing the measurements with my finger, adjusting the drawn lines according to the wind’s shift since morning. My mind went into that familiar, sharp focus: calculating the estimated drift from our course, applying corrections based on the oarsmen’s average speed, comparing the shadows of the mast to the angle of the sun.

I murmured the numbers under my breath, more to keep myself grounded than to help the others follow along. Anything to keep my thoughts away from last night. Anything to stop remembering how it had felt to be pressed back into the safety of another person’s warmth.

By the time I’d finished and circled the spot on the map where we likely were, I could breathe again. I handed the charcoal back, telling myself the reason I was tense had nothing to do with him.

It was just embarrassment. I was simply ashamed of being the weaker one. Of being the boy who shook from a nightmare while the other was steady and strong. That was all.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

I almost made it through the whole day without him catching me. Almost.

The sun was sinking, the sky burning that molten orange it gets before dark, and I thought I’d successfully avoided every possible situation where we might be alone. But as I slipped between two crates near the stern to check the ropes, a shadow blocked my way.

“Telemachus.” He was right there. Arms crossed, curls catching the last light, eyes fixed on me in that calm-but-annoyed way only he could manage.

I tried to sidestep him. “I was just—”

“You’ve been dodging me all day,” he said.

“No, I haven’t,” I muttered, sounding about as convincing as a child denying he stole honey while still licking his fingers.

“You have,” he said plainly.

I sighed, shoulders tightening. “I just… had things to do. You know. Calculations. Maps. Numbers don’t avoid storms like people do.”

His brow arched. “And here I thought it was because you were embarrassed about last night.”

That made my stomach twist instantly. “I wasn’t embarrassed,” I snapped, maybe a little too fast. “I mean—well, maybe I was. But not like that. Just… I shouldn’t have been so… I don’t know. Weak.”

“You weren’t weak.” His tone was so steady, it irritated me. “You were scared. And anyone with sense would have been.”

“Yeah, well, I hate it,” I grumbled, folding my arms. “I hate feeling like… like you’re the strong one and I’m just—just—”

“The gentle one,” he cut in.

The words hit me weird. Not an insult, not quite a compliment, but something in between. I looked away quickly, muttering, “That’s not even a real quality.”

“It’s rarer than you think,” he said quietly.

The silence that followed was awful—like the deck itself was listening, waiting for me to say something back. I shifted my weight, eyes still fixed anywhere but on him. “Fine. I… appreciate what you did. Last night. But don’t… don’t expect me to get all—”

“—sentimental?” he guessed, smiling faintly.

“Yes. Exactly.”

And that was that. A truce, of sorts. Neither of us had confessed anything—not that there was anything to confess, obviously—but the tension in my chest loosened a fraction.

One of the sailors’ voices rang out across the deck. “Prince Telemachus! Prince Peisistratus! Food’s on!”

The call of roasted fish and bread—and more importantly, wine—was too tempting to ignore. We walked toward the group, the smell of smoke and sea-salt filling the air. I made sure to keep just enough space between us to be safe from… whatever last night had been, but not so far that it looked strange.

The wine had been flowing for a while by the time the conversation turned from fish prices to wives—and, predictably, to things I really didn’t need to hear in such vivid detail.

One man laughed so loud it almost drowned out the sea. “Ah, but nothing warms the bones like a wife waiting with a full bed on a cold night.”

Another chimed in, grinning at his own cup. “Or not a wife. Sometimes better that way.”

A third elbowed Peisistratus. “You, prince—look at you, all broad shoulders and proper manners. Bet there’s someone waitin’ to drag you into their bed the moment you hit shore, eh?”

Peisistratus chuckled, the sound low, his cheeks faintly touched by the wine. Not drunk—he always held himself steady—but warm enough to let them tease. “Maybe,” he said, smiling.

“Oh-ho!” the first sailor crowed. “And who’s the lucky lady?”

He didn’t hesitate. “A scholar’s daughter in Pylos. We’ve been engaged for some time.”

I swear I felt something in my chest drop like a stone into the sea. I kept my face still—at least I think I did—but suddenly the wine in my cup tasted bitter, my ears felt hot.

Engaged.

Of course he was. He was a prince, handsome, strong. People like him had futures laid out—marriages that linked noble houses, names recorded in history. It wasn’t like that should bother me. Not in the slightest.

Still… my stomach knotted so tight it hurt.

The sailors gave him approving noises and toasts, clinking their cups with his. I stared at the dark surface of my wine, feeling… angry? No. Not angry. Just—disappointed? Frustrated? Gods, I didn’t know. It was normal. Entirely normal. That’s what I told myself. Again and again.

Then someone’s voice cut in—too close, too loud. “And what about you, prince Telemachus? Got a girl waitin’ for you back in Ithaca?”

Every head turned.

“I—” The word caught in my throat. I couldn’t say no—that would only invite more questions. So I forced a smile I didn’t feel and shrugged like it was nothing. “Well, there’s someone,” I lied. “A noble girl. You wouldn’t know her.”

They laughed and slapped my back like I’d just passed some test of manhood, but all I could think about was the fact that the lie had felt like sand in my mouth.

I left before the wine made my head too heavy to think. Truth was, I didn’t even want to be there anymore. Every laugh from the sailors, every jibe about wives, every casual toast in Peisistratus’s direction—it all pressed against my ribs like they were trying to crack.

The cool night air on deck hit me sharp, like a bucket of seawater. I leaned on the railing, staring at the moon’s reflection breaking apart on the waves. If I stayed long enough, maybe the cold would chase out whatever was knotting in my chest.

“Sulking doesn’t suit you, my prince.”

I stiffened. Eratus was leaning casually against a mast, like he’d been there the whole time, watching.

“I’m not sulking,” I muttered, eyes fixed on the water. “Just wanted fresh air.”

“Mhm.” He walked toward me with that infuriating way of moving. Like a cat who knew it owned the deck. “Your friend is engaged. That’s what’s got you so stormy.”

My head whipped around. “What—? No! That’s ridiculous.”

His smile was small and knowing. “It is only ridiculous if you think you are unaffected. And you are very affected.”

I laughed, short and hollow. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Eratus tilted his head, eyes catching the moonlight in that unsettling way—like there was something molten beneath the surface. “Oh, I know things, my prince. Like how the heart sometimes notices before the mind does. You look at him and you do not understand why it feels like the wind has left your sails.”

I swallowed, hard. “You’re just saying riddles again.”

“Am I?” His tone was airy, but there was steel under it. “Or perhaps I simply name what you fear to name.”

“Fear to—? You’re insane.” I turned back toward the water, but I could feel his gaze still pressing into me.

Eratus came to stand beside me, hands tucked into his sleeves like some priest delivering an omen. “The son of a king, adrift on the sea, wishing for something he cannot claim. It is not a new story.”

I wanted to shove him overboard. I wanted him to stop looking at me like he could see every thought I’d been choking down since Pylos. But at the same time… some ugly part of me wanted him to keep talking, to explain me to myself, because I clearly wasn’t doing a great job of it.

Instead, I just said, “You don’t know me, Eratus.”

He leaned closer, voice a whisper that almost got stolen by the wind. “Don’t I?”

When I turned to look, his eyes caught the moonlight, the gold in them glinting unmistakably. For half a heartbeat, I forgot to breathe.

And then, before I could ask, before I could demand an explanation, he was already walking away, his steps light and unhurried, like he hadn’t just dropped an anchor in my chest.

I made it to the sleeping area first, long before anyone else stirred. The air was thick, heavy with the day’s heat and the lingering scent of salt from the ship, clinging to the wooden beams like a stubborn perfume. I lay on my back, staring at the shadows the lanterns cast along the ceiling, trying to think about anything but the memory of Peisistratus at dinner—his posture, that faint curl of a smile, the way he moved like he belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once.

But my thoughts refused to stay still. The sailors’ crude laughter echoed in my mind—their talk of their wives, their hands, their laughter, their crude, intimate jokes—and for some reason, my body had responded. The warmth that had been comfortable moments ago now crawled through me, rising along my chest, my arms, my stomach. I told myself it was the heat, the close walls, the motion of the ship, anything but what I knew deep down.

I shifted, trying to cool myself, but even that movement sparked something unexpected. My fingertips brushed against my skin, and every touch felt magnified, like a torch flaring inside me, lighting nerve endings I didn’t even know I had. My heart raced, my breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts, and the more I told myself to think about anything else, the more vivid the sensations became.

Words looped in my mind—gentle, brave, steady, strong. I remembered the way Peisistratus had corrected my stance when teaching me to fight, the warmth of his body pressed against mine during that clumsy training fall, the quiet laugh that had followed. I could almost feel the ghost of his hands, firm but careful, guiding me, steadying me, and my chest clenched in a way I couldn’t explain.

I closed my eyes, trying to picture the noble girl I lied about that didn't even exist. I tried, truly, but her perfect imagined face kept melting away, replaced by him—the curve of his jaw, the golden hoops glinting in his hair, the faint smile that made my stomach twist in a way I had no name for. My pulse thundered in my ears. My hands, moving as if they had a mind of their own, traced the lines of my ribs, down my stomach, over my thighs. Every brush of skin against skin felt like fire.

The sensations built slowly, torturously, until they became unbearable, coiling in my chest and legs, tightening until my whole body ached for release. I tried to reason with myself. It was the heat, the close quarters, the wine at dinner, anything. Not him. Surely not him.

But my mind refused to listen. My thoughts kept spiraling, obsessing, imagining. The warmth, the gentle hands, the low laughter—they weren’t hers. Not a woman’s. They were his. Only his.

And then the wave broke. The heat, the panic, the impossibility of it all—it hit me in a rush, a pulse so intense it made my toes curl, my back arch, my chest hammer. I gasped, buried my face in the pillow, and my body shivered with a force I couldn’t name. My skin burned, and yet a cold, delicious panic ran through me at the same time.

When it passed, I lay there, heart racing, chest tight, mind spinning. I told myself it was nothing—wine, embarrassment, the shame of being weak, being spoiled, being inferior. Anything but the truth I couldn’t admit to myself: I had been thinking about him the whole time. The scholar’s daughter, the imagined woman, the stories of sailors and wives—they weren’t what had fired me up. It was him.

I shivered again, half in residual heat, half in dread, and pressed my face into the pillow, willing sleep to take me again, willing my heart to stop thundering, willing my mind to stop replaying the impossible, overwhelming, unbearable truth.

Chapter Text

I didn’t even remember closing my eyes. One moment I’d been staring at the ceiling beams in the dark, the ship rocking gently beneath me, and the next… murmurs. Faint, low voices, floating in from outside the sleeping area.

I blinked into the dim light. The air had cooled slightly, the ship quieter now except for the slap of water against the hull. My first, groggy thought was that maybe Peisistratus had finally come in to sleep, but his bedding was still untouched.

I held my breath, listening.

“…gods, you’re so stupid,” Eratus’ voice said, but it was nothing like his usual riddling tone. It was flat, direct, almost casual—like a different person entirely. “You really think this is the best way?”

A pause, then Peisistratus’ voice, steady but quieter. “That’s the truth. And I can’t… I can’t do it any different.”

Something about his tone made my stomach twist. I shifted slightly on the bedding, careful not to creak the wood, straining to catch more.

Eratus let out a sharp huff that might have been a laugh. “The truth? You’re clinging to an arrangement like it’s fate. It’s not fate. It’s you being stubborn.”

Another pause, the sound of Peisistratus exhaling through his nose. “It’s not just stubbornness. I have my duties. He has his.”

He. My chest tightened, though I couldn’t have said why. They spoke too softly after that for me to catch everything, just the rhythm of words, the occasional frustrated sigh from Eratus. Then, a little louder—

“You’re going to regret this,” Eratus muttered. “One day, you’ll remember I told you so.”

“I’ll live with that,” Peisistratus replied, the faintest edge of finality in his voice.

Silence fell between them except for the creak of the deck beneath their feet. I lay there, staring into the dark, unsure what exactly they’d been talking about—but a strange unease had settled in my chest.

The conversation hadn’t been like any I’d heard from either of them before. No riddles from Eratus, no warm humor from Peisistratus. Just… tension. And for some reason, it left me feeling even more restless than I had before I’d fallen asleep.

I turned onto my back, staring at the ceiling again, wondering—just for a heartbeat—if they had been talking about me.

But that was ridiculous.

Right?

I pushed the door open.

They both flinched. Not much—just a small, sharp shift of their shoulders—but enough that I caught it. Eratus had his arms crossed, looking off toward the horizon like nothing in the world could possibly interest him less. Peisistratus straightened, his usual half-smile flickering into place.

“Morning,” he said, voice just a little too bright.

“Good morning, my prince,” Eratus added, tone light, casual.

I squinted at them. “I heard you two.”

They froze again, exchanging the briefest glance before Peisistratus recovered, shaking his head with a laugh that sounded forced. “Heard what?”

“Stop bullshitting me,” I said, stepping onto the deck. “You were arguing. About something. Don’t tell me it was nothing.”

Eratus’ mouth curled into the faintest smirk, but he said nothing, letting Peisistratus handle it.

Peisistratus shrugged. “We were talking about the provisions for the next port. That’s all.”

“That’s a lie,” I said flatly.

He lifted his brows, as though amused by my stubbornness. “You’ve got sharp ears for someone who sleeps like a stone.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” I muttered. “You were saying something about ‘truth’ and ‘fate’ and duties—”

Eratus cut in smoothly, “We were discussing whether to trust the merchant in the next port. He’s… let’s say he’s known for making inconvenient deals.”

It was a neat little story. Too neat. I looked between the two of them.

“Really?” I asked.

“Really,” Peisistratus said, holding my gaze just long enough to make it clear he wasn’t going to say more.

The ship rocked under us, a wave slapping the hull, breaking the moment. Eratus gave me that faint, knowing smile of his—like he could see right through me—and walked away toward the bow. Peisistratus lingered a moment longer, then clapped me on the shoulder, light but firm.

“Eat something,” he said. “It’s going to be a long day.”

And just like that, whatever they’d been talking about was locked away again, leaving me with nothing but questions.

I ended up sitting across from Peisistratus at the meal anyway. No matter how I tried to angle myself toward the sailors, the benches and the ship’s swaying made it impossible to avoid him completely. He acted normal—chatting, pouring wine—but I could still hear that clipped, too-casual tone from earlier in my head.

The sailors were in good spirits. The wind had been in our favor, the sea calmer than usual. One of the older men tore into a hunk of bread and slapped it down on the table in front of me.

“Prince Telemachus,” he said, half-grinning with his mouth full, “looks like we’ll reach Sparta sooner than expected. And all thanks to your maps and clever numbers.”

Several others chimed in, raising cups or nodding in agreement. I mumbled something like, “It’s nothing,” but my ears warmed anyway.

Another sailor laughed. “Nothing? If it were left to my math, we’d be halfway to Egypt by now.”

I felt Peisistratus’ gaze on me then—not the usual warm, teasing look, but something quieter. I kept my eyes on my plate. “I only plotted the course,” I said. “The rest was the wind’s doing.”

“Don’t be modest, lad,” someone called from farther down. “Even King Menelaus himself will want to hear how you shaved a day off the voyage.”

That made my stomach twist—not pride, exactly, but a strange, tight heat in my chest. I glanced up then and caught Peisistratus smiling faintly into his cup, like he knew exactly how to keep me from thinking too hard about anything else.

After the meal, the deck quieted. The sailors busied themselves with ropes and sails, the wind humming low through the rigging. I drifted to the starboard side where the sun leaned heavy toward the horizon, the sea beneath it turning molten gold. Peisistratus was already there, one arm braced on the railing, watching the light dance across the water.

I stood beside him, trying not to look at him directly. The question had been burning in my chest since last night, since the sailors’ jests, since I’d seen that faint shadow on his face when he spoke of her. I tried to sound casual.

“So… what is your fiancée like?”

His jaw shifted a little, but he didn’t turn. “She’s… fine. Kind. Knows her way around a scroll and an argument.” His voice had that smooth Pylian lilt, but there was something in the way he lingered on the words—soft, careful, almost as if he were describing a stranger he’d been told to admire.

“Pretty?” I asked before I could stop myself.

He smiled faintly at the horizon. “I suppose so... yeah.”

Something about the way he said it—too light, too dismissive—made me glance sideways. His profile was calm, almost detached, like a man speaking of another man’s fate.

“You don’t sound… excited,” I said slowly.

He sighed through his nose, still watching the horizon. “Some things aren’t about excitement, Telemachus. Some things are about duty. About what keeps peace between families. What keeps your father’s allies your allies.”

I frowned. “But… didn’t you once tell me marriage wasn’t an option for you?”

At that, he did turn his head to look at me. For a moment, his eyes caught the fading light and seemed warmer than the sea. Then he looked away again, lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Well,” he said quietly, “it’s not an option. It’s a must.”

That sat between us like a stone dropped into still water. The wind shifted. I wanted to ask him if that made him angry, if it made him sad, if it made him feel trapped. But I didn’t. I just nodded, pretending to understand, even as something in me—something I didn’t want to name—sank a little deeper.

I nodded too quickly, like his words were nothing. Like they didn’t sit under my skin, sharp and cold.
“Well,” I said, forcing my voice lighter, “I suppose that’s what princes and kings get for being born where we’re born. We’re all… bargaining chips, aren’t we?”

He chuckled softly at that, though it sounded more tired than amused. “Exactly. Even you.”

“Even me,” I echoed, looking back out at the horizon. I pretended to focus on the faint smudge of land in the distance, but my thoughts kept slipping away, circling back to the idea of him beside some scholar’s daughter—laughing with her, holding her, smiling at her in that quiet, rare way he sometimes smiled at me.

I didn’t like the way that thought felt. My chest tightened, my jaw ached, and I told myself it was just… because I didn’t want to lose a friend. That was all.

“So,” I said, clearing my throat and desperate to steer my mind elsewhere, “when we reach Sparta, how long do you think we’ll have to stay?”

He glanced at me sidelong, a smirk playing at his lips. “Eager to get back to Ithaca already?”

“No, just—” I paused, catching myself. “Just wondering.”

“Mm.” He looked back toward the water. “We’ll see. These things take time. Feasts, talks, more talks. You’ll be very bored.”

I tried to laugh. “You forget, I’ve had years of practice being bored.”

That earned me another chuckle—low, warm, and too easy to want to hear again. And yet, the air between us felt heavier than before, like both of us were still standing in the shadow of what hadn’t been said.

By the time the smudge of land sharpened into Sparta’s white cliffs and terraced hills, my head was still swimming with his words. It’s not an option… it’s a must.

The sailors were all at the rails, their voices loud with excitement, calling out to one another about wine and warm beds. The smell of salt gave way to hints of earth and wood smoke on the breeze. Seabirds wheeled overhead, their calls sharp against the steady slap of waves against the hull.

Peisistratus was at the bow, one hand on the carved prow, his dark hair pulled back with those golden hoops that caught the sun in sharp flashes. He looked… exactly as he always did—calm, steady, princely—but now that I knew about the engagement, there was something about the set of his shoulders that read differently. Or maybe I was just looking too hard.

I tried to imagine him smiling at her, leaning close to speak to her at a feast, his voice low and warm. It shouldn’t have stung, but it did, in the quiet, bitter way a bruise hurts when you press it. I told myself I was being foolish. I’d barely known him a month. And yet…

We began to slow as the oarsmen adjusted their rhythm, the ship cutting clean through the inlet toward the harbor. Shouts from the dock reached us, and I forced myself to focus on them—the guards, the porters, the calls of merchants. Anything but the faint sigh Peisistratus let slip as he watched the shore grow near.

The gangplank was lowered, the sailors already preparing to unload supplies, and I followed him down onto the sun-warmed stones. The air smelled of olive groves and dust. Everything about this place was new and sharp—except the weight in my chest, which had followed me right from the deck.

The dock was crowded but orderly—Spartans weren’t the sort to waste time on chaos. Bronze-helmed guards in red cloaks stood at rigid attention near the pier’s edge, while servants hurried forward with amphorae of fresh water and baskets of bread for our crew.

A steward in a finely dyed chiton stepped forward and bowed deeply to Peisistratus, addressing him in the clipped, formal manner of someone who knew exactly whose son he was. They exchanged greetings, and I stood just behind him, waiting for my name to be spoken.

When it was, the steward’s eyes flicked over me—measuring, weighing, deciding how much respect I was worth. His bow was shorter. Not offensive, but noticeable. Peisistratus glanced back at me then, something flickering in his eyes—protectiveness, maybe, or pity. I hated that I didn’t know which.

We followed the steward through the harbor road. The Spartan streets were sun-bright, the whitewashed walls of houses broken by the occasional carved lintel or blooming pomegranate tree. People stopped to watch us pass. Some called greetings to Peisistratus by name. No one called to me.

As we walked, I kept catching myself glancing sideways at him. His stride was confident, measured, his voice even as he answered questions from the steward. But his left hand kept flexing slightly at his side, as if resisting the urge to fidget. I remembered the way he’d sighed back on the ship when we’d talked about marriage, and I wondered if he was thinking of her now—the scholar’s daughter. Was he nervous to see her again? Or dreading it?

The palace loomed ahead, its columns carved with scenes of hunts and battles. Inside, the air was cooler, scented faintly of laurel and smoke. The king’s herald came forward, announcing us in a booming voice that echoed off the stone. I stepped into the great hall beside him, our sandals clicking against the polished floor.

And still, even with every eye in the room fixed on us, I found myself aware of him first—how the sunlight through the high windows turned the gold hoops in his hair into small, glowing suns. I wondered if she noticed things like that about him.

The moment we stepped into the palace courtyard, the air shifted. Guards snapped to attention, banners fluttered in the warm breeze, and then… there they were. King Menelaus, regal and broad-shouldered, strode forward with a smile that was both commanding and somehow reassuring. He clapped Peisistratus on the shoulder in a friendly, almost teasing manner, then turned his gaze toward me. I straightened instinctively, trying to look taller, stronger, more… like someone who belonged here.

And then I saw her.

Helen.

She floated toward us across the sunlit marble, her hair catching light like spun gold, eyes sharp but warm, a smile that seemed to quietly measure me in one glance. I swear my chest went tight. My ears felt hot. I could feel my cheeks burning, my palms itching. What… why…? She’s just a woman. Just a human. Yet the world seemed to hush around her.

“Welcome, Prince Telemachus,” she said, her voice melodic, soft yet full of command, like a song I wasn’t sure I deserved to hear.

“Th-thank you, your… um… grace,” I stammered, realizing halfway through that I had probably mangled her title. My throat felt dry, my tongue heavy. And of course, why now, why here, I scolded myself internally, you’re clearly blushing like some lovesick idiot.

"See?" I told myself. "You like women. You were just lonely. You just needed a friend. Calm down."

But the truth was, as we were led inside the palace with Menelaus cracking small jokes about sea journeys and Spartan sailors, my mind refused to calm. That soft, commanding, impossibly beautiful figure of Helen lingered in my vision, and I had to keep turning my head to catch glimpses of her, only to scold myself again. This is the woman that started all this chaos? I mean she is beautiful, but why put all the blame on her? Men are stupid. Yes, men are stupid indeed.

The corridors of the palace smelled faintly of olive oil, wood polish, and something floral I couldn’t place. Servants moved like shadows, guiding us, offering water, smoothing tapestries, and bowing low. Every step echoed in the marble halls, every glance of Menelaus or Helen felt magnified in my mind, and I forced my thoughts to concentrate on Peisistratus beside me—steady, calm, competent—and yet somehow I couldn’t stop thinking of her.

We were finally led into the main hall. The royal banners were bright against the stone, the long table laid out for a feast, and for a brief second, I wondered how it felt to be here not just as a prince, but as a guest of legends—somehow, someway, caught between admiration, fear, and… something far too confusing to name.

I barely had time to register Eratus stepping forward before Menelaus leaned slightly forward, curious. “And who might this be?” he asked, his voice even but probing.

Peisistratus didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, this is Eratus, my errand boy,” he said casually, as if introducing a common servant.

Menelaus raised an eyebrow. “Is he… not rather young for such responsibilities?”

Eratus merely tilted his head and gave a small, polite nod. “Still learning, Your Majesty,” he murmured.

And then I saw it.

The fraction of a second Eratus lifted his gaze, just the smallest glance toward Helen—and I swear, the world paused. Her eyes, usually so composed and radiant, widened ever so slightly in complete, utter shock. She tried to cover it with a blink, a faint cough, but I saw it all. I froze for a heartbeat, not knowing what to make of it, and then… Eratus looked straight at her, calm, unflinching, almost like he was aware of the storm he had caused with just his gaze.

My mind stumbled. Wait… what? Why is she…? I thought, confusion thick in my chest. Why does she look like that at him?

Meanwhile, Peisistratus and Menelaus were still exchanging words about trade routes and the timing of our arrival in Sparta. I could barely focus on anything else, my attention trapped between Eratus and Helen. The way Eratus’ eyes met hers—it wasn’t fear, or respect, or even simple acknowledgment. There was… something else. Something electric and sharp, but hidden beneath polite restraint.

I blinked, trying to shake off the dizzying swirl of thoughts. Focus, Telemachus, I told myself. Focus on what’s happening here. Don’t stare like some fool.

But my eyes kept darting back. Helen’s composure was heroic, truly, and she seemed determined to redirect her attention back to Menelaus and Peisistratus’ chatter. Yet the tiniest crease of worry—or surprise?—lingered at the edge of her expression, one that Eratus noticed instantly. And I, standing there, utterly bewildered, could not make sense of a thing.

I wanted to ask Peisistratus about it, to demand some clarity, but he was too occupied discussing something about the ships’ provisions with Menelaus. And I, as usual, was left floundering in a swirl of shock, curiosity, and a strange, prickling unease I couldn’t name.

All I could do was watch, frozen, as Eratus calmly retreated to the side after his polite nod, leaving a trail of unspoken tension between him and Helen that I couldn’t, for the life of me, decipher.

The tables were already being set—gleaming bronze platters, carved drinking cups, the smell of roasted lamb and honey drifting through the air—but my thoughts were elsewhere. Every time I caught sight of Helen at the far end of the table, her golden hair catching the firelight, I remembered the look in her eyes when she saw Eratus. That unguarded flash of shock. The way she’d masked it almost instantly, as if it had never happened.

I kept asking myself: "Do they know each other? But how? He’s just… Eratus. Peisistratus’ errand boy. He’s barely more than a child."

My seat was near Peisistratus, but I kept half-turning, scanning the far end of the hall where Eratus had stationed himself quietly, away from the center of attention. He wasn’t even pretending to eat—just standing, watching, like someone perfectly content to wait in shadows. And whenever Helen’s gaze wandered in his direction—rare, subtle glances—they’d meet for a heartbeat, and I’d feel that same cold twist in my stomach.

Peisistratus must have noticed my distraction because he nudged me under the table. “You’ve been staring holes into the far wall for the last ten minutes,” he murmured, voice low enough to be drowned by the sailors’ loud laughter nearby.

“I’m… not,” I muttered, staring down at the piece of bread in my hand.

“Sure,” he said, smirking faintly, and poured me more wine as if that would fix my mood.

I tried to focus on the conversation around me—the sailors trading stories of storms survived, Menelaus asking after Pylos, the way Helen’s voice floated like music whenever she spoke—but it was useless. I kept drifting back to that single instant at the gates. The way her fingers had tightened around the folds of her gown. The flicker in her eyes.

It’s probably nothing, I told myself. You’re reading too much into it. Maybe she was just surprised to see a boy in the prince’s retinue.

But deep down, I knew I wasn’t convincing myself. Something had passed between them, something I didn’t understand, and it sat in the back of my mind like a shadow I couldn’t shake.

The corridors of Menelaus’ palace were cooler than the great hall, the torchlight flickering across stone walls carved with half-faded scenes of battles and sea voyages. Most of the guests had gone to their chambers; the air smelled faintly of wine and burned tallow.

I caught sight of Eratus slipping away from the noise, his small frame disappearing behind one of the pillars. Without thinking, I followed.

“Hey,” I called, my footsteps quick against the marble. “Eratus.”

He stopped, but didn’t turn immediately—almost as if he’d been expecting me. When he finally faced me, his dark eyes reflected the torchlight in an unsettling way, the gold shimmer faint but present.

“What was that with Helen?” I demanded. “At the gate. You looked at her, she looked at you… you both froze like you’d seen a ghost.”

For a moment he just studied me, head tilted slightly, as if measuring whether I deserved an answer. Then he smiled faintly. “A queen sees many faces. Some are familiar, though they should not be.”

I frowned. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have for you,” he replied, voice low and maddeningly calm.

“You know her,” I pressed. “Don’t lie to me. There was something—”

“There is always something,” Eratus interrupted gently. “You simply cannot see the whole shape yet. You are standing too close to the tapestry.”

I stepped forward, irritated. “Enough with the riddles. Just tell me plainly—how do you know her?”

He looked up at me again, and for the briefest moment, I swore I saw an expression almost like pity cross his face. “When the sun strikes gold, even a god’s shadow remembers the warmth.”

I blinked, thrown off balance. “What does that even—”

But he was already moving past me, brushing my sleeve lightly as he went. I turned to follow, but he slipped down another corridor, his steps silent.

I stood there for a long moment, feeling stupid, frustrated, and more confused than ever. His words echoed in my head, but no matter how I tried to untangle them, they only knotted tighter.

The guest chamber Menelaus had given me was far too fine to sleep in — polished cedar beams above my head, linen sheets smooth as still water. But the silence pressed on my ears. No creak of ship timbers, no rolling sway of waves. I lay there on my back, eyes fixed on the shadowy carvings of dolphins and waves on the ceiling, unable to stop replaying Eratus’ voice in my head.

"When the sun strikes gold, even a god’s shadow remembers the warmth."

It looped again, and again, until I could hear the exact way he’d paused between the words god’s and shadow. I kept trying to break it apart. Sun… gold… god. The imagery was obvious enough. It was the remembering the warmth that clawed at me, like it meant something personal to him — or to Helen.

I rolled onto my side, then my stomach, restless. I thought about the way Helen’s eyes had widened, just for that fraction of a breath, when she looked at him. That wasn’t just surprise. That was… recognition. And fear.

But how could she recognize him? She’d have been my mother’s age when Eratus was even born — if he even knew when he was born. He’d said he didn’t.

That thought twisted in my head.
What kind of boy doesn’t know his own birth year?

My mind kept circling back to Apollo... because that’s where Eratus had led it before. “The god favors you,” he’d said days ago. “You have visited his island in your dreams.”

I swallowed hard. Delos. The dream with Polites and the music. Why did Eratus keep pulling the strings back to the same god?

I told myself it was ridiculous. Just riddles to make him seem mysterious. But as the darkness stretched on, I couldn’t stop the cold curl of unease in my stomach. His words didn’t feel like riddles anymore, they felt like warnings I was too stupid to understand yet.

By the time I finally drifted into an uneasy half-sleep, I was no closer to an answer. Only more questions. And somewhere in the back of my mind, a small, insistent thought whispered:

If he is the shadow… then whose warmth does he remember?

The dream began with heat. Not warmth — heat. Blazing, merciless, honey-thick sunlight pouring down over white marble and rippling water. The air shimmered, and every surface seemed to radiate gold. I had to raise my arm to shield my eyes, squinting as the brilliance threatened to swallow me whole.

Then, faint at first, I heard the delicate, bright plucking of a lyre. The notes curled and twined in the air like threads of sunlight themselves. My chest clenched with a sudden, inexplicable joy.

I turned toward the sound, and there he was.
Polites. Sitting cross-legged on a low marble step, the lyre cradled against him, head bent just enough for the light to catch in his hair.

“Polites!” The name burst out of me before I could think. I was already moving toward him, the polished floor warm beneath my feet.

He looked up, and his fingers stilled on the strings. His smile was as soft and steady as I remembered. The kind of smile that made you feel seen.

“Hello, little wolf,” he said.

I froze, a strange thrill running through me. “I— Now I know your name. I know you. I know who you are.”

Polites tilted his head, still smiling. “I’m glad you know some of the story.”

“Some?” My brows drew together. “What do you mean some? No. No, you’re going to tell me everything this time.”

He set the lyre aside, the strings still humming faintly. “There is much more to the tale than you’ve been told, Telemachus. And not all of it is for mortal ears.”

That answer made my pulse hammer. “Stop speaking in riddles! Everyone seems to know something about me except me. I deserve to know! Where is Apollo? I’ll ask him myself!”

Polites’ gaze softened, but not in pity. In something older, sadder. “The god is not here at this moment,” he said gently. “But make no mistake, he has been watching you.”

A cold, impatient anger bloomed in my chest. “And what are you to him, then? Some servant? Some… messenger?”

Polites was quiet for a long moment. Then he smiled again, but it was not the smile he’d given me before. This one had the weight of loss in it, of a truth too heavy to be spoken plainly.

“I am what is left when the god loves a mortal,” he said at last, voice low, almost breaking on the words. “And what is taken when the mortal doesn't loves him back.”

The sunlight in Delos seemed to shift, warmer now, richer, as though the island itself was leaning in to hear. Polites’ words still echoed in me—what is taken when the mortal loves him back—but before I could demand he explain, his hand rose.

Warm fingers brushed along my cheek. The touch was feather-light, yet it sent a shiver racing down my spine, and for a heartbeat my knees almost gave way.

“I prayed,” Polites murmured, “that you would be just like your father. Strong, cunning, and cautious before the gods.” He gave a soft, almost wistful smile. “But somehow… somehow, you got my fate instead.”

My mouth went dry. “What do you mean? What fate?” My voice was barely more than a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze locked on mine, and that was when I saw it — the strange, glinting shimmer in his eyes, golden in the light but deep in a way that made me think of Eratus. Not just color. Something alive, something… watching.

Polites leaned closer, and I could feel his breath, warm as the sunlight pressing on my skin. “You are a wolf, Telemachus. A little wolf, indeed.”

I swallowed, my heart thudding.

“But most wolves,” he continued softly, “lift their voices to the moon, singing to the night and all her shadows. They belong to the dark, to the cool, to the quiet.” His thumb traced my jaw with something almost like reverence. “But you… somehow, you are a wolf who howled at the sun.”

His voice deepened, trembling like the strings of his lyre.

“And the sun heard you. The sun turned his gaze toward you, little wolf. And he,” Polites’ lips curved into something beautiful and mournful all at once, “he answered.”

The light behind him seemed to flare at that word, so bright it almost hurt to look at him. My breath caught, my chest tight. I didn’t know if it was awe, or terror, or both.

I was still reeling from his words about the sun when Polites tilted his head, studying me in that way that made me feel both exposed and weighed.
“You don’t understand yet,” he said, his voice quiet but sharp as a blade in the hand of someone who knows how to use it. “But you will.”

I clenched my fists. “Then tell me! Stop speaking like the poets do and just say it!”

He gave a soft laugh. “Ah, but if I tell you the whole thread, you will pull it too soon, and the weaving will collapse before it’s ready.”

I was about to protest again, but his eyes caught mine, and the shimmer inside them seemed to spin like the sun on water.

“You see,” he went on, “there are stories that repeat themselves, Telemachus. Not the same ships, not the same seas, not the same storms… but the same currents beneath them. One helmsman, one lost sailor. One who leaves the shore, and one who never makes it back.”

Something in his tone made my stomach twist. “What does that have to do with me?”

His smile was gentle, almost pitying. “I knew a captain once. Brave, clever, fierce with the world… and I knew the man who followed him through every wind and wave.” He paused, his gaze distant, as though seeing a horizon I couldn’t. “The sea took us both in the end. But the gods—” his voice dipped lower, “—they love their little echoes. Sometimes they send the same two souls to meet again… just to see what they will do this time.”

I froze.

Polites leaned forward, his lips barely an inch from my ear. “Tell me, little wolf—if the same waves rose again, if the same choice stood before you… would you still follow him?”

Before I could form an answer, he leaned back with that same mournful smile. “It seems you already have.”

The sunlight flared again, and I had to blink against it, and in that blink, he was gone.

Chapter Text

The morning bread sat dry on my tongue. I was chewing, staring at the wooden grain of the table as though the knots in the wood could tell me something. But my mind was elsewhere, still tangled in shadows and whispers.

“Telemachus?” Peisistratus’ voice reached me, soft at first, then firmer. “Telemachus. Hello? Are you even here?”

I blinked, startled, almost dropping the crust of bread from my hand. His smirk softened into concern the way it always did—Peisistratus was never cruel, only poking until he got me back.

“I was,” I muttered, then corrected, “I wasn’t. I mean... I was thinking.”

“Clearly. You’ve been staring at the same spot for ten minutes. Was it another nightmare?” He leaned his elbow on the table, propping his chin up with his hand. His eyes studied me like he could pick apart whatever lived behind mine.

I shook my head. “Not exactly. Not a nightmare this time. More like… I don’t know. A visitation.”

That got his attention. He straightened, brows drawn tight. “From who?”

I hesitated, my throat tightening. The dream clung to me with a strange, heavy gravity. “That man again,” I said finally.

“Which man? You’ve mentioned shadows, voices—”

“The one playing a lyre. Polites, he called himself.”

Peisistratus frowned as though rolling the name around in his mind. “Oh.”

“He keeps finding me. He was there last night, clearer than ever. Not just a glimpse—he spoke to me. Long, like he wanted me to remember every word.”

Peisi leaned forward now, intent. “And? What did he say?”

I drew in a breath, trying to untangle the memory without breaking it. “He told me he once sailed with my father. That he was part of Odysseus’ crew on the way home from Troy. He described the ships, the storms, the monsters—Scylla tearing men from the decks, the whirlpool swallowing the sea. His words… gods, Peisi, they were vivid. I could hear the screams, smell the salt.” My hand trembled slightly, and I gripped the edge of the table to still it.

Peisistratus’ eyes softened but he didn’t interrupt.

“He said he was loyal to my father. That he trusted him. But then—he died. Trapped, abandoned… killed, I think. He didn’t say it outright, but the way he looked at me—accusing, desperate—” I swallowed. “It was like he wanted me to carry his grief. Like he couldn’t rest until I did.”

Peisi let out a low whistle, sitting back. “That’s heavy.”

“You think I don’t know?” I snapped, more sharply than I meant. Then I sagged, ashamed. “Sorry. It just—it doesn’t feel like a dream. It feels like he’s real. Like he’s still somewhere, half-alive, reaching for me.”

Silence fell between us for a moment, only the scrape of his thumb along the wood as he thought. Finally, he said, “So let’s try to make sense of it. Maybe it isn’t just about him. Maybe it’s about you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” He gestured toward me with his crust of bread. “Think about it. You’ve been wrestling with the idea of your father—whether he’s dead, alive, hero, failure. This Polites… maybe he’s the embodiment of all those doubts. The dead man you can’t bury because your father’s fate is still unburied too.”

I stared at him, my chest tightening. “You think my mind is inventing ghosts to torment me?”

“I think your mind is cleverer than you give it credit for. Dreams are like riddles. They hide meaning under masks.”

“But what if it isn’t just a mask?” I pressed. “What if it’s truly him, his spirit, caught between worlds? What if he came to me because he wants me to find my father—or because he wants me to know the truth about him?”

He tilted his head, considering. “If it is real, then maybe it’s a sign. Maybe Polites is urging you forward, telling you there are stories left unfinished. That you won’t have peace until you face them. But whether ghost or dream, the meaning’s the same: you can’t stand still forever.”

I looked down at my hands, knuckles pale from gripping the table. “I’m afraid,” I admitted, voice small.

Peisistratus reached over, prying one of my fists open and placing the bread crust back into it. “Of course you are. But fear doesn’t cancel the truth. Either this Polites is a restless spirit, or he’s a piece of you that wants answers. Both point in the same direction.”

“And if I fail?”

“Then you’ll at least know you tried. But something tells me,” he gave me that crooked smile again, “the son of Odysseus doesn’t fail when he’s finally ready to move.”

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to breathe easier. But Polites’ eyes lingered still, watching, waiting.

I couldn’t take it anymore. The music, the soft clink of goblets, the way the hall glowed in that same warm amber as if nothing in the world had gone wrong. I leaned forward, my voice breaking through the chatter before I could stop myself.

“King Menelaus,” I said, too loud, too desperate. “You—you must know. My father, Odysseus, do you have word of him? Anything? Please.”

The room fell quiet for a heartbeat, like even the harpers had heard the tremor in my voice. My hands were clenched so hard around the table edge my knuckles burned.

Menelaus turned to me with the ease of a man who has seen boys lose their composure before. His gaze wasn’t cruel, but it had that weight in it, the heavy calm of someone who had walked through fires I couldn’t name.

“Easy, boy,” he said, gentle but maddeningly slow. “Let us not rush grief on an empty stomach. The gods love a well-fed man. Eat, drink, steady yourself. Afterward, we will speak.”

The words stung. Like he’d brushed me aside with a fatherly pat, the way elders do when they think your urgency is childish. My face burned hot.

I forced a laugh through my teeth, bitter. “Of course. Why hurry? What’s a vanished father compared to a feast?”

Nobody corrected me. Nobody denied it. They just went back to their plates, and I sat there with the taste of wine turning to ash in my mouth, feeling every inch the fool.

They don’t care. None of them care the way I do. To them, Odysseus is a story, a name for their songs. To me he is—was—everything. And still they would have me sit here, smiling, like I haven’t spent my whole life waiting for a man who never walks through the door.

I tried to focus on the polished cups being filled with wine, but my mind slipped. And then... his voice came, sharp as a splinter under the skin.

“Do you hear yourself, Menelaus?”

I froze.

It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him. But I heard it all the same—Polites. Not sitting at the table, not in the flesh, but curling around the edges of the room like smoke. His voice was mocking, derisive, the way he always teased Odysseus when Father got too lost in strategy.

“A boy comes to you begging for word of his father, and you say: eat first. Drink first. Wait your turn. But when it was Helen, oh, then it was worth burning the world down, wasn’t it? Then you moved heaven and earth, then you raised sails, then you didn’t wait for bread or wine.”

The room didn’t change. No one looked up. No one else heard. But I did. I pressed my hands against the table, fingers digging into the wood.

“How is he supposed to trust you?” Polites sneered in my ear. “You didn’t fight for him. You didn’t fight for Ithaca. You fought for her, for her sake, for her beauty, for your own pride. And you call yourself a friend of Odysseus?”

My throat tightened. I wanted to shout, to demand he shut up, but my tongue was leaden. I could only sit there, staring at Menelaus as he carved slices of meat with practiced grace.

I hated the calm on his face. I hated how he acted as though time was infinite, as though the years hadn’t hollowed me out.

“When it was Helen,” Polites whispered again, softer now, closer, “you were all fire. When it is Odysseus, you are ashes. What does that tell you, Telemachus? What will you say to him, if you ever get his ear? Will you beg like a child? Or will you make him see himself as he is?”

The words burned. They burned worse than hunger. Worse than the ache in my stomach was the ache in my chest, the certainty that Polites was right. Menelaus wasn’t cruel—he was worse. He was comfortable. And men who are comfortable forget the pain of others.

My knuckles whitened around the cup of wine a servant had placed in my hand. The smell of the roasted meat made me sick.

I thought of Father, somewhere in the dark, clawing toward home... or dead in some nameless sea. And here was Menelaus, the man who once called him brother, telling me to eat first.

“So what will you do, little wolf?” Polites pressed, laughing low in his throat. “Sit and gnaw their bones like a dog at table? Or bite back?”

I didn’t know. I didn’t know yet. But the answer was rising in me, boiling over, waiting for the moment when I couldn’t keep it swallowed anymore.

“Telemachus, you’re staring,” Peisistratus said, his voice eged with warning, like an older brother catching me at something childish. “Come to your senses.”

The words snapped like a whip across my shoulders. I blinked, as if surfacing from a dream I hadn’t wanted to wake from, Polites’s mocking echo still alive in my skull, smirking at me, daring me to crumble. Menelaus was across the room, resplendent in gold and red, his every movement deliberate, kingly, the very image of power that could command armies and bend the fates of nations.

My throat closed. The food on the table blurred into indistinct colors, reds bleeding into gold, fish glistening like something pulled straight from the underworld rather than the sea. Menelaus’s voice rose again in a measured tale of Troy, yet all I could hear was Polites jeering.

I shoved my chair back, the scrape sharp against the floor.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I said, my voice clipped, harsher than I intended, but I didn’t soften it. I couldn’t. I could feel Peisistratus’s eyes on me, puzzled, maybe a little hurt, but I didn’t turn to him. I couldn’t bear the weight of his simple, untroubled understanding.

The air in the hall was too heavy. Thick with smoke, perfumes, and the phantom stench of burning ships that only I seemed to smell. My feet carried me out before anyone could stop me, the murmur of voices dimming behind me.

Out in the courtyard, the cool night air hit me like water over flame. My chest rose and fell, a desperate attempt at steadying. The sky was thick with stars, cruel in their serenity.

I didn’t get two steps before his voice came after me, sharper than I’ve ever heard it.

“Telemachus, stop walking away from me!”

I froze. My spine went rigid at the sound. He’s never raised his voice like that. Not at me. Not at anyone. I turn, slowly, and there he is, standing with his hands clenched at his sides, face red—not from shame or shyness this time, but from fury.

“What?” I spit, the word bitter in my mouth. “What else could you possibly want from me? Haven’t I done enough standing here, enduring whatever it is you’re trying to—”

“To what? To care about you?” His voice cracked on the word, but he didn’t back down. “To reach you before you drown yourself in this armor you keep hammering around your heart? Is that the crime, Telemachus? That I won’t let you sink without at least trying to hold you up?”

The words hit me harder than I want to admit. I felt my jaw tighten, my fists clench. I wanted to say something cruel, something that will cut him down and make him leave me alone for good. But my tongue wouldn’t cooperate. It trembled instead.

“You don’t know anything,” I managed, low, dangerous. “You don’t know what it is to be me. To wake up every day and still not know if your father is alive or a corpse rotting somewhere, while the whole world expects you to be half a god. You can’t possibly know what it’s like to be stared at and measured against a ghost. So don’t... don’t act like you understand.”

Peisistratus took a step closer, his chest rising and falling with the force of his breathing. “You’re right. I don’t know that exact pain. But do you think I don’t know what it is to be overshadowed? To be the ‘other son,’ the quieter one, the one no one ever notices unless they’re looking for the shadow of my brother? I’ve spent my whole life watching people’s eyes slide past me, as if I were furniture in my own father’s hall. Don’t you dare tell me I don’t understand what it feels like to be invisible in plain sight.”

I stared at him, stunned. He’s never said anything like this. Not to me. Not to anyone. He always smiles. Always nods. Always plays the part of the gentle companion.

“But you—” my voice faltered. “You make it look easy. You’re… you’re kind. People like you.”

His laugh wass short, sharp, almost ugly. “Kindness is just silence dressed up pretty. Do you think people ask me what I want? What I dream? No. They want me to be agreeable, soft, unthreatening. A background figure so the true heirs can shine. Do you know what that feels like, Tele? To be treated as decoration in your own life?”

His voice peaked again, and I flinched—not from fear, but from the way every word lands like a stone in my gut.

“Do you think it doesn’t hurt me when you push me away?” he demanded. “When you glare at me like I’ve committed some sin just by looking at you? I stand beside you because I choose to. Not because I’m ordered. Not because you’re some great prince I have to flatter. I stay because of you.”

I couldn’t breathe. My throat felt aw, tight. I wanted to tell him to stop. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run.

Instead, I heard myself whisper: “Then why does it feel like you’re tearing me open every time you try?”

His face softened, but he doesn’t back down. He stepped so close now I could feel the heat of him, the trembling in his hands. “Because wounds don’t heal if you keep them hidden. You can’t keep bleeding in silence and expect me not to notice. You can hate me for it if you must, but I won’t pretend I don’t see your pain. I won’t stand by and let you turn into stone just to survive.”

I shut my eyes. I hate that I want to believe him. I hate that his words hurt because they feel like truth. And most of all, I hate that I felt tears burning at the back of my eyes, threatening to betray me.

He didn’t soften it with a joke or step back to give me room. He just waited, fierce and steady, like he’s finally decided I’m worth fighting for—even if it breaks us both.

A burning heat was crawling up my neck, blinding flashes dancing in front of my eyes. Like the sun itself had torn through the walls and buried me in its fire. My chest tightened, my legs trembled.

“Peisi—” The name broke on my lips, half a plea, half a gasp. I tried to reach for him, but my body wasn’t obeying anymore. My breath came in ragged, shallow bursts. The room spun, voices echoing in my ears, but not his—not anyone’s I knew. They were strange, layered, like Apollo himself had thrown a curse straight into my skull.

My heart hammered so violently it felt like it would burst. I stumbled forward, weak, the floor tilting under me. “I—I feel like I’m gonna—” The words died. My knees gave out.

I fell, but I didn’t hit the ground. I crashed into warmth, arms wrapping around me before the stone could. Peisistratus. His chest was firm against my cheek, his hands gripping me tight, holding me together when I was certain I was falling apart.

I was still conscious, but I couldn’t move. My body was heavy, paralyzed, and all I could see was the light—bright, pulsing, shifting like waves over water. Every blink shattered my vision into fragments. My ears rang with muffled sounds, his voice breaking through in pieces, urgent, desperate.

“Telemachus! Hey! Look at me! Stay with me! Gods, don’t you dare—”

His voice faded in and out like it was being swallowed by the sea. My own name sounded distant, like he was calling me from another shore. I wanted to answer, to tell him I was here, that I hadn’t gone anywhere, but my tongue was useless.

I clung only to the rhythm of him—his heartbeat thundering against mine, the tremor in his breath as he shouted my name again and again.

And then the voices laughed. Mocking, taunting. My vision flickered, and for a heartbeat I swore I saw a lyre string plucked in gold light, a smile that wasn’t his, words I couldn’t understand echoing through my skull.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. Instead, I lay there, burning alive, trapped in my own skin, as his hands shook me, anchored me, begged me not to slip away.

The light swallowed me whole, brighter than fire, harsher than noon on the open sea. My chest still burned, but in the blaze I suddenly saw him Peisistratus again.

He stood there as if waiting for me, his back straight, his hair glinting like bronze in the sun. When he turned, his smile broke through the haze like dawn. His lips moved, and I heard his voice echoing through the brilliance:

“Ὦ φίλτατε ἔρως.”

Ô phíltate érōs.

The words hung in the air, foreign yet piercingly familiar.

My love.

He had called me his love. My heart stopped, or maybe it leapt out of my chest altogether.

I stumbled toward him, my hand reaching. But before I could touch, something impossible happened. Another figure came sprinting past me—straight through me, as though I were the ghost instead.

And then I saw him.

Me.

Another Telemachus, solid and sure, rushing forward with arms wide. He collided with Peisistratus, wrapping him up, and Peisi laughed—a laugh I had never heard so free before. Then they kissed, lips meeting with the urgency of long-kept hunger. Playful, teasing, but drenched in longing. Peisistratus' hand tangled in the other me’s hair, tugging him closer, and they broke apart only to find each other again, mouths pressed together greedily, joyfully.

I stood frozen, a shadow watching myself take what I had never dared. My throat tightened, my skin burning. My fingers brushed my own lips unconsciously, desperate to feel the fire that was theirs, to steal just a trace of the heat. But my lips were cold, empty. I was only an onlooker to my own desire.

I turned away, breath ragged. And there—standing in the golden blaze—I saw Polites. He was not alone. Another man stood with him, taller, broad-shouldered, weathered with years of command.

My heart stuttered.

My father.

Odysseus.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. I watched as Polites looked at him—not like a comrade, not like a friend, but with a tenderness that shook me to my bones. His hand rose, brushing along my father’s cheek, lingering there as if it belonged. My father didn’t resist. He leaned into it.

Polites smiled, quiet, tragic, like the smile he had given me. Then his lips parted and he spoke, voice low, heavy with knowing:

“Κυβερνήτα καὶ λύχνε τῆς θαλάσσης…”

Kubernḗta kaì lýchne tês thalássēs…

The syllables rippled through the air, strange and reverent. And though I had never heard them before, the meaning carved itself instantly into my mind.

Captain, and lamp of the sea…

My head spun. My stomach turned. What was I seeing? My father—my father and Polites? My hands shook violently, clutching at my chest, as though my heart could not bear to remain inside me.

A voice—impossibly melodic, full of both power and warmth—wove through the brilliance around me. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

“Do you see,” it asked, soft yet penetrating, “who your father and that man were?”

I blinked against the blinding light, my chest tightening. “Huh?” I whispered, fear and confusion tangling inside me.

The voice, ancient and layered with wisdom, spoke in words I somehow understood, though I had never learned them: it spoke of love between men, sacred bonds beyond friendship, and of the reverence the gods held for such devotion.

Then the tone shifted, sharper now, almost cruel. “Polites uses love as a key, a means to free himself from Delos. Only by finding Odysseus will his wandering cease. Only then will the chains fall from him.”

I tried to respond, to shout, to ask how I could possibly help, but the vision twisted violently. I was watching Peisistratus and me, laughing and playful, the warmth of his presence tangible even in the surreal dream. And thed, like smoke, we dispersed.

It was as if the vision had ripped a layer of reality away.

“You… you want me to stop?” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Is that… is that what you’re saying?”

“Leave Polites on my watch,” the voice said again, measured, calm, yet impossibly absolute.

I squinted, trying to pierce the brilliance. Polites’ eyes met mine, filled with a plea I couldn’t answer. I wanted to run, to leap through the dream and save him, but I was rooted to the spot, paralyzed by the mixture of awe and terror.

"No."

Then the voice thundered—no longer gentle, but radiant and unyielding, a presence both divine and terrifying. Apollo himself, luminous, overwhelming, as though the sun itself had condensed into flesh, though for a heartbeat, I glimpsed the authority of Zeus in his gaze.

“No…?” he said, and the weight behind that single word crushed me. “You dare to defy me? To make me feel shame?”

“I… I have to find my father,” I stammered, my hands trembling. “That’s my purpose! I can’t… I won’t… I won’t just—” My voice broke. I was barely audible, swallowed by the radiance.

“Yes,” Apollo said, softer now, almost tender, yet every word carried weight I could not ignore. “Right, young prince. But remember this: ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves. Even I can choose ruthlessness, and even I will wield it when necessary. You chose them instead of your own happiness.”

Clenching my fists, I whispered fiercely to myself, voice cracking with determination: “I will find him. I will. No god, no fate, no prophecy will stop me. I will find my father. And I will not falter.”

My vision spun. The light flashed and bent around me. Polites’ haunted, gentle eyes stayed with me, and Peisistratus' warmth lingered like a memory I could reach but never touch. My body felt charged, a storm of fear, awe, and longing all at once. I could not breathe. I could not move.

Even as the vision began to dissolve, the words, the faces, the warmth, and the light seared themselves into my memory. And somewhere deep inside me, a spark burned—frightened, yes, but unstoppable.

At first it was faint—so faint I thought it was the echo of my own mind unraveling. A low murmur, stretched thin by distance. The words slipped through the dark like threads of fire:

“Φοῖβε ἑκηβόλε, χρυσάορος Ἀπόλλων, ἐλέησον· ἄγε μοι χάριν δὸς, φιλόμειδε θεέ.”

Phoibos, far-shooting, golden Apollo, have mercy—grant me grace, smiling god.

The syllables struck something deep in me, a resonance that was not just sound but weight, light, and terror. The hymn grew louder and clearer. The voice was fire, but not consuming fire—illumination. And then, as the vision thinned into waking, I realized it was not the god who sang but—

Eratus.

His voice was gentler, human, yet it carried the same trembling beauty, the same plea for light. The blur of dream gave way to the blur of pain. My body jolted against unfamiliar warmth, and I became aware I was being held upright, half-sagging into another’s arms.

“Hey! He’s awake!” Peisistratus' voice cracked sharp into the air above me.

The hymn ceased abruptly. The light was gone, and there was only Eratus, his hand frozen mid-gesture, his lips parted as if caught between two worlds. His eyes darted to mine, startled, almost guilty.

"What the hell is this?” My own voice rasped out, hoarse but fierce. “What did I just hear?"

Peisistratus shifted closer, trying to steady me with one hand at my shoulder. “Please, catch your breath first—”

“No!” I shoved him off, anger giving me strength I didn’t think I had. My hand shot forward, clutching Eratus by the collar of his thin tunic. He gasped, his face going pale as my knuckles twisted the cloth. “You—what the hell was that? What are you? ANSWER ME!”

“Telemachus, stop!” Peisistratus' voice was sharper now, almost commanding, but I barely heard him.

Eratus squirmed under my grip, eyes wide, darting between the two of us like a trapped bird. “O-okay—okay! Fine! Just let me go!”

“Eratus, you don’t have to—” Peisistratus tried again, his voice breaking, protective.

But Eratus shook his head, and for the first time I saw something fierce spark in his gaze. “No. I have to. I have no reason to hide anymore.”

I froze, my grip slackening but not releasing him. My heart thudded in my chest like a war drum. He swallowed hard, voice trembling, and then—

“I’m not a mere servant. Not some errand boy from Pylos, not even from Opus.” His eyes flickered to mine, full of shame and defiance both. “I was brought from Troy… after the war. I was barely more than a child.”

The words hit me like a slap. I turned, glaring at Peisis. “You—what the hell? Is this true? You just took him? As—what—some prize?” My voice cracked on the word, my stomach twisting in disgust. “Are you people mad?”

Peisistratus looked away, jaw clenched, and the silence was worse than denial.

Eratus pulled free from my grip then, his small chest rising and falling quickly. His voice steadied, though it still carried that childlike ring that made it all the more gut-wrenching. “I wasn’t raised in Pylos. I was sent to the temple of Apollo. Raised there. Trained to serve him, to speak for him. That’s why I know what I know. That’s why the words come to me. I’m not… ordinary.”

The memory of the hymn still echoed in me, and suddenly it all made sense—the way Helen had looked at him with horror, the strange fire in his eyes, the way his voice could ring like prophecy.

I felt sick.

“So you’re telling me,” I spat, my hands trembling, “you’re not even… you’re not even you. You’re some—some pawn raised by a god to be his mouthpiece. And you—” I jabbed a finger toward Peisistratus, my chest heaving, “you’ve been letting him play servant at your side like some trinket of war?”

Peisistratus' face tightened: "There was a reason it ended that way. It was my way of protecting his honor after being stolen from his land."

I almost laughed, but it came out bitter, shaking. “You people are insane. Do you not hear yourselves? Do you not see? This isn’t honor, this isn’t duty—this is madness.”

Eratus didn’t flinch at my anger this time. His expression was grave, older than his small frame allowed. “I was raised to be Apollo’s followert. To carry his voice into the world. That’s why you hear me when you dream, Telemachus. That’s why the light burns in your eyes when you fall. It’s not—madness. It’s what I am.”

His words should have chilled me, but instead, they only made me shiver with fury and confusion. My stomach knotted tighter and tighter until I thought I’d retch.

Apollo. Again, always Apollo.

And now this boy—this war spoil—was tied into it too.

I pressed a hand against my temple, the dizziness threatening to swallow me again, and whispered hoarsely: “Gods help me… what in Hades have I been thrown into?”

I don’t even know what happened first—my chest hollowing out, my throat burning, or the sound spilling from me. A laugh. Not the kind that lightens, not the kind that releases—no, this was mechanical, jagged, the laughter of someone whose mind had just been smashed into pieces.

It echoed in the room like a madman’s hymn.

I dragged my gaze to Peisistratus, and gods, the look on his face—half fear, half anger, half shame—made me laugh harder. “I thought you were different,” I hissed through my teeth, words tumbling out faster than sense. “I thought you, of all people, weren’t like them. But here you are… making someone your little gift. Your prize. Your... war spoil.”

Peisistratus' eyes flashed, and for the first time since I’d known him, his voice thundered. “HEY! First of all, don’t you ever call him that.” He stepped forward, shoulders squared, voice shaking with fury. “And second... what in Hades are you talking about? I wasn’t even fighting in the war, you idiot! I’m your age! Do you think I had a sword in my hand when Troy burned?” His chest heaved, his lips curled. “When Father came back, he brought Eratus. And the only way to save him from hard labor, from the kind of abuse that breaks children into dust, was to take him as my errand boy. You don’t understand.”

I tilted my head, forcing another hollow chuckle, mocking every syllable. “Ooooh. You’re right. I don’t understand.” My voice dripped with venom, with sarcasm that scorched my own throat. “Because you see… my father didn’t come back.” I spread my arms wide, like a mad priest preaching to shadows. “So I don’t have my war spoil hanging around at my side.”

Peisistratus flinched, his eyes a mix of anger and sadness.

And I turned on my heel, every nerve in me shaking, and walked away, because if I stayed, I might have torn the whole palace down with my hands.

I stormed down, chest heaving, bile rising in my throat. My hands were still shaking from spitting at him, from saying the ugliest things I could think of. What a fool I was. What an utter fool. I had defied Apollo himself, stared down the god of the sun, for this... for this creature. This boy who cloaked himself in charm and laughter, who hid secrets in every breath, who kept slaves and called them “errand boys.” I clenched my jaw.

I angered Apollo for this? For him?

And then his voice split the air behind me. “FOR FUCK’S SAKE, TELEMACHUS!” I froze. The words boomed down the hall, raw and unpolished, nothing princely about them. “LET ME THE FUCK IN! BREAK DOWN YOUR FUCKING SHELL!”

I turned half an inch, just enough for the sound to claw at my spine, but not enough to face him. His voice broke again, ragged.

“Don’t you see?” he shouted. “Don’t you see I’m doing all of this because of you? Yes, I wanted to prove myself to my father. Of course I did. But do you think I would just go on some voyage I wasn’t even sure was worth it?”

My throat went dry.

He kept going, louder, faster, like the dam inside him had finally burst. “If I really wanted to impress him, if I really cared about crowns and thrones, I’d have just married that girl already! I’d have raised my banners, built my kingdom, done the easy thing!”

The words ripped me apart from the inside out. My head spun, my vision flickering white with anger and disbelief, and I screamed back: “THEN WHY DIDN’T YOU?”

Silence crashed down for a heartbeat. His breath caught. And then—quiet, broken, trembling—

“I… I can’t.”

I whipped around at last, ready to mock him again, ready to tear him down, but I stopped.
Because he wasn’t standing tall, or furious, or smug. His face had crumpled. His hands covered his eyes like he was ashamed of himself, and the sound that came out of him wasn’t anger. It was grief. His whole body shook as the tears finally came, unguarded and unstoppable.

My eyes widened. My chest turned to ice.

Peisistratus, the one who always had a grin, who always had the clever retort, who carried himself like nothing could touch him... was crying.

Chapter Text

I don’t remember my feet carrying me, only the storm inside my chest propelling me forward. Down the polished hallways, past startled servants, until I reached the heavy doors to Menelaus. I slammed them open without knocking, my pulse a drum in my ears.

There he was, the great King of Sparta, sitting in his carved chair, draped in crimson like he had been waiting for me all along. His hair caught the light. He looked like he’d never left Troy, like the blood of that war still clung to him.

“Ah,” he said with a smile that cut at me, calm, amused, patronizing. “My young guest. To what do I owe this fiery entrance? Trouble with your friend again?”

That smile made me want to tear down every tapestry in his hall. I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms.

“Don’t play with me,” I spat. My voice cracked, raw. “I know. I know what you’re all hiding from me.”

He tilted his head, still smiling. “Do you, now?”

“Yes!” I barked, and my whole body shook with it. “Polites told me—he showed me! He said my fate wasn’t mine! He showed me you—you!—and Helen, the spark of all this madness, and he laughed at how men destroyed the world for her beauty. He told me I carry the curse, that my path isn’t marriage or thrones, but his unfinished story. And you sit there—” I pointed at him, shaking, furious, “—you sit there smiling at me like I’m some child lost in his father’s shadow. Enough! No more riddles, no more silence. I demand the truth!”

My voice echoed against the stone. For a breath, Menelaus didn’t move. But the guards at the door stirred at my shouting. Two bronze-clad soldiers stepped forward, hands on their spears.

“Stand down!” Menelaus said sharply, his smile vanishing like it had never existed. His voice was iron now. The soldiers halted mid-step. His eyes, once mocking, turned grave, sharp as a drawn sword. He gestured for them to back away, and they obeyed instantly.

The silence that followed made my ears ring.

Then Menelaus looked at me—not as a king to a boy, not as a victor to a guest. But as one weary man staring into the face of something he had dreaded.

“Very well, my boy,” he said at last, his voice low, heavy. “I fear I do have to tell you everything.”

The weight in his words pressed against my chest, like the air had thickened around me. His face, stripped of its calm, was suddenly ancient—lined not by age, but by memory, by the shadow of a war that had never truly ended.

I stepped forward, watching him as though I could drink the past from his lips.

Menelaus’ gaze grew distant, as though the hall itself faded around him. “How it began…” He exhaled through his nose, the sound carrying weight. “They will tell you it was the gods. That Aphrodite herself stole her away. That Paris was but a pawn. That all we did was play out what the Fates had already written.”

Helen shifted beside him at that, her hand brushing over her lap, her eyes falling to the ground. I caught the faintest twitch of her mouth, as if she wanted to speak but swallowed it instead.

Menelaus’ jaw clenched. “But I was there. I saw the ship. I knew the boy. Paris. He was smooth-tongued, yes, and she—” he stopped, glancing toward Helen. Her lips parted, color touching her cheeks. She looked embarrassed, even ashamed. For a moment I wished to look away, to spare her, but Menelaus pressed on. “She went with him. Willingly, though perhaps not fully knowing what awaited her. And that, boy, was the spark. My honor stained, my house mocked. The kings of Greece rallied, though some cared less for me and more for glory.”

I cleared my throat, uneasy. “And Odysseus? Was he eager to fight?”

Menelaus’ mouth bent in something between a laugh and a sigh. “Your father? Eager? No. He was cleverer than that. He tried every trick to stop the war, or even avoid going. But the oath was clear. They all swore to protect Helen in case of need long, long ago.”

My stomach turned cold. “He… what?”

He leaned back, eyes gone faraway again. “In Troy, he was… well, he was himself. Restless mind, always turning. If Agamemnon was the voice of command, Odysseus was the mind that made men obey. He could speak honey and iron in the same breath. He and Diomedes together… aye, those two were shadows in the night. Many a Trojan tent was emptied by morning with only their footprints to mark the deed.”

“What of Polites?” The question leapt from me before I could stop it.

Menelaus tilted his head, squinting. “Ah. Polites. Your father’s shadow of a different sort. They called him steady-handed. Never rash, never boasting. The kind of man others trusted their backs to.” He gave a low chuckle. “I remember once, after a skirmish, when the campfire was low. Your father pacing, furious at some slight Agamemnon had dealt him. Polites sat him down. Not with force, not with argument. Just… placed a hand on his arm and spoke quiet words. Odysseus calmed. It was like watching a storm lose its thunder.”

I swallowed hard. “So they were… close?”

“Closer than brothers.” Menelaus nodded. “One the spark, the other the stone to ground it. They laughed together, too. Gods, how they laughed. In war that is no small gift.”

Helen shifted again, lifting her gaze to me at last. “Your father was… kind, in ways men forget. He would speak gently to me, when others would not meet my eye. And Polites… he, too, treated me as though I were not some cursed prize. There was a decency in them both.”

The words startled me. Helen speaking of my father, of Polites, as though they were more than names sung in halls. Her voice was softer now, fragile almost.

Menelaus touched her wrist, a quiet gesture. Then, to me, he said, “You must understand, Telemachus. War was not made of heroes and villains. It was made of hunger, of waiting, of watching men you knew fall one by one. Odysseus and Polites endured it side by side. They bore the weight together. And when one stumbled, the other carried him.”

I sat still, heart hammering. My father’s name had always been a hollow bell rung by strangers. Now it was flesh. Now it was laughter in firelight, hands on shoulders, whispered words in the dark.

Menelaus’ voice roughened. “And when the horse was built… aye, that was Odysseus’ great work. But it was Polites who kept the men steady inside its belly, when fear choked them. Without him, the trick might have failed.”

I exhaled, not realizing I’d been holding my breath.

“What happened to him?” I asked, almost whispering.

Menelaus’ gaze darkened, shifting away. Helen’s fingers stilled. For a long time he said nothing, and I felt the answer before he gave it.

But he only said, “That is a tale for another day.”

And I, though every muscle in me longed to demand more, stayed silent.

“No,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. “It is for now. We sail tomorrow at first light. If I walk out of this hall without knowing, it will haunt me, and I can not carry more shadows than I already do.”

Menelaus regarded me in silence, and for the first time since I had stepped into his chamber, the smile he wore so easily was gone. He looked older, suddenly—older and burdened. He poured himself wine but did not drink, staring into the cup as though it held memories.

“You are indeed your father’s son,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Stubborn. Demanding truth even if it wounds.”

“Then wound me,” I pressed. “Better that than ignorance.”

He exhaled slowly and set the cup aside. “Very well.”

The air in the room thickened, as though even the guards at the doors leaned closer. Helen did not look at me. Her hands folded tightly in her lap, her eyes fixed on some invisible point in the hearth flames.

Menelaus began, voice low. “After Troy burned, after Priam’s halls collapsed to ash, there was no triumph in us. We were scattered ships crawling back across the sea, each king to his own hearth. But Odysseus… he did not come home with the rest of us. He had six hundred men—six hundred!—loyal Ithacans, hardened by ten years of war. And yet…” He broke off, shaking his head. “They vanished. One by one, place by place, until none were left.”

My mouth went dry. “Vanished?”

“No graves, no wreckage. They say storms claimed them. Some say monsters. Others say his own hubris led them astray. But I heard whispers, Telemachus.” His eyes cut into me now, sharp as bronze. “That it was not the men who doomed themselves, but the gods who claimed them.”

I thought of Polites’ voice in my dreams, the way he spoke of fate as if it were a chain already clasped around my neck.

Menelaus leaned closer. “You said he came to you. Polites. You told me he spoke to you in a vision.”

I swallowed, my hands curling into fists in my lap. “He did. He… he said things I cannot explain. Things that made no sense and yet cut me open. But I do not know if he lives, or if it was only madness.”

"Strange,” he murmured. “Strange, and yet not impossible. The gods weave their threads through dream and shadow. If he lingers… then perhaps it is not yet the end for him.”

I swallowed hard, nails biting into my palms.

Menelaus’ voice dropped lower still. “And Odysseus… I have heard whispers, boy. From the tongues of sailors, from the breath of old prophets. That he is not dead. That he is held captive. A prisoner of Calypso, the nymph who dwells far in the western sea. A place no map will show you.”

I stared at him, heat rising in my chest, my vision trembling as though the hearthlight itself shook. My father. Not bones under the earth, not ash in the sea—but living. Imprisoned.

My words came out hoarse. “And you… you knew this? And said nothing?”

Menelaus held my gaze, steady, unflinching. “Because whispers are not truth. Because false hope kills as swiftly as despair. But now you are no longer a child. Now you are ready to bear it. So I tell you.”

I felt myself rise without meaning to, my legs carrying me upward as though I might burst out of my own skin. My hands trembled. My breath was ragged. My father. My father.

Helen’s voice cut softly across the roaring in my ears. “Telemachus…” She had risen too, her eyes bright with something between pity and sorrow. “Do not let the fire consume you. It is better to carry the truth carefully, as a flame cupped in your palms. It will burn you before it guides you.”

But I hardly heard her. My blood thundered like waves against rocks.

“He lives,” I whispered. “He lives. And I will find him.”

I ran out of Menelaus’ chambers, the words still hammering in my skull. The torches along the corridor blurred as I walked too fast, almost stumbling, rage and hope coiling together so violently inside me I could hardly breathe.

I found Eratus in the courtyard, crouched in the shadows like some half-wild creature. His head snapped up at the sound of my footsteps, his eyes already wary, already too knowing.

“Eratus,” I hissed, my voice low but shaking, “you’re Apollo’s priest—or whatever it is you are. So be useful for once and tell me... do you know anything of Calypso?”

For a heartbeat his face went utterly still, like stone. Then his mouth twisted. “Why in the gods’ names would you ask me that?”

“Because I must,” I shot back, stepping closer. “Because Menelaus just told me that my father might be there. On her island.”

That broke something in him. I saw it in the flash of his eyes, in the way his lips parted but no sound came. His gaze flickered to the ground, to the sky, to anywhere but my face—as though the truth had suddenly grown too heavy for him to contain. And then it was there, in the fire of his eyes, sharp and dangerous, like he had always known. Like he had never meant for me to know.

But I was too desperate, too consumed to see the warning in it. I pressed forward. “You do know, don’t you?”

Eratus’ jaw clenched. For a long moment he said nothing, and I thought he would simply spit in my face, walk away, leave me to rot with unanswered questions. But instead, in a voice low and carved with reluctance, he said, “Yes.”

My heart slammed against my ribs. “Then take me. Show me the way.”

He straightened, the shadows wrapping him like a cloak. His expression darkened, older than his years, harder than it should have been. “I can show you,” he said slowly, “but you must understand—Calypso’s isle is no place for mortals. Men do not return from there. Not unless the gods allow it. If you step onto her shores, I cannot promise you will leave alive.”

The words should have shaken me. They should have rooted me to the earth. But instead, I felt a surge of fire burn through my veins, fierce and unyielding. “I don’t care,” I said, my voice rising, breaking. “I will do whatever it takes.”

I turned then, and my eyes fell on Peisistratus. He had been silent until now, watching from behind me, his face unreadable in the torchlight. My chest tightened. “Are you with me?”

For a long moment he did not answer, and the pause carved into me like a blade. Then he stepped forward, his gaze steady, his voice firm. “I am, my prince.”

And for the first time since Menelaus had spoken, the storm inside me calmed—not gone, not stilled, but shaped into a weapon.

The morning was crisp, the sea calm yet restless under the rising sun. Menelaus had been generous—or perhaps careful—sending a small squad of his men along with us, seasoned sailors to bolster our chances. Their presence was reassuring, though I felt that my own hands and the knowledge I had wrested from charts and calculations mattered more than any extra swords.

The ship creaked and groaned as the sails caught the wind, and I moved along the deck, scanning the horizon. Even with my careful calculations, I could feel the unpredictable moods of the sea. Every wave was a test, every gust a reminder that I wasn’t in a classroom anymore.

Then someone’s voice rang out sharp and startling: “Captain!”

I froze mid-step, my stomach twisting. Captain? Me? The word felt foreign on my tongue, like it belonged to someone older, someone braver than I. My head snapped toward the deck where one of Menelaus’ men pointed insistently at the horizon.

I followed their finger, and there—just a faint silhouette, rising from the shimmer of the ocean—sat an island, its edges blurred by the morning haze.

“Peisistratus!” I called, my voice catching.

He appeared beside me almost instantly, his usual stern expression in place, though I could see the remnants of last night’s tension in the tight set of his jaw. The air between us was taut—half-anger, half-unspoken apologies.

“There,” I said, my voice trembling a little with excitement, “in the distance… I see a fire! I see a light that faintly glows!”

Peisistratus squinted, eyes narrowing. “Hmm... something feels off here.”

“Off?” I asked, confusion spiking. “What do you mean?”

Before he could answer, Eratus moved forward, his voice lilting with excitement. “Oh gods… yes! That is it! That is the island!”

I nearly shouted in triumph, gesturing wildly toward the glowing point. “See? I told you! That’s it!”

Peisistratus' expression remained cautious, almost hesitant. “I see a fire, but there’s no smoke. That is… unusual. Nothing burns without leaving some trace.”

Eratus’ eyes glittered with that strange mix of curiosity and awe he always carried. “It’s not unusual. This is the work of the divine—or something very close to it. That glow… that’s no ordinary fire. That is Calypso’s presence. You can feel it, can’t you?”

I swallowed hard, my pulse hammering against my ribs. I could feel it. The heat of the glow, faint but undeniable, pressed on my senses like a warning and an invitation at the same time.

Peisistratys' hand brushed briefly against my shoulder—almost unconsciously—but I flinched, still half-angry, half-wired from the night before. His dark eyes locked on mine, sharp and steady. “Telemachus, focus. We are not here for wonder. Keep your mind clear.”

“Yes,” I muttered, though my gaze refused to leave the island. “I… I can feel it too. That light… it calls me.”

The closer we drew, the more the light on the island flickered, not like a steady flame but like something alive, pulsing in strange rhythm. My chest grew tight. I wanted so badly for it to be her island—the place Menelaus had spoken of, where Father might still breathe, trapped yet alive. But deep inside, a voice whispered that something was wrong. That glow was beautiful, yes, but it was too perfect, too steady, too deliberate.

When the ship slowed, the crew looked to me, their new “captain.” Gods, the word still felt heavy as a crown. I turned to them, my hands gripping the railing so hard the wood bit into my palms.

“I am going now,” I said, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. “You all stay here. If something happens to me, you must return home. Do not risk yourselves. This is my mission—mine alone.”

“No.” The word cut through the silence, firm, immovable. I turned and met Peisistratus’ gaze, hard as bronze. He shook his head slowly, almost angrily. “You can’t go alone.”

I clenched my jaw. “I’d rather sacrifice myself than drag the crew into danger. I couldn’t live with their blood on my hands. It’s too great a risk.”

“It’s too great a risk to send you alone!” he snapped back, voice sharper than I’d expected. The men glanced between us nervously, but he didn’t care. “Do you think I’m going to stand here and let you march to your possible death while I sit safe on a ship? You must be out of your mind.”

My breath came hard. Part of me wanted to scream at him, part of me wanted to thank him. “Peisistratus,” I said, softer now, “this is my burden, not yours. My father, my path, my fate. You don’t owe me this.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “Don’t speak to me of owing. If you go, I go. That’s the end of it.”

Before I could answer, Eratus broke in, his voice sharp and almost frantic. “Don’t go, Peisistratus. You can’t follow him there—it’s madness. You don’t understand what waits on that shore.”

Peisistratus whipped his head around, eyes dark. “And what, Eratus? You do? Huh, Trojan boy?”

Eratus faltered, his mouth opening then closing, but I caught the flicker in his eyes—something too quick, too knowing. It made my stomach turn.

Peisistratus exhaled sharply, gripping my arm. “Listen to me,” he said, his voice fierce but steady, “give me 'till sunrise, and if we don’t return... then you can come searching. Until then, you stay here. Keep the ship safe. You’ll be fine, little dude.” He tried for a grin at the end, his old playful tone bleeding through, though it wavered under the weight of his worry.

I swallowed hard, looking from him to Eratus, whose lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line. Then back to the crew, who all avoided my eyes, as though afraid they might catch the fire burning in them.

I nodded. “Very well. Until sunrise.”

And so it was decided. The two of us would step into whatever waited on that shore, together.

The sand beneath my feet was pale and soft, finer than anything I had known in Ithaca. The air was thick with sweetness, a perfume that clung to the lungs and made the world blur at the edges. Every step forward felt like wading through a dream, yet I forced myself to stay sharp, to count each breath, each shift of shadow, as though vigilance alone could keep me tethered to reality.

Beside me, Peisistratus walked in silence, the torchlight gilding the edge of his face. I knew he wanted to speak; I could feel it pressing against him like a tide straining against a breakwater. But I pressed forward, shoulders squared, jaw tight, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much I ached to hear his voice soften into apology.

The trees ahead were heavy with fruit, golden orbs that shimmered faintly as if lit from within. The ground was littered with petals, the color of dying fire. Every sense screamed at me that this was wrong, that beauty of this kind could only be bait.

“Telemachus,” he said at last. His voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the hum of the island itself.

I didn’t answer. My eyes stayed fixed ahead.

“I’m sorry,” he tried again. “For what I said. For how I acted. For not… being who you needed me to be.”

I kept walking. My heart clenched, begging me to stop, to turn to him, to take those words like balm over an open wound. But instead, I hardened my voice. “Save it.”

The word landed sharper than I intended. I heard him sigh, heard his steps falter just behind mine, then quicken again to catch me.

“Please don’t push me away,” he said. I felt the warmth of his hand brush mine, and before I could stop it, his fingers slid into mine and held. The grip was firm, desperate, not asking but pleading. “Please.”

I should have pulled away. I told myself I would. That this was weakness, indulgence, that every moment wasted on feeling was one stolen from my father. But my hand stayed where it was, bound to him as if by chains.

The island seemed to hum louder around us, the petals shifting in the breeze like whispers, and for a heartbeat I wondered if the land itself was watching us, mocking us. Still, I could not bring myself to let go.

His hand in mine was burning, though no fire touched us. I stared at the ground, then at the trees, anywhere but at him. Yet, as though pulled by some cruel god, my gaze returned to his eyes—dark, unwavering, searching me like he could dig past all the walls I had built.

The silence between us swelled until it threatened to crush me. My chest rose, fell, caught. My tongue felt clumsy, heavy. Still, I forced the words out, quiet, halting, as if afraid of my own voice: “And… if it was not anger that I held… if I wanted something else instead… would you... would you answer it?”

His eyes widened, and I knew he understood, because the air changed between us, thickened, alive. He stepped closer, so close I felt the warmth of his breath brush my cheek. His hand, still locked with mine, tightened, and my heart thundered so violently I thought the whole island would hear it.

For a moment, just a single fragile heartbeat, I believed we might let go of everything else—the gods, the war, our fathers, the curses—and simply fall into that reckless gravity pulling us together. His face dipped closer to mine. My lips parted, dry, aching—

Then the sound tore through the stillness.

A crack. A shuffle. Leaves breaking beneath feet that were not ours.

We both flinched. He dropped my hand. His sword hissed free of its sheath in the same breath, his voice sharp and commanding, nothing of the softness left in it.

“STAY BACK!” he shouted into the trees, every muscle taut.

The island that had moments ago seemed to hum with sweetness now thrummed with menace. The glow of the strange fruit cast eerie shadows on the undergrowth, and for the first time since setting foot on shore, I felt truly watched.

My breath came shallow, my heart still aching from what almost was, and from what was now broken.

And then...

Out of all directions rose small creatures with big, sparkly eyes, munching on lotus flowers and seeds. I was first smirking, then giggling but then I started full-on laughing.

I couldn’t stop laughing. I mean, really—laughing at the absurdity of it all. Those little creatures that had made me almost jump out of my boots? They were... ridiculous. Tiny, harmless, and honestly kind of comical.

I jabbed a finger at Peisi, smirking. “Look at you, all heroic and tense!” I mimicked his stance, sword raised, jaw tight. “STAY BACK! THEY’RE DANGEROUS!” I howled, completely losing it.

He froze, sword still raised, but a flicker of annoyance—or maybe embarrassment—crossed his face. Then his shoulders slumped slightly, though he didn’t drop the sword entirely. “Telemachus… these aren’t just toys,” he muttered, unsure.

The lotus eaters, as I had mentally dubbed them, skittered closer, tiny feet making the softest tap-tap-tap. Their voices were high and musical. “Follow! Follow!” they chirped, swaying like they were dancing to some invisible rhythm.

I glanced at Peisistratus and grinned devilishly. “See? They want us to come with them. Don’t worry, I’ll lead!”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Telemachus, don’t listen to them. We don’t know what they want.”

I rolled my eyes, shaking my head. “Then go with me.” I started forward, laughter bubbling in my chest, excitement clawing at my ribs. The little creatures scurried ahead, motioning with tiny hands, their voices like a tune teasing me onward.

He hesitated for a heartbeat longer, and then, with a sigh that was almost a growl, he sheathed his sword and followed. His hand brushed mine briefly as he fell in step beside me. My heart lurched—not from fear this time, but from the sheer, reckless joy of having him there, right there beside me, even as we chased after these absurd, dancing little creatures.

The island around us seemed to lean in closer, sun-dappled shadows twisting in rhythm with the winions’ calls. I felt alive in a way that was entirely new, entirely terrifying—and entirely intoxicating.

We walked cautiously, the little creatures flitting ahead like flickers of candlelight. The island was quieter here, the leaves whispering soft secrets, and the air smelled faintly of salt and something sweeter—like petals long forgotten.

Then I saw it.

A vessel. Not just any vessel. It glowed with a light that seemed too warm, too alive for anything earthly. Not quite sunlight, not quite gold—something between a heartbeat and a whisper, like the kind of light that catches your soul unprepared.

I froze, my legs refusing to move, my fingers curling around the fabric of my tunic. Peisi stepped closer, silent but tense, and I could feel his heartbeat against my own ribs, steady and grounding.

Beneath the urn—or vessel, I wasn’t sure yet—was a carving etched deep into the stone, letters that weren’t letters, a name that felt like a key and a lock at once:

Λαμπρότατος.

Lamprotatos.

The brilliance of the word pressed into me like the pull of a tide, dragging me forward even as every part of me screamed to stop. The wind circled the object, playful and teasing, carrying the faintest scent of flowers—hyacinths, blue as twilight bleeding into night.

I couldn’t reach it. My hands shook in midair, hovering over the stone as if mere contact would shatter something delicate, irrevocable. Peisi’s hand hovered beside mine, hesitating, and I saw in his eyes the same realization that had turned my stomach cold.

It was a grave.

The weight of it sank into my chest like stones dropping into water, and I felt an echo—some ancient, personal echo—ripple through me. Not just fear, not just sorrow. Something deeper. Recognition. Loss.

Peisistratus breathed sharply behind me, his own face pale, and I finally whispered, barely above the wind, “It… it’s a grave.”

He nodded slowly, words unnecessary. We both knew it then. The soft glow, the delicate flowers, the impossibly perfect vessel—it wasn’t honoring life. It was a marker of death, and it was calling to something inside both of us we weren’t ready to name.

I couldn’t look away. Even if I had wanted to, I couldn’t.

“This… this isn’t Calypso’s island,” I muttered, my voice low, more to myself than to Peisistratus. My eyes stayed locked on the glowing vessel, the golden light curling around the hyacinths like it was alive.

He crouched beside me, studying the arrangement as if the placement of the flowers, the urn, the soft curve of the stones could tell him something. “It’s… meticulous,” he said carefully, “every element in perfect balance. Whoever did this… they knew exactly what they were doing.”

I shook my head slowly, a chill creeping up my spine. “No. This… this isn’t human. This is some god’s doing. No mortal could craft something like this." My voice trailed off, the implication hanging heavy in the humid air.

Something compelled me forward. My hand reached for a small pool of water trickling nearby, almost hidden by the thick moss. I cupped my hands, letting the cool water run over my fingers, and then splashed it gently onto the hyacinths at the base of the urn. The petals shivered under the touch, the faint glow beginning to pulse brighter, almost urgently, as if the act had awakened something.

Then I heard it.

A voice. Clear, melodic, and impossibly beautiful. It rose from somewhere inside the urn, yet surrounding us at once, like a song woven through the wind itself:

"This life is amazing when you greet it with open arms
Whatever we face, we'll be fine if we're leading from the heart
No matter the place, we can light up the world
Here's how to start
Greet the world with open arms
Greet the world with open arms"

The song made the hairs on my arms rise. The cadence, the warmth, the gentleness… I knew it. I knew that voice. My stomach twisted, my chest ached, and I felt my heart shiver.

“Peisistratus… that’s—” I froze, whispering so softly that the wind might have swallowed my words. “That’s Polites. That has to be Polites.”

Peisi looked at me, his dark eyes reflecting the golden glow, the uncertainty mirroring my own. “His voice… it’s here?”

“Yes,” I breathed, my fingers clutching the hem of my tunic. “This… this is his grave. I—he must be gone. He has to be.” My lips trembled as I let the realization settle like a stone in my chest. The glow pulsed stronger, almost beckoning, and the song repeated faintly, echoing through the trees, through the night, through me.

I sank to my knees, staring at the golden urn, the carved name Λαμπρότατος glowing brighter than ever, and whispered into the wind, “Polites… it's me. It's little wolf…”

Peisistratus crouched beside me, placing a firm hand on my shoulder, grounding me. “We… we have to be careful here. Whatever happened, whoever did this, it’s not for us to disturb lightly.”

I swallowed hard, the weight of everything pressing down on me. “I… I just… I needed to know. I had to hear him again, even if it’s just this.” My voice cracked, and I looked at Peisistratus, searching for the kind of understanding I rarely found in anyone.

He squeezed my shoulder gently. “Then we’ll honor him. Together.”

And even as I nodded, the glow of the urn reflecting in my eyes, I felt an ache that was impossibly sharp—the ache of knowing someone, hearing them again, and yet being powerless to hold them.

I froze mid-breath, staring at the glowing urn, when a faint murmur brushed past my ears. At first, I thought it was just the wind—just the gentle rustle of the lotus leaves around us. But then, it grew clearer, slipping through the haze of my thoughts like a shadow I couldn’t quite name.

“τρέξε… τρέξε…”

My heart stuttered, a cold shiver racing down my spine. The words—ancient, urgent—rattled in my mind. I tilted my head, trying to catch the voice, and then it hit me like a thunderclap. Polites. He was warning us.

τρέξε.

Run.

I turned to Peisistratus, my chest heaving. “Run!” I shouted, my voice cracking with both fear and adrenaline. “We… we have to run!”

He didn’t hesitate. His hand grabbed mine instinctively, strong and grounding, and together we bolted across the rocky, uneven terrain. The hyacinths glowed behind us like embers, casting their golden light into the morning haze as if urging us forward. Every step felt treacherous, the uneven ground trying to betray our momentum, but the urgency thrummed in our veins, pushing us faster than I thought possible.

The sun was rising behind the horizon, painting the sky in molten gold and bruised purple. Its light gleamed off the waves lapping against the shore, but I barely noticed, my mind locked on the murmured warning and the sound that followed.

Then came the banging—the heavy, rhythmic stomp of enormous feet. Each step made the ground shiver beneath us. The sound was deafening, reverberating in my bones, and I could hear Peisistratus' breath quickening beside me, matching my own. I risked a glance behind, and the sight made my stomach drop into a pit I hadn’t known existed.

There. Towering above the trees and rocks, its single, enormous eye scanning the terrain, was a cyclops. Its massive form blocked the sun’s light, casting a monstrous shadow that seemed to swallow the golden glow of the urn behind us. Its arms swung with terrifying strength, each movement sending tremors through the earth.

My hands felt clammy, my lungs burning with the effort of running, yet my mind screamed even louder. Polites warned us… he knew!

“Keep moving!” I yelled again, gripping Peisistratus' hand tighter. The weight of him beside me grounded my terror in something real, something solid amidst the chaos.

The cyclops roared, a sound so deep it felt like it came from the very belly of the earth. Trees splintered under its fists, rocks shattering under its footsteps, and the wind carried the roar straight to my chest. I stumbled but Peisistratus' grip steadied me instantly, and I scrambled back to my feet.

“Do you see it?!” I gasped, pointing behind us. “It’s… it’s enormous!”

“I see it!” He shouted, his voice steady despite the panic that laced it. “We just have to keep moving! Don’t look back!”

But I couldn’t help it. Every instinct I had screamed at me to watch, to understand the scale of the danger we were in. The cyclops moved with terrifying precision, its single eye scanning the forest floor for the source of the golden glow, for us. My heart pounded in my ears, but beneath the fear, a strange thrill surged through me—the adrenaline, the absolute terror, the unrelenting reality of being alive and running for it.

We dove between boulders, scrambled over roots, and leapt across fallen trees, the morning light catching the sweat on my brow, on Peisi’s hair, and the Cyclops’ massive form, casting long, monstrous shadows that danced across the land.

Run, little wolf… run…

Or die, little wolf... die...

The words replayed in my mind, giving voice to the warning, letting Polites’ ghost guide us even when the cyclops seemed impossibly close. I felt Peisistratus' presence beside me, steady and unwavering, and somehow, amidst the fear, my resolve sharpened.

We had to survive. We had to reach the water. We had to escape this nightmare. And somehow, I knew, Polites was there—watching, guiding us, even if only in echoes and whispers carried by the morning wind.

I turned mid-run, my chest heaving, and the world blurred around me, sunlight streaking across the sky like molten gold. But then—it warped. The nightmare of memory hit me, hard and relentless. I saw it, as if I had been shoved back in time, forced to witness everything I had hoped never to know.

The cyclops towered, impossibly massive, each step shaking the earth beneath him. And then I saw Polites. He was closer than I could bear, darting through the chaos, trying to protect, to survive, and then… the cyclops raised his massive club.

“No… no… this can’t…” I whispered, frozen in place, heart hammering.

The club came down. Hard. Too hard. Polites tried to dodge, but there was nowhere to go. The first blow caught him in the shoulder, knocking him to the ground with a sickening crunch. His body twisted unnaturally beneath the weight. And then the cyclops struck again—this time full force, smashing him against the jagged rocks of the shore.

Polites’ eyes—wide, terrified, desperate—met mine in the vision, and I could hear him choked, half a cry, half a gurgle:

“C-Captain…” His voice was broken, swallowed by pain and terror.

I wanted to scream, to move, to reach him—but my legs felt like lead. My hands clawed at the air, as if I could grab the past itself and stop it from happening. The Cyclops’ club came down once more, smashing Polites’ ribs, and I saw him flinch, twitch, his hands grasping at nothing. Blood stained the sand and water beneath him.

“C-Captain…” His lips moved again, a faint, strangled sound. I could almost hear the desperation, the plea to my father, to someone, anyone, to save him. And then the final blow—the club rose, swung, and slammed down with horrifying inevitability.

Everything went silent, except for the echo of Polites’ eyes, his faint, final gurgle fading as his body went limp. My stomach twisted. My knees gave way. My chest heaved. My hands flew to my face, trembling uncontrollably.

No one could have survived that. I knew it. I knew it in every fiber of me. The vision blurred, the cyclops’ laughter filled my ears, and the world around me became a spinning vortex of grief and horror.

"Six hundred lives I'll take! Six hundred lives I'll break!"

I sank to the sand in the vision, gasping, sobbing silently. I could still feel the echo of Polites’ hands in mine, the faint warmth that would never come again, the gentle, knowing smile that had haunted me. And I realized, fully and unbearably, how exactly he died.

The shouting from my crew jolted me. "Captain!" The word ripped through the fog of my vision, pulling me violently back from the horror I had just relived. I blinked, shook my head, and felt Peisistratus’ hands on my shoulders, steadying me, guiding me back onto the deck. His grip was firm, insistent, and I realized, suddenly, I had been lost again—sinking into my own mind, caught in Polites’ death over and over.

We climbed onto the ship, the planks creaking beneath our feet. My heart was still hammering, and my chest burned with the memory of the helpless crew. Fury coiled inside me like a snake ready to strike. I spun on my heel, storming to a corner of the deck, my fists clenching the rail, my legs trembling not from weakness, but from raw, unspent rage.

I screamed into the wind, louder than the sea could ever hope to carry, louder than the cyclops had roared: "Hey cyclops!"

My voice echoed over the waves, carried by the sea as if even Poseidon himself could hear it.

"The next time that you dare choose not to spare—remember them! Remember us! Remember me!"

My teeth gritted, and I continued, forcing the words from my chest, letting every ounce of pain, fear, and anger fuel them.

"I am the prince of Ithaca! I am neither man nor mythical! I am your darkest moment!"

I slammed my fists against the rail, staring into the horizon as if the cyclops could appear before me, trembling with terror now at the intensity of my voice. I could feel the weight of my father’s legacy in that moment, the echoes of Odysseus’ cunning, his bravery—but this was my rage, mine and mine alone. I refused to be silent, refused to be weak, refused to let that horror from the past chain me to fear.

I shouted again, louder, rawer, every syllable trembling with grief and fury:

"I am the infamous—Telemachus!""

The wind whipped my hair into my face, the salt stinging my eyes, but I didn’t care. I was the voice of Ithaca now. I was the reckoning. And though the cyclops was far away—or perhaps long gone—I could almost feel the weight of him listening, trembling under the intensity of my declaration.

I fell back against the rail, breathing heavily, my voice hoarse but unbroken. And in that moment, I felt the spark of something inside me: not just fear, not just rage, but a seed of what it meant to be my father’s son, to carry his legacy, and to stand against monsters, both real and imagined.

Peisistratus came closer, his hand on my shoulder again, and I allowed him a small nod. The anger didn’t fade, but it was tempered now with purpose.

I was Telemachus, heir to Ithaca, and I would not let the shadows of the past consume me.

Chapter Text

The deck was silent when my voice finally cracked into the wind. Silent except for the sea slapping against the hull, except for the pounding of my heart that hadn’t yet calmed.

I turned, and all of them were staring at me—every single pair of eyes. Some wide with awe, others with fear. None of them had ever heard me like that before. Not as Telemachus, the boy fumbling for his father’s shadow, but as someone who demanded to be seen, who demanded to be heard.

Peisistratus was the first to move. He took a cautious step toward me, hand still resting on his sword as if the echo of danger clung to the air. His eyes were searching mine, as if he was trying to piece together whether I was still myself, or something darker.

But then my gaze cut past him, landing on Eratus. He looked pale, his lips pressed tight, his knuckles gripping the rail like he could steady the storm just by holding onto wood.

And that was when the fury in me snapped.

“You,” I spat, my voice low at first, but rising like a tide, sharp as a blade. “You missed the FUCKING ISLAND!”

The crew flinched at the sudden shout, the words carrying across the deck. Eratus jolted like I’d struck him, eyes darting like a cornered animal.

“Your stupid vision and your half-formed guidance nearly got us all killed! We almost died because of your mistake! You had ONE FUCKING JOB!"

“Telemachus—” Peisistratus’ voice cut in, firm but soft, stepping between us like a shield. His hand half-raised toward me, like he thought he could soothe me. Always trying to soothe me.

I laughed, bitter, hollow, sharp enough to cut myself. “Oh, of course. Of course. Here we go again. Mister ‘don’t push me away’ swoops in—” I mimicked his earlier words with a sneer, my throat burning as the mockery left my lips, “—but when it comes to standing up for me, for what I say, for what I see, you never do! Never, Peisistratus!”

His jaw tightened, his face pale in the dawn light. I could see the sting in his eyes, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. The words were pouring out, unstoppable.

“You’ll bleed for me, you’ll cry for me, you’ll beg me not to push you away, but when I rage—when I demand the truth—you’ll protect him!” I pointed at Eratus, who shrank back, muttering under his breath like a frightened child.

The crew shifted uneasily, their eyes flicking between us, waiting for someone to break the spiral. The ship creaked, as if even it strained beneath the weight of my fury.

Eratus was trembling—or at least, he wanted us to see him that way. His eyes welled with tears, his voice catching like a boy’s.

“I–I told you,” he stammered, “my visions are not always clear. Not always correct. I am… I am not yet a true priest of Apollo. I am untrained. A vessel still being shaped. Sometimes the god shows me shadows, and I… I mistake them for light.”

His words fell out like confession, soft, pitiable. He looked small, bent, as if the weight of his own uselessness crushed him.

And damn it... Peisistratus believed him.

“It’s fine,” Peisistratus said quickly, rushing to soothe him, placing a hand on Eratus’ shoulder. His voice was warm, steady, protective. “It’s okay. None of us knew. You did what you could.”

I could feel the bile rising in my throat. The ship felt too small for my rage.

“Okay?” I snapped, the word cutting out of me like a blade. “Okay? He misled us into the jaws of death! You call that okay?”

Peisistratus turned toward me, lips parted, but I didn’t let him speak. My voice thundered over the sea.

“You had the luck—” I jabbed my finger at Eratus, who cowered under my gaze, “—the sheer luck that I was here! That I was here to pull the truth out, to see it with my own eyes!”

The crew shifted uneasily, whispers sliding between them.

I stepped forward, my chest heaving, every nerve in me raw. “Do you even understand what I saw? What I know now?” My voice cracked, but I forced it louder. “Polites—my father’s brother-in-arms—was slain by that Cyclops. Crushed beneath its club, his bones shattered like driftwood! His voice still echoes, begging his captain in his final breath!”

The memory tore through me, jagged, merciless. I slammed my fist against the rail, the wood splintering under my knuckles.

“But he is not gone!” My throat burned as I shouted it. “He is burnt, urned, his body dust, but his spirit… it still lingers, wandering, chained to that cursed place! Something is not finished. Something holds him still.”

The silence that followed was heavier than any storm. The crew stared at me, pale and wide-eyed. Eratus hunched lower, clutching at his robes as though he might vanish into them. Peisistratus" face was torn, his eyes flicking between me and Eratus, between fury and fear.

And me? I was shaking. Not from weakness, but from the force of knowing—the unbearable truth gnawing at my bones.

Polites’ death was not an ending. It was a warning.

I glared at Eratus, my chest heaving from the surge of anger, grief, and disbelief. My voice came out sharper than I intended, slicing through the roar of the waves.

“From now on,” I spat, stepping close, “you just shut up. Stay silent unless you are called. I was stupid enough to even count on you to find the damn island. Do you understand?”

Eratus froze, wide-eyed, but then a faint tremor of defiance—or perhaps desperation—slipped through his features.

“But what about you, my prince?” he asked carefully, almost whispering. “You… you told your name to the cyclops.”

I turned to him, disbelief and irritation twisting together. “So what?”

Eratus’ eyes darkened, his lips tightening as he took a cautious step forward. “Do you… do you understand what that means? The cyclops… he can tell it to the revengeful gods. They will know who struck him. Who dared to survive.”

I scoffed, trying to shake off the chill crawling along my spine. “Well, it better be someond g—”

Before I could finish, the ship lurched violently, throwing me off balance. My stomach dropped, and I grabbed the railing, peering into the horizon. Dark clouds roiled above, swallowing the sunlight. The sea swelled, waves clashing against the hull like the hammers of angry titans.

A storm had erupted as if the gods themselves had decided I was pushing too far. Thunder cracked overhead, and the first fat drops of rain smacked my skin. The wind whipped my hair into my eyes, stinging, blinding, and erasing the world behind the veil of the storm.

“Hold on!” Peisistratus yelled, gripping my shoulder. But even his strength seemed tiny against the fury of the sea.

Eratus, pale and trembling, muttered something I couldn’t hear over the roar. My heart raced—not from fear alone, but from the sense that this—the storm, the crashing waves, the gods’ wrath—was connected. That my reckless words, my arrogance, my choices were being measured, weighed, and punished.

I felt the deck tilt beneath me, felt the rolling of the ship like the heartbeat of a living creature. I tasted salt in my mouth, felt it sting my eyes, and realized—suddenly—that the sea, the storm, and perhaps the gods themselves were testing me.

And I would not flinch.

I turned to Peisi, eyes burning through the rain, voice almost drowned but defiant. “We survive this, or we die knowing nothing. Do you hear me? I will not—will not!—let anything stand between me and finding my father. Not storms, not gods, not… not even you if you try to hold me back.”

Peisistratus' jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak. Instead, he nodded once, sharply, a silent acknowledgment that he would face the storm by my side.

And in that moment, with the ship groaning beneath us and the wind screaming as if in anger, I realized something terrifying and exhilarating: the sea had become my trial, and I, Telemachus of Ithaca, would either master it... or it would master me.

The storm did not relent. It swelled, raged, and clawed at us with hands of water and fists of thunder. Waves rose higher than cliffs, collapsing against the ship with enough force to splinter the mast. Rain hammered down like arrows, and the air itself felt like it wanted to choke me.

And through it all—through the chaos, through the terror—I heard it. A voice. A voice vast and deep, shaking the marrow in my bones.

“Telemachus!”

I froze, my knuckles white around the railing. The sea itself was speaking. No—not the sea. The god within it.

Poseidon.

“Telemachus of Ithaca!” The voice thundered again, each word cracking like lightning. “You dare set your feet upon my waters! You dare speak your name before my son!”

The ship groaned beneath me. Men shouted, prayed, clung to whatever they could. But my chest burned with something worse than fear—fury. Fury that every step I took was haunted by gods and curses I never asked for.

“You will pay as your father paid,” Poseidon rumbled. “He tore the world from me, and now his son does the same.”

I shouted into the wind, my throat raw: “I did nothing to your son!”

The sea swallowed my words whole. The god laughed, a sound that split the sky.

“You are his blood. His name. His shadow. His sin. That is enough.”

The storm surged harder. A wave broke over us, tossing two men screaming into the black water. I lunged for them, but they vanished into foam. My stomach heaved. My hands shook. This wasn’t a storm. This was a slaughter.

And yet… I remembered the words Polites had spoken in that vision. I remembered my father’s name echoing across the sea when he defied the cyclops. And suddenly it was me—me standing here, my name already spoken, my blood already claimed.

I roared back at the storm, at the god, at the sea itself: “I am not my father!”

Thunder cracked so loud it nearly split my skull. The mast creaked, ropes snapping like whips. But I did not stop.

“You all think I'm soft because I’ve lived in shadows? Then hear me, Poseidon! I am Telemachus of Ithaca! And I will not break!”

The sea answered with another towering wave. The ship tilted, wood screaming. My men cried out—Peisistratus' voice among them—but all I could hear was Poseidon, raging:

“You fight to save, but you will lose them all. You will lead them into ruin, as your father led his. You will drown them in your mercy, and I will make you watch.”

The deck lurched beneath my feet and I slammed into the mast, my ribs screaming.

“Captain! CAPTAIN!” the crew’s voices rose sharp, ragged, cutting through the thunder. I could hear their boots scrambling, their nails clawing at the rails.

Another wave slammed us sideways. The ship groaned as though it, too, begged for mercy. One of the oarsmen went down, slipping past the side—gone before I could even shout his name. The spray burned my eyes.

“Hold fast!” I barked, my throat raw, but no one was listening. They were slipping, one by one, their cries torn into ribbons by the wind.

I threw myself toward the rigging, fumbling with knots, trying to haul the sail up before it tore free. My fingers shook, the rope slick with salt and blood. Steady, steady, steady, I told myself, though my heart rattled in my chest like it wanted to leap into the sea.

The mast cracked—just a hairline at first, then a sickening split.

“No, no, no—” I shoved my shoulder against it, straining, my hands burning on the lines. If I could just fix this, if I could keep the sail, maybe—maybe some of them would live.

Another wave hit. I went to my knees, swallowed half the ocean, and heard the screams of men I had grown up beside vanish into the foam.

“Captain! Captain!” The calls were thinner now, fewer voices left to make them.

And still I worked. I tied knots I didn’t know I remembered, I jammed boards against the leaks with my bare hands, I screamed orders I barely understood. If I stopped moving, if I let the terror freeze me, then we were already dead.

But no matter how hard I fought, Poseidon was undoing it all with a flick of his hand.

And through it, through every crack of thunder and snap of rope, the thought cut into me like a blade: "Father—where are you?"

And then came the words, soft and venomous, like the pull of the undertow: “Drown, son of Odysseus. Drown, and let the sea write your epitaph!"

The waves rose again, higher, vaster, swallowing the world. There was no trick to cut short the god’s wrath. There was only the storm. Endless. Merciless. And me—clinging to the deck, teeth bared, waiting to see if I was strong enough to survive.

I turned—and my stomach twisted. Eratus was wrapped in Peisistratus’s arms, his lips moving quick as a whisper, chanting under his breath like he wasn’t standing on a ship that was dying beneath us.

“HEY!” I screamed, my throat burning. “What are you doing hiding there? WE’RE GONNA LOSE THEM ALL!”

The words came out like fire, but Poseidon struck harder. The deck bucked. I lost my footing—hit the planks with so hard the air was blasted from my chest. I gagged, coughing, clawing at the deckboards for breath. The salt stung my throat, filled my lungs.

“TELEMACHUS!” Peisistratus’s voice—ripped raw with terror. He tore himself from Eratus, lunging toward me.

But the sea god was quicker: a wall of water crashed between us, the mast snapping, a shard of timber nearly spearing him through. Eratus screamed, high and shrill, clutching the rail.

“No!” My voice broke. I forced myself up, stumbling, ribs screaming. My legs carried me before my mind caught up. I lunged, caught Eratus by the wrist just as he slipped, dragging him back with every ounce of strength in me.

But then Poseidon struck again.

A wave like a mountain slammed the hull. The world flipped—the deck was gone beneath my feet—and the next instant I was swallowed whole.

Cold. Crushing. Unforgiving.

The sea wrapped me in iron chains. My mouth opened to scream but all I drank was salt and death. My chest burned, my body convulsed, fighting for air that didn’t exist.

Above the roar, I heard them.

“NO!” Eratus’s cry broke like a child’s.

“TELEMACHUS!” Peisistratus’s howl split the storm, raw and ragged, like his soul was being torn out.

I kicked, flailed, but the sea pressed harder. Panic blurred into despair. My vision spotted black. I was sinking, breaking, dying.

And then—

A crack of gold split the clouds.

Light. Blinding, burning, holy. It pierced the storm, scattering Poseidon’s rage like ash on the wind. The sun’s warmth kissed my skin even as the waves dragged me deeper, and for one heartbeat I swore I felt arms—not of water, not of death, but of fire and song—pulling me upward.

Poseidon’s groan rattled through the sea itself. “Damn you, Apollo…” His voice was thunder grinding on stone. Then louder, shaking the very marrow of me: “43 left under your command. REMEMBER ME!”

The sea swallowed his cry. The world dimmed, soft, silent. My limbs gave way. I stopped fighting. My eyes fluttered shut.

And darkness claimed me.

I woke to heat on my face. Not fire—sunlight.

Sand clung to my skin, wet and heavy, and the crash of waves rang in my ears. My chest felt split in two, raw, my lungs screaming for air they hadn’t tasted in what felt like forever.

Then—pressure. A hand on my chest. Cool, steady. Words, soft and low, humming just above me. I blinked against the light and found Eratus leaning over me, his lips moving, his brow furrowed in some quiet ritual. His palm pressed to my ribs, and the warmth that spread from it was not of the sun.

A cough tore through me—violent, tearing. Salt water gushed from my throat as I rolled to my side, spitting, retching. Each breath came like knives, but it was breath, it was life. I dragged in a ragged gasp, my lungs clawing it down like it was the first air I’d ever tasted.

Eratus pulled his hand back slowly, nodding, calm as if nothing had happened. His eyes flickered, unreadable.

And then—impact.

“TELEMACHUS!”

Peisistratus crashed into me, arms like iron, hauling me upright against him. His whole body shook, his chest heaving. His face was buried in my shoulder, wet—whether from sea spray or his own tears, I couldn’t tell.

“I thought—” His voice cracked. “I thought I lost you. Gods, I thought I lost you.”

For a moment I couldn’t move. My own hands hung useless at my sides, the ache in my chest still too sharp, my head spinning. But then I felt it—his grip, desperate, unrelenting, the tremor in his breath. My heart lurched.

I swallowed hard, forcing the words out through a throat still burning with salt. “I’m… I’m here. I’m here, Peisistratus.”

But even as I said it, a shadow lingered in the back of my mind—the echo of Poseidon’s roar, his promise rattling through my bones: "Remember me."

Peisistratus didn’t let go at first. His arms stayed locked around me as though if he loosened them for even a heartbeat I’d slip away again into the sea. His breath was ragged, hot against my ear, and I could feel the tremor running through him—every shake of his chest pressed against mine.

Slowly, I pushed back, my hands finding his forearms. He resisted, clinging tighter, until at last he let me ease him off. His face came into view, and my breath caught—not from the sea this time, but from him.

Tears streaked his cheeks, catching the sunlight. His eyes, red and glassy, searched mine with a desperation that burned through me, setting my veins alight.

His hand rose—hesitant at first—then bold, roughened fingers brushing the salt and sand from my cheek. The touch was gentle, far too gentle for a man who had just been crying out like a warrior at war. His palm lingered there, holding me, as though to reassure himself that I was real.

I couldn’t look away. My chest ached with more than seawater now. The closeness of him, the weight of his gaze—it pulled me in, stripped me bare. I had never felt so seen, so fragile, so tethered.

He leaned in until his forehead met mine, until his shoulder pressed firmly against mine, solid and warm, as though he was anchoring me to this world. I didn’t know what to do with my hands; I wanted to hold him, to clutch at him, to never let him slip away again.

Then his fingers trailed lower, sliding from my cheek down along the line of my jaw, brushing against the hollow of my throat. My skin burned beneath his touch. My breath shuddered. His hand finally stilled at my shoulder, gripping it hard, grounding me, his thumb digging in with quiet urgency.

“Don’t ever do this to me,” he whispered, voice broken, raw. “Don’t ever—” His words faltered, his throat tight with all the things he couldn’t say.

And gods, the way it made me feel—like the world had split open and there was nothing left but him. The storm still echoed in my ears, Poseidon’s fury still clawed at the back of my mind, but here—in this moment—I felt only the weight of Peisistratus’ hand, the heat of him pressed against me, the desperate truth trembling in his voice.

I wanted to answer. I wanted to say something—anything—that would match the fire in his eyes. But my mouth was dry, my chest locked. All I could do was stare back, my heart slamming in my ribs, my lips parted uselessly.

Then—

A sharp cough.

Eratus.

I jerked, blinking, the spell snapping like a bowstring. His figure stood just beyond us, arms crossed, eyes too steady. From the treeline behind him came voices, footsteps—the crew, stumbling out from the forest, alive, calling out to one another.

The moment was gone.

Peisistratus’ hand slipped away, leaving only the phantom of his touch seared into my skin.

I barely had time to breathe before the crew’s voices cut through the humid air of the island.

“There’s… there’s a palace,” one of them blurted, wide-eyed, pointing toward a glinting structure half-hidden by trees. “We saw it! And… we heard a voice inside. It doesn’t seem… malicious.”

I froze, staring at the shimmering walls. My heart hammering. “No,” I hissed, cutting them off before anyone could celebrate. “No, that can be anyone! Another trap, another monster, maybe even—” My throat caught—“maybe even Calypso herself!”

A few of them exchanged nervous glances, then someone piped up, “B-but some of us went inside…”

“What?! Are you kidding me?!” My voice cracked as panic flared, making me feel like the storm itself had crawled inside my chest. I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t let them wander in blindly. My father’s crew had already been through hell; I wasn’t letting anyone else fall prey here.

I bolted, my legs eating the sand as adrenaline propelled me forward. “Show me!” I barked over my shoulder, trying to keep my tone sharp but knowing it was all trembling with fear. “Show me where it is, now!”

Peisistratus and Eratus followed, each step behind me a solid reminder that at least I wasn’t completely alone. I could hear Peisistratus' steady breathing, the familiar weight of him just behind me, trying to match my frantic pace. Eratus’s footfalls were lighter, more precise, but I knew he was tense too, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

The trees thickened, and the palace shimmered more clearly now, white and gold and impossibly still. My heart pounded like a drum in my ears. “This… this better not be another trap,” I muttered under my breath, gripping a branch as I passed. My mind raced with every possible danger, every story I’d ever heard, and still… the glinting palace beckoned.

“Almost there,” I repeated to myself, not as reassurance, but as a command—we are almost there, and I am not losing anyone else here.

Eratus’ shadow fell over me as we pushed past the last clump of trees. My pulse was deafening. “I’m going first,” I said, a growl more than a statement, my eyes locked on the entrance.

No hesitation. No mercy for fear. Not today.

Peisistratus' hand brushed mine briefly as he passed. “Careful,” he murmured, but the concern in his eyes did nothing to calm me.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My mind was a maelstrom, my heart a runaway drum, and I was already moving toward the palace.

I stepped inside, and for a brief moment, the panic that had driven me here faltered. The room—no, the whole little palace—was unlike anything I expected. Flowers everywhere, soft pinks and golds and creams, delicate tapestries swaying faintly in the warm breeze coming through open windows. No signs of violence, no traces of blood or struggle. It felt… normal. Almost absurdly normal.

And yet… the crew wasn’t here. Not a single one in sight. My heart thumped harder. My crew—they should have returned. Where were they?

I stepped further in, scanning the room, when I heard a soft, almost melodic voice behind me. "No knocking?”

I flinched, spinning around, heart in my throat, and froze. There she was.

The most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life. Her hair fell like spun gold over her shoulders, and her eyes… her eyes were a color I didn’t have words for. My ears burned red, my hands trembled slightly. I wanted to look away but couldn’t.

I forced my voice into something steadier than it felt. “Lady of the palace… so sorry for the interruption. I sent out some scouts to take a look around through here, and… it seems they came to your door. Did… did you do something to them?”

She tilted her head, a small, curious smile playing on her lips. “Who? Me?” She laughed, the sound like wind through crystal. “But of course not. What could I possibly do? Do I look like a monster to you?”

I swallowed hard, my bow a little too low, my chest tight. “N-no… of course not, my lady. Forgive me. I… I was only trying to ensure their safety.”

Her eyes sparkled as if amused by something I couldn’t grasp. “Ah,” she said softly, stepping closer, her movement so effortless it almost seemed like floating. “How… vigilant. And yet, so tense. You must be very… protective.”

I nodded, words failing me, and felt my cheeks burn even hotter. My pulse rattled in my ears, and I couldn’t stop thinking that somehow, everything that had happened, every fear, every storm, had led me here. And now… now she was standing before me, so impossibly real, so impossibly beautiful, and I was caught between awe and anxiety, unsure whether to flee or stay.

She stepped closer, brushing against me just enough that I felt the heat of her body. “You… you’re just my type,” she said, her voice low, playful, like she was teasing something out of me I didn’t even know I had. Then, with a delicate tilt of her head, she asked, “Would you care for a meal with me?”

I stiffened, trying to keep my composure. “Not… not until you tell me where my men are,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended.

She laughed again, a sound like wind through crystal chimes, and it sent a shiver down my spine. “Ooh, but they are eating. Wanna join them? Don't worry, Circe's got you now.”

Circe?

Where do I know that name from?

Before I could respond, she turned and led me to a dining area. I followed, heart hammering, anticipation mixed with dread. And then I froze.

The room was empty. Completely. Not a single crew member in sight. My mind raced—what had she done with them? Where were they?

She moved gracefully to the table and began serving dishes that looked… incredible. Golden roasted meat, steaming vegetables, fresh bread that smelled like sunlight itself. My stomach growled, but my fear kept me rooted in place.

“Why aren’t you eating?” she asked, her head tilted, eyes gleaming with mischief—or was it danger?

“You… you said my crew was here,” I stammered, voice tight.

She smiled, like she was about to reveal a secret that only she could know. “But yes… they are,” she said softly.

I tilted my head, confused. And then I heard it. Snorts and squeals.

I turned my head slowly, dread curling through me, and my stomach dropped. The sounds—those were pigs. My eyes widened as I realized what I was seeing. My crew… wandering around as pigs.

The pieces began to click in my mind. That face, that name… that reputation. The stories I had heard whispered from old sailors and travelers. My mouth went dry as the realization hit me like a spear.

“Circe!” I shouted, the name tearing from my throat like a warning. “The witch!”

Her smile didn’t falter. In fact, it grew wider, more dangerous, more knowing. My hands tightened into fists at my sides. Everything I had heard, everything I had feared… was real. And it was happening right in front of me.

I barely had time to process the horror of my crew before she was at my side, gliding toward me like some impossible dream—too beautiful, too lethal. My heart hammered, my mind screaming at me to run, but my legs felt like they had turned to stone.

“Relax, little wolf,” she murmured, and I flinched at the sound of my nickname leaving her lips. “There’s no need to fight… yet.”

Before I could respond, a strange, sweet aroma filled my senses. The scent was almost intoxicating—flowers, honey, something warm and strange—and I realized I couldn’t move. My limbs refused to obey. Panic clawed at my chest. What is she doing?

Her hands were suddenly on me, delicate but firm, brushing against my face, tracing the line of my jaw. My skin felt like it was on fire under her touch. My pulse raced; my mouth went dry.

“You’re trembling,” she said, her voice soft, teasing, almost predatory. “So alive… so fierce… yet so fragile.” She leaned closer, and I could see the play of sunlight in her hair, the glint in her eyes, and it made my chest ache.

I tried to step back, tried to say something—anything—but no words came. My throat was locked, my hands useless at my sides. She pressed her fingers against my cheek, tilting my face toward hers, her lips just a breath away.

“Do not resist me too much,” she whispered. Her fingers traced a line down my neck, making me shiver violently. “It would be such a waste, little wolf… to fight me while I care for you so.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to push her away. I wanted to run. And yet… I couldn’t move. My body betrayed me. My heart betrayed me. Even as fear pulsed through my veins like fire, a strange, unwanted longing tangled with it, and I felt completely exposed, completely helpless.

The last thing I remember before the world narrowed to just her hands and her eyes was her voice, soft, teasing, and impossibly close:

“Don’t be afraid… not tonight. Not of me.”

And then she leaned in, her presence pressing over me like the weight of the sun itself, and I realized I was trapped—not just by fear, but by the impossible, suffocating allure of her.

Chapter Text

Something in the air made my stomach twist. I could feel it before I saw it—like the shift of wind before a storm. Peisistratus was ahead, muttering under his breath, frustrated, scanning the area as if the very trees had hidden our missing prince.

“Where… where is he?” I heard him whisper, the unease in his voice gnawing at me.

I slowed my steps, straining to listen. The forest was silent, but then… faint, impossibly faint, a noise that pricked at my memory. A squeal. High-pitched, unmistakable. Pig noises.

I froze. My mind clicked, the pieces falling into place in a way I hadn’t wanted to admit.

Circe.

The name screamed in my head, though I did not speak it aloud. The air itself seemed to grow heavier, saturated with that subtle, intoxicating scent of danger and power. Every instinct I had screamed at me to alert them, but I hesitated.

Peisistratus stopped and turned back, noticing my sudden pause. “Eratus? What is it?”

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. “I—I hear… something. Pigs. And…” I trailed off, my eyes scanning the clearing ahead. My heart began to pound with a sickening certainty.

The forest seemed to hold its breath. Every instinct I’d honed over years of Apollo’s training told me: This is no ordinary place. We are not alone. This is her domain.

Peisistratus’ eyes narrowed. “Her? Who—what do you mean?”

I clenched my fists, gripping my staff tighter than necessary. “The one whose name most people dare not speak… Circe. She’s here.”

The words seemed to vibrate in the air, heavy, dangerous. And in that moment, every hair on my body stood on end. Something was coming. Something waiting, and whatever it was, I knew it was the reason Telemachus had disappeared.

The forest exhaled. And I realized we were about to step into the heart of it.

“What? Circe?” Peisistratus’ voice went sharp, a mixture of disbelief and determination. “Then we must save him. Now. He could be in real danger!”

I shook my head slowly, feeling the weight of reality press down on me. “Not so fast,” I said, my voice low but urgent. “A foe like Circe is not to be messed with. Especially if you’re mortal.”

Peisistratus frowned, but I could see the worry in his eyes. “I—I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm even as my pulse raced. “She is a witch unlike any other. Her power… it’s beyond what you’ve ever heard about, my prince. She can twist the very fabric of reality. She can turn a man into a beast, or conjure a creature to tear him to pieces, grind him to his bones, and smile while she does it. You saw what happened to the crew she lured in the stories. Do not underestimate her.”

Peisistratus ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath. “Then… then we have to be careful. We can’t just charge in blindly. But Telemachus…” His jaw tightened, voice almost breaking, “he’s in there. He’s alone, and if anything happens to him…”

I placed a hand on his shoulder, firm but calm. “Exactly. That’s why we need a plan. We do not underestimate her, not for a second. The moment we let our guard down, she will strike.”

Peisistratus swallowed, the weight of my words settling over him. His eyes flicked to the distant palace, where the faintest glow hinted at the presence of magic. “We… we have to save him,” he whispered, almost to himself, but now with a clarity I had never seen before.

“Yes,” I said, gripping my staff tighter. “But first… we assess. We observe. We wait for the right moment. One wrong step in her domain, and he may never leave it alive.”

Peisistratus nodded, his usual sternness replaced with something softer—fear, concern, and an unspoken resolve. I could see he understood. Circe was no ordinary enemy. And Telemachus… he was dangerously close to walking straight into her trap.

I narrowed my eyes at Peisistratus, his words just barely audible through his controlled breath. “Men cannot resist her charm,” I said, my voice low and certain.

He scoffed, almost under his breath. “You know I can resist. You know that.”

I allowed a faint smile to touch my lips. He didn’t need to prove it to me—he had always been… different. “Yes,” he continued, “but she is still far stronger than you. You are mortal, my prince. That will not help you here.”

I tilted my head, considering him. “And what do you suggest? What the hell are we supposed to do?”

He looked at me with a mixture of disbelief and concern, and I could see it.

“I will go,” I said simply.

He laughed, sharp and incredulous. “Oh, come on, little dude. You are a mortal—and a guy, at that. What makes you think you can handle her?”

I shrugged, letting my eyes glint faintly in the dim light. “Or am I?”

He froze, the color draining slightly from his face. “…What?”

I smiled, casually, almost mockingly. “Don’t worry. I will work this out. You all just stay here.”

His mouth opened slightly, and I could see him trying to protest, to argue, to reason. “Whoa, whoa, who are you now? A powerful creature I have yet to learn about? Sorry to tell you, priests are mortal too.”

I turned sharply to face him fully, my gaze locking on his. “STAY. HERE.” The words were final, sharp as a blade. No room for argument. No room for hesitation.

I felt his flinch, but I didn’t wait for him to recover. I had a mission, and I would see it through—whatever it took.

I slipped through the palace doorway, careful to keep my steps soft on the polished stone. Every instinct told me something was wrong—my senses prickling, a faint hum in the air, like magic brushing against mortal perception.

A sound caught my attention: soft, frantic movement from the dining hall ahead. I froze, pressed my back against the wall, listening. The faint shuffle of furniture, the clink of a plate, a muffled gasp.

Peering around the corner, I saw her. Circe. She moved with that impossible grace, a predator in silk and flowers, her hands on Telemachus. He struggled, but his strength was nothing against her control. His face was pale, eyes wide, voice trembling as he tried to wrench himself free.

I could feel my pulse quicken, but I stayed silent. Every move I made now had to be precise. If she sensed me, everything could collapse. Yet the sight of Telemachus so vulnerable—so human, so utterly exposed—sent a spark of determination through me.

I ducked slightly, my mind racing. Careful… wait… I needed to assess the situation. Her hands weren’t hurting him—at least, not yet—but the pressure of her presence, the way she leaned close, the way his shoulders tensed under her grip, was a different kind of danger. One that could enslave his mind before it ever touched his body.

I crouched behind the wall, calculating my next move. He’s strong, but she’s too strong. I can’t fight her outright—yet. But I can distract, disrupt… maybe create just enough space for him to act.

I watched as Telemachus twisted, voice catching in a strangled plea. My hands itched for movement, but patience was my weapon here. One wrong step, one sound too loud, and everything would be lost.

The air thrummed with power, thick and heavy, and I reminded myself: this is no ordinary witch. Circe is a master of mortals, and I am mortal myself—but I am more than I appear.

I waited, ready to strike at the precise moment, every nerve taut. Telemachus’ struggle tugged at something inside me, and yet I forced calm. One misstep, and he’ll be lost. One miscalculation, and we’ll all be trapped.

The scene before me was surreal: the beautiful, terrifying Circe, the boy caught in her spell, and the quiet shadow of me, Eratus, watching and waiting for the exact moment to turn the tide.

I exhaled slowly, feeling the pulse of magic thick in the room. Circe had her hands all over him, and Telemachus was struggling, twisting against the vines that snaked around his body like living ropes. My instincts screamed at me—move, act, save him.

I focused, narrowing my thoughts, letting the power I’d kept hidden hum beneath my skin. My hands hovered in the air—not touching anything—and I willed the small table nearby to shift. It trembled, then hurtled forward, smashing into a vase with a deafening crash.

Circe’s head snapped toward the noise, her fingers loosening slightly from Telemachus’ shoulders. Her eyes flashed, part surprise, part irritation, and that gave me the window I needed. I lunged forward, my legs carrying me across the polished floor, and grabbed Telemachus by the arms.

He blinked, startled, and his voice cracked out: “Eratus? What are you doing here?”

“Saving your life… and your honor,” I said, keeping my voice low but firm. “Hold still, I’ll get you out.”

I began to pull the vines from his body, trying to be careful but quick. The vines resisted, twisting tighter in response, and my heart pounded as I worked.

Then, without warning, they lashed around me from behind, wrapping around my torso, lifting me off balance. A sharp hiss of surprise escaped my lips. Circe’s laughter, soft and cruel, filled the room. She had anticipated part of my plan—but not all.

I planted my feet and strained, twisting against the green tendrils that coiled like serpents. “Telemachus! Hold on!” I barked, forcing my focus through the pull of the vines. My energy flared again, rippling through the object in my hands, vibrating the air around us, trying to loosen her grip.

The room seemed to shrink as Circe moved closer, her expression calm, almost teasing, while the vines held me fast. Telemachus’ eyes widened, and I could see the panic mix with trust, as if he knew that, even restrained, I wouldn’t let her take him.

Circe’s eyes glinted as she stepped closer, her fingers brushing the air around me like she could weave me into her control without touching. “Ooh… who do we have here?” she purred, leaning toward me. “Another piglet for my collection. A rather gentle-looking one.”

Before I could react, she grabbed my chin, tilting my face and inspecting me as if I were some rare artifact. “Very gentle masculinity… full lips… pretty eyes. I like it.” Her voice was soft, melodic, but it carried the weight of danger.

I stayed stone cold. My jaw stiffened, my gaze locked onto hers, unwavering. I could feel her magic brushing against my mind, seductive, probing… and I did not budge.

Her smile faltered, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. “What? This can’t be… why are you not—”

“I don’t mean to tip your scales,” I said, my voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of authority, “but you will fail at placing any spells on me.”

She recoiled slightly as if struck. Her charming aura seemed to falter, wavering against something stronger than her own magic.

I flexed my fingers, and the vines that had tried to hold me loosened themselves from my control. I stepped free, each movement deliberate, measured, closing the distance between us slowly.

Circe’s confidence wavered, replaced by confusion. Her eyes narrowed, scanning me as if trying to read the truth from my form. “Who… or what… are you?” she whispered, her voice tinged with fear.

I didn’t answer immediately. I let the silence stretch, letting her realize that whatever she thought she controlled, she did not. Every step I took brought the reality closer to her: this gentle-looking mortal was not to be trifled with.

Her charm, her spells, her intimidation—none of it worked on me. And I intended to make her understand that very soon.

Circe raised her hand, a flash of gold light flickering at her fingertips. “Make one wrong move,” she hissed, her voice like silk with steel underneath, “and you’re done for.”

I didn’t flinch. I smiled, slow, deliberate, stepping closer. The closer I got, the more her composure seemed to waver, the more her magic struggled against me. My eyes never left hers.

As I approached, I began speaking, letting her hear every word I knew. “Circe… daughter of Helios and Perse, daughter of the sun, wielder of enchantments, lurer of men, binder of spirits. You’ve twisted your magic to charm, to control, to test mortal hearts… and yet, I know everything. Every island, every trick, every spell cast on those foolish enough to enter your halls.”

Her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to speak but couldn’t. I continued, relentless, my voice calm but cutting: “You despise men, and yet… there are always exceptions, aren’t there? A soft spot for your own kind. For those you cannot fully touch with malice.”

I stopped mere inches away from her, so close I could see the shimmer of her pupils, the faint tension in her jaw. Her eyes widened, disbelief flickering across her face. “No way! You’re a… a nymph?” she breathed, a mix of suspicion and awe threading her words.

I laughed, low and soft, the sound vibrating between us. “A nymph? Me? Hahaha. No. Think again.”

With deliberate slowness, I pulled back the cap I wore, tugged the collar of my shirt down just enough to reveal the mark beneath my neck. A soft, radiant glow emanated from the golden birthmark, curving in the signature sigil of Apollo.

Circe froze, her mouth slightly open. “A demigod! You’re… Apollo’s son!"

“Close,” I interrupted, a teasing smirk curving my lips. “Not a son.”

The realization hit her like a physical blow. Her eyes darted over me, sharp, trying to reconcile what she saw. “A daughter…” she whispered, her voice trembling. "You're a woman!"

Slowly, deliberately, I let my figure shift. My body reshaped under a gentle, golden glow, soft yet powerful, my shoulders narrowing, my curves lengthening. My hair cascaded down my back like spun sunlight, brushing my skin as if I were one with the light itself. Every movement was calculated, mesmerizing, a display of divine beauty, confidence, and strength.

Circe’s gasp was audible, and I leaned slightly closer, letting my presence fill the room. “Wow,” I murmured, my voice soft, teasing, “your isle has a strong energy. I can rarely do this anywhere.” The smirk was both playful and predatory. “And yet… here, I can.”

I let my hands trace the air toward her, brushing against her cheek in a ghost of touch, allowing her to feel the warmth of my skin, the subtle pull of my divine aura. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated, breathing slightly uneven.

“You think you’ve played your games long enough?” I whispered, stepping closer so that our foreheads almost touched. “Let’s see how your own tricks feel.”

Circe’s lips parted, her hands reaching out almost instinctively, but she hesitated—something in my energy stopped her. I let my fingers trace her shoulders, brush along her neck, let the faintest pressure and warmth speak in a language of subtle dominance and challenge. I whispered in her ear, soft, sultry, teasing: “Taste your own magic… feel it as it bends, as it tries to sway me.”

Her breath caught. She tried to retaliate with her spellwork, her charm, but it faltered. My aura, a soft divine light, cocooned around her, countering every flicker of her power. I circled her slowly, letting my hands ghost along her arms, shoulders, and back, lightly grazing, drawing her attention, and her focus entirely on me.

“Do you feel it?” I whispered. “How it’s… different when it touches you?” Every brush, every gentle press of my hand was a reflection of her own powers, an echo of her seduction turned inward. I leaned closer to her ear, letting my breath mix with hers. “This is what it feels like… your own games, on yourself. Your own charm, tasting its own pull.”

Her eyes shimmered with a mixture of awe, shock, and—dare I say—fear. I let my fingers lightly comb through her hair, letting strands slip between my fingers, down her back. I brushed her collarbone lightly, leaning back just enough to let her see the power emanating from me. Every gesture was calculated, a subtle seduction, a divine display of control.

“You’ve underestimated mortals,” I whispered softly, voice like a caress, “and yet… here I am.” My gaze met hers fully, unflinching. I brushed my hand along her jawline, tracing the curve of her face in a teasing, almost intimate way, letting her feel both my power and my femininity intertwined.

Circe shivered slightly, almost as if under a spell—but the spell wasn’t hers this time. I held her in place, not through magic, but through presence, through divine authority and irresistible charm. Every inch of proximity, every featherlight brush, was a lesson in what it felt like to have her own power mirrored back at her.

I let a faint smirk curl my lips, stepping slightly back yet keeping the aura strong around her. “See, Circe…” I whispered, letting my voice linger like velvet in the air, “you cannot control what belongs to your own kind… nor can you resist what knows you completely.”

Her breath caught again, eyes wide, pupils dilated, and for the first time, I saw her falter. The enchantress herself, stripped of certainty, feeling the weight of her own craft reflected in me.

I took a slow step forward, letting my presence envelop her like sunlight spilling into a darkened hall. Circe’s eyes, wide and wary before, now flickered with something deeper—a hesitant, confused curiosity. Her magic, usually so sharp and piercing, now wavered, bending subtly under the weight of my own aura.

“You cannot resist what you do not understand,” I murmured softly, moving around her in a careful, deliberate dance. My hands brushed along her shoulders again, not rough, but purposeful. Every touch, every slight shift of my body radiated a quiet authority, a feminine power that mirrored her own magic, but twisted it back on her.

Circe faltered, her lips parting slightly. “No… this cannot…” she whispered, and I could see it—the enchantress who had lured so many, who had twisted men and mortals alike, faltering before the subtle, unrelenting energy of a woman who knew herself.

“Magic is more than just charm and coercion,” I said softly, circling her, letting my fingers trace the small of her back, lightly pressing along the curve. “It’s understanding. Knowing… the body you try to bend is not yours to command blindly.”

Her breaths came faster, eyes darting from my hands to my face, her confidence crumbling under the pull of something she had never felt before. Something natural, innate, impossibly disarming. She was realizing that her own seductive magic—crafted to ensnare men—was useless here. Only a woman could understand, and sway, the heart and body of another woman. And that woman was me.

I leaned close, close enough that our noses almost touched, letting my lips hover near hers, teasing, testing. Circe froze, the tiniest tremor running through her body, but I held her gaze, unflinching, unyielding. “Feel it,” I whispered, almost in her ear, “the magic of someone who knows your kind… from the inside.”

And then, with deliberate slowness, I kissed her. Just once, a soft press of lips, yet infused with every shred of energy I had—the divine resonance of Apollo’s gift intertwined with my own. The effect was immediate: a pulse of shimmering, golden light exploded outward, filling the hall. Circe gasped, startled, and her magic faltered, her hands lifting as if she were suddenly unarmed.

When I pulled away, the light faded, leaving her blinking in awe, flush on her cheeks, trembling slightly. I let a faint, amused smile curl my lips. “Well…” I said softly, brushing a strand of her hair back, “to be honest… we are the same, you and I.”

Her eyes widened, searching mine. I continued, quiet but firm: “I too think men are trash. I too understand power, and how easily it can corrupt… how easily it can tempt. Shame we couldn’t meet in another timeline.”

Circe swallowed hard, and I could see her mind spinning, the layers of magic she wielded unraveling under my touch. She tried to summon a spell, a charm—but I held her gaze, steady, unrelenting, a gentle challenge in every flicker of my eyes.

“And don’t play with the magic of Apollo,” I whispered, pressing my palm lightly against her cheek, “the true charmer. There’s a reason the gods are careful… and now you understand why.”

Her lips parted again, and for the first time, I saw her entirely without her usual pride, entirely vulnerable, entirely captivated by a power she could not bend or break.

I smiled softly and stepped back, letting the spell linger in the air, a gentle hum of victory and seduction. “Now, Circe… the question is simple. Release what is mine,” I said, voice low but commanding, “or risk the consequences of underestimating what you cannot understand.”

Her knees nearly buckled, and I knew it was done. She could no longer resist me—not by charm, not by magic. The enchantress herself had learned the hard truth: the true art of love, desire, and command belonged to someone who knew the depths of her own kind.

I guided Telemachus carefully, letting him rest in my arms, though he was barely coherent—eyes wide, lips slightly parted, still caught between awe and confusion at what he’d just seen. His chest rose and fell unevenly, and I could feel the tension in his muscles, the way his body was still trembling from fear and disbelief.

A flick of my fingers, almost effortless, and the men—his crew, my responsibility too—began to shift, their porcine forms dissolving as the enchantment lifted. One by one, they staggered, blinking, disoriented, but alive. The air felt lighter immediately, though the traces of magic still clung like smoke.

Outside the palace, the energy I had been channeling dissipated, leaving me weaker, unsteady on my feet. The golden glow, the thrumming power of Circe’s enchantments, was gone, and I felt it leave a hollow ache in my chest, a reminder of what I had just spent. I gently lowered Telemachus to the ground, letting him slump against the earth, half-sitting, half-falling.

I drew in a deep, shaky breath, and my eyes went immediately to my hands. They flickered, light blinking on and off like the sun struggling to break through clouds. Every nerve in my body screamed with the exertion of holding such power for so long.

“Father…” I whispered, voice hoarse, barely audible over the gentle rustling of the island wind. “Please…”

But the sky remained still, unyielding. Nothing answered.

A sudden weight pressed down on my chest, my limbs felt leaden. I stumbled, collapsing to the ground, gasping as my form began to shift. The golden aura that had bathed me, the subtle feminine glow I had held to control Circe, drained away, leaving my original self, mortal and raw, lying in the sand.

I clutched at my chest, struggling to draw even breaths, every inhale a burning effort. My eyes finally met Telemachus’, his still-uncertain gaze following mine, and I realized the depth of the trust he had placed in me—and the danger he had narrowly escaped.

I collapsed. The ground was cold against my cheek, grains of sand sticking to the sweat on my skin. I was aware of my body, but it felt distant, as though it belonged to someone else. My chest rose shallow, too shallow, and every attempt to move was like forcing myself through water.

A warmth pressed against me suddenly. Fingers brushing the hair from my face. A voice, trembling, achingly familiar—

“Eratus… Eratus?”

Peisistratus. His tone was sharper than usual, but beneath it, a rawness. Worry. His shadow hovered above me, his hand still lingering at my temple as if by touching me he could force life back into me.

Around us, the men were erupting.

“That’s not a boy!” one screamed, voice pitched with fear.

“That’s another witch!” another shouted.

“Stronger than Circe!”

“Did you see? She had Circe in minutes!”

Their words slammed into me harder than Poseidon’s waves had.

Witch. Monster. Other.

I tried to speak, to deny them, but all I could manage was a strangled hum in my throat. So instead, I did the only thing I could—I pressed my hands together weakly, lips shaping the words of old healing chants. They poured from me like instinct, steady rhythms I had learned as a child, and slowly, painfully, my breath began to return.

The light inside me flickered weaker, but it steadied enough to keep me upright. I forced myself onto my knees, head pounding, the world spinning. My vision doubled for a moment before narrowing onto two figures—Telemachus and Peisistratus.

Both were staring at me.

Their eyes were different from the others. Not filled with fear, not yet. But suspicion. Uneasy silence.

“Is that true?” Telemachus asked, his voice low, cracked from exhaustion but still commanding. His gaze pinned me as surely as any rope.

Peisistratus echoed, softer, almost pained: “Eratus… is it true?”

The weight of their questions pressed harder than Circe’s vines ever had. I felt the hush of the men behind them, waiting, bristling, their fear ready to turn to rage at the slightest confirmation. My hands trembled as I clasped them tighter, the chants faltering for the first time.

I looked down at my fingers, still faintly glowing with Apollo’s gift, and for a heartbeat, I considered lying. Pretending. Hiding.

But their voices wouldn’t let me.

I forced my chin up, eyes locking onto theirs—first Peisistratus, then Telemachus. My breath shuddered as I spoke, raw and cracked, every word costing me.

“I am not… what you thought I was.”

The air around us shifted, tense and sharp like the moment before lightning splits the sky.

Chapter Text

【26 YEARS AGO】

I remember the first thing I ever understood: light.

Not sunlight alone, but the kind that comes from within—soft, warm, humming like a song no one else could hear. My mother said I was born glowing, that Apollo kissed my forehead before I even opened my eyes. She laughed when she told me, but I always believed her. After all, what else could explain why I never felt afraid of the dark?

My name was Aegleia.

Radiance.

The priests of Apollo in Troy gave it to me, but it always felt like Father himself whispered it into my ear.

The temple was my home. Its marble columns rose higher than my little arms could ever reach, painted with colors that changed with the light of dawn and dusk. Every corner smelled of laurel and myrrh, every hall alive with hymns. I would wander barefoot across the stones, trailing behind my mother, who was always busy tending to the sick who came crawling to the god of healing for mercy.

I would watch her hands—gentle, firm, steady—as she ground herbs into pastes, pressed cloths against wounds, whispered prayers that somehow soothed as much as the medicine itself.

"Your mother’s hands are blessed," the priests always said. "Apollo himself chose her."

But I was something different.

By the time I could walk, the light that lived in me answered when I cried out. A bruise on my knee would fade as my palm brushed over it. A bird with a broken wing flew again after I picked it up and sang to it. The priests whispered and bowed. My mother pulled me close, kissing my hair, telling me never to let it swell my head. “It is not you who heals, little sunbeam,” she’d say. “It is your father’s gift. You are only the vessel.”

But I knew. The songs that came from my throat when no one taught them, the brush strokes that painted colors no other child dared imagine, the way the world’s hurts ached inside me until I eased them. These things were mine.

Father visited sometimes. Not always as himself. Sometimes in dreams, when the golden warmth filled me so completely I would wake with tears on my cheeks. Sometimes in the music of a lyre played when no one else was there. Once, just once, in the flesh—his light so blinding, I could not look upon him without falling to my knees.

He lifted me by the chin with hands that burned and soothed all at once and said only: "Shine, my daughter. Shine, no matter what they ask of you."

And I did.

In Troy, they called me the Little Healer. They came to the temple not just for my mother but for me, too. Their children pressed flowers into my hands, their elders bent down low as if I were a priestess already. I laughed, I sang, I drew with the younger ones in the dust when no one was looking.

But when night fell, when all was quiet and the temple’s torches guttered low, I sometimes felt it—the shadow of being different. Half of me mortal, half of me god. Belonging to both, and to neither. My mother’s warmth would hold me, but when I looked up at the stars, I wondered if Father could feel me looking back.

I was Aegleia then. Gleam of Apollo’s light.

A child who had not yet known loss.

Not yet Eratus.

【20 YEARS AGO】

I was six years old when Father stopped coming.

No more songs in my sleep. No more footsteps in the temple’s halls that only I could hear. No more warmth that wrapped itself around me like a second skin.

I asked my mother if I had done something wrong.
She brushed my cheek with her thumb and smiled, though her eyes betrayed her sadness.

"Immortal fathers are always busy, little sunbeam,” she said. “But that does not mean he loves you less.”

I tried to believe her.

But the city was no longer as calm as it used to be. Whispers carried like smoke through the streets—prince Paris had returned from Sparta, and with him, the most beautiful woman in the world—Helen.

The day they sent for me, I thought it was a mistake.

“Me?” I asked my mother. “Not you?”

“They asked for Apollo’s child,” she said, tying the sash around my small waist. Her hands trembled slightly. “Do as you are told. Be respectful. Do not let them see your fear.”

The palace was enormous, filled with perfumes and silks I had never smelled or seen before. The guards sneered as they let me pass, a little barefoot girl among warriors.

Helen lay upon a couch, golden hair spread like fire across the pillows, her skin pale with fever. When she saw me, her lips curled. “Who is this young light-torch? Why did you bring me a child? I asked for a healer, not a toy.”

My cheeks burned. I bowed low, hands clasped before me the way my mother taught. But my voice was steady when I said, “I am here by the will of Apollo. May his light drive away your sickness.”

She scoffed. “Apollo,” she repeated bitterly, turning her head. “Of course. He never could keep it in his tunic. Another bastard wandering about, no doubt. What was it this time? A madwoman like Cassandra? A slave girl?”

The words stung, but I said nothing. I only placed my small hand against her wrist, whispering the chant my mother taught me. Slowly, her fever loosened its grip—her breath steadied, her sweat cooled. She turned her eyes toward me then, less mocking, more wary.

And then... it happened.

The first vision I've ever had.

The first prophecy I ever spoken.

The world tilted, light bursting in my head like a thousand suns. I saw not just her fever, but ships—black ships, too many to count—sailing across the sea. I saw fire licking at Troy’s walls. Screams, steel clashing, blood on marble. All of it, rushing at me at once.

My eyes burned, glowing, and the words spilled from my mouth without me knowing how: “The face that launched a thousand sails will burn a thousand homes. One woman’s beauty will undo a kingdom’s crown. When the horse enters the gates, Troy shall fall.”

The chamber froze. Even the guards shifted uneasily.
Helen sat up, her fever forgotten, her lips trembling.

“What did you say?” she whispered.

I blinked, terrified. I didn’t understand what had just come out of me. My heart hammered in my chest, but I only bowed again, my forehead to the cold stone floor.

Helen’s face hardened, her fear curdling into anger.
“Take her away,” she snapped. “Apollo’s brat speaks madness.”

The guards grabbed me by the arms, dragging me back toward the doors. I didn’t resist. I kept my head down, though my hands shook.

But as they pulled me away, I felt Helen’s eyes on me—haunted, frightened, as though she knew my words were not the ramblings of a child.

And so… the war truly began.

Troy burned like a dying star, flames swallowing streets and homes alike. Smoke rose in thick, black columns, and the scent of burning wood and flesh clung to every corner of the city. The people… the poor, the frightened, the children… they scuttled like rats through the rubble, clutching what little scraps of bread or water they could find.

Every day was worse than the last. Each dawn brought new screams, new bodies, new fires that could not be tamed. And I—just a child—watched it all, powerless, terrified.

My prophecy had come alive in ways I could not control. What I had whispered to Helen, what I had glimpsed in the light that Father had given me… it was not just words. It was a living truth. A sword hovering above the city, cutting deeper with every passing moment.

I hid in corners, under shattered beams, in the temple that had once been my sanctuary. I tried to heal, to mend the sick, to soothe the grieving—but even as I did, I knew it was not enough. The war’s hunger was infinite. My light, my gift, was only a flicker against the storm.

I hated it. I hated myself for seeing it. I hated the gods for leaving me to watch it unfold.

And yet… I could not turn away. I could not shut my eyes.

Each night I prayed, hands pressed to the marble of the temple, to Apollo, to anyone who might listen: “Father… give me strength. Let me help them. Let me save them.”

But the city continued to crumble, the screams never ceased, and my heart broke a little more with each passing hour.

Even at six, I understood something no child should: prophecy is not mercy. It is a curse. And seeing it come true is a weight that never lifts.

The war lasted ten years. Ten long, merciless years. And every day, I carried the terror of my visions, the terror of what was already written, and the fear of the lives I could not save.

I had learned something essential and terrible in those years: light alone does not heal the world. And sometimes… sometimes it only illuminates the darkness.

【10 YEARS AGO】

The last year of Troy was a nightmare carved in fire and blood. I had turned sixteen, caught in that terrible threshold between girlhood and womanhood, and yet the world demanded I become something I could never have imagined.

When the Trojan Horse came, bringing death disguised as victory, the city became a tomb. The streets filled with screams, and the air was heavy with smoke, choking and suffocating. I remember the temple of Apollo—the one place I had always called sanctuary—burning, the flames devouring the marble and the gold, the scent of my father’s gift turning into ash. I had hidden, trembling, in a narrow alcove, watching as Greek soldiers stormed in, cutting down priests and priestesses without a flicker of mercy.

And then… my mother. My heart broke in a thousand ways as I saw her from behind the shattered altar, trying desperately to protect me even in those final moments. One soldier grabbed her roughly, forcing her to the ground. She fought with her hands, her voice crying out my name and Apollo’s, but the men were relentless. They dragged her through the ruins, striking her across the shoulders and face, forcing her down as she tried to shield her body. Her final cry echoed in my chest as the sword found her side, piercing flesh and bone, and I could only press my face to the wall, silent, hiding, my tears falling like burning rain. She was gone.

My light—the glow I had always carried in my hands, the warmth that had let me heal and see and channel Apollo’s power—flickered and died. I stared at my hands, muting, ordinary, fragile. The brilliance that had been my shield, my voice, my proof that I was his child… was gone.

Panic clawed at me. I knew what would happen to a woman alone in a conquered city. The whispers of fear became a scream in my mind: They will take me. They will destroy me. There is no one to protect me.

And so… I became someone else. I took a jagged shard of marble from the temple floor, sharp and cruel from the destruction, and I cut my hair short. I ripped my dress, pulling the fabric tight around my body, hiding the curves that made me vulnerable. Dust from the shattered temple stuck to my skin and clothing, and with careful hands, I drew a shadow along my throat. My reflection in the broken pieces of mirror or glass staring back at me was no longer Aegleia. I was a boy. I had to be.

Then, before I could even think of what to do next, a hand clamped onto my shoulder. A Greek soldier. My heart froze. His grip was firm, questioning, almost curious. “Who are you?” he demanded. I opened my mouth, and my voice… it wasn’t mine. My father’s magic had shielded me—my words came out as a young boy’s, light and uncertain. “I… I am the young priest of Apollo,” I said, my chest tightening, my eyes wide with fear and defiance all at once.

The soldier looked me over, and then back at his superior, the King of Pylos—the father of Peisistratus. “What do we do with him?”

The king’s eyes softened in a way that made me wary. “We will take him,” he said. “He is a priest of Apollo… a boy with a gift. Can you play the lyre? Can you speak Old Greek?”

I nodded quickly, barely breathing. The king smiled faintly, a dangerous glimmer in his eyes. “Then bring him. What is your name?” he asked.

I had no name now. My mother, my city, even my old self—all were gone. I could not think. But in the silence of my fear, a whisper of inspiration, a fragment of my soul, gave me one: Eratus. From the Greek word ἐράσιος, meaning beloved, a subtle defiance and claim of worth despite my fate. A name that could survive. A name that could hide me.

And so… I was taken from Troy, from the temple, from the ruins of my family, and brought to Pylos. A child no longer, yet not yet whole, cloaked in shadows and dust, bearing the gift and curse of Apollo, carrying the name Eratus as my only shield in a world that had already betrayed me.

I was brought into the Greek camp under watchful eyes, my steps faltering across the foreign ground, each footfall echoing like a death knell for my past. Smoke and fire still clung to the city behind me, a memory I couldn’t escape, and the sound of laughter and music from the soldiers—so utterly human, so utterly alive—twisted my stomach into knots.

And then I saw him.

Among the harsh, angular faces and the gaudy displays of victory, one stood out. Gentle, calm, unshaken, pure. There was an honesty in his eyes, a kindness that didn’t belong here among the celebration of death. My chest clenched, not understanding why my body even noticed it, but I did. I remembered him. Somehow, I knew I would never forget.

He approached me, careful, patient, his steps light and measured. “Hey, young man,” he said softly, and I flinched, but something in the way he spoke held no threat. “Do you want to eat something? We have bread, figs, dried fish… or some cheese. What would you like?”

I shook my head almost imperceptibly, my stomach twisting, my appetite lost in the chaos of grief and fear. How could I eat while my city lay in ashes, my mother gone, my father unmoved? How could I accept food when all that remained of my life was under the shadow of strangers who had destroyed everything?

He crouched slightly, maintaining eye contact, his expression patient yet insistent. “You can’t be hungry,” he said gently, exhaling slowly. “You have to eat something.”

I wanted to refuse. I wanted to run. I wanted to dissolve into the dust of the temple ruins behind me and never be seen again. And yet… there was something about him. Something steady and unwavering that reached past my fear and my grief.

“My name is Polites,” he said suddenly, as if reading the turmoil in me. “Polites, from Ithaca. I promise… no one will hurt you anymore.”

His words struck me. A promise. A tether in the storm. Even as my heart ached with the memory of loss and the cruel weight of my father’s absence, his presence—gentle, protective—planted a fragile seed of trust.

That was how I remembered him. That name. That face. That voice. Polites. Even years later, when Telemachus first spoke it, my chest tightened at the sound, my heart betraying a connection I had not fully understood until that moment.

I nodded slightly to him, not trusting my voice, and for the first time since the temple fell, I felt a fragment of safety. Not the full warmth, not the light I had once carried, but something like it. A flicker. A reminder that some good still existed in this shattered world.

Polites never left my side. Not once.

He wasn’t like the others, shouting victory songs and boasting of Troy’s fall. His presence was quieter, steady. Almost watchful. At first I thought he was guarding me, afraid that I might lash out or cause trouble. But as the hours passed, I realized it was something else. He was afraid I might… disappear. That I might take my own life rather than live on in this hollow shell of a boy I had made of myself.

He spoke softly, telling me stories of Ithaca, of olive groves and cliffs where the wind sang. I barely listened—my thoughts were still trapped in Troy’s ashes—but his voice was like a tether, anchoring me here, keeping me from letting go.

At one point, I looked at him. Truly looked. His words blurred into nothing as my grief and the fading remnants of Apollo’s light within me surged. My eyes—once dulled since the temple fell—suddenly sparked. Just for a heartbeat, the golden gleam returned.

He stopped. His voice faltered. His own eyes widened in shock, his breath catching in his throat. “…are you the child of—”

I pressed a finger to my lips, silencing him before he could speak the name aloud. My heart pounded as I glanced around, terrified someone else had noticed. But no one had. The Greeks laughed, drank, prepared for their journey home. Only he had seen. Only he had understood.

I whispered, “How did you know?”

For a moment, he hesitated. Then a strange softness touched his features, something between a secret and a memory. He leaned closer, his voice low so only I could hear.

“Well… long story,” he said, his eyes holding mine with a quiet weight. “Let’s just say your father and I share a past.”

I stared at him, unsure what he meant—whether he had once seen Apollo, or whether Apollo had touched his life as he had touched mine. But I didn’t press. Somehow, I knew he would not lie.

I knew his fate.

It had come to me in the way visions always did—uninvited, cruel. The moment Polites smiled at me, that gentle, almost clumsy smile that tried so hard to make me believe I wasn’t alone, the light within me stirred. My eyes glazed, my breath hitched, and I saw.

I saw him die.

Not in glory, not in triumph, but first of them all. The spark extinguished before the flame could even catch.

It was like a knife slipping into my chest. And yet, when I blinked the vision away, he was still there beside me, alive, radiant, speaking softly of home and olives and laughter. Apollo had chosen him—I could feel it—but not with the warmth he had shown my mother, nor with the brilliance he had poured into me. No… Polites had been chosen in the tragic way my father sometimes marked mortals. The kind of choosing that set a man apart, made him glow just a little brighter, only so the gods could snuff him out sooner.

And I loved him for it. Not the way mortals love, but the way light bends toward warmth in the darkness. He was the ember that softened Odysseus’ shadow, the gentle thread that made their company bearable. Where Odysseus schemed, Polites laughed. Where the others jeered, Polites offered a hand. He was the hearth in the storm.

I wanted to tell him. I wanted to scream it into his chest: "You will be the first to fall. Don’t sail. Don’t follow. Run." But the words curdled in my throat. Because what would it change? Fate is not a chain you can cut with willpower. It is a tide. And Polites was already in the undertow.

So I bit my tongue until it bled. I watched him laugh with Odysseus, eyes bright with loyalty, and my heart ached in silence. Every kindness he gave me, every time he shielded me from the others, I wanted to collapse into the truth. But I never did.

Instead, I carried his secret with mine. His spark lit the darkness around me, even as I knew it was destined to go out far too soon.

The day I left for Pylos, the air smelled of salt and ash. Troy was already a memory behind me, and Greece waited like a question I could not answer.

Polites walked me to the small vessel that would bear me and Pylos' crew away. He did not speak much—perhaps he sensed I was fraying at the edges, held together only by silence. Or perhaps he, too, had no words for what had been lost.

Just before I stepped aboard, I turned to him. For once, the vision did not come in a violent flash but as a whisper in the marrow of my bones. A gentle knowing.

My lips trembled, and before I could stop myself, the words spilled out: “You will always be the first light in the dark, Polites. The one who makes others believe the storm can be endured. Even when your spark fades… it will be remembered.”

He frowned at first, then smiled—the kind of smile that pressed tears against the back of my eyes. “You speak like an old priest, not a boy.” He chuckled softly, though something in his gaze lingered on me, searching. Then he only said, “Take care, little torch. And don’t let the world put you out.”

I wanted to grab his hand, to hold on, to say don’t go where Odysseus leads you, don’t sail to death. But instead, I only bowed my head and stepped into the boat.

The oars cut through the water, each stroke carrying me farther. I watched Polites until he blurred against the horizon. His figure grew smaller, then was gone.

And so I sailed to Pylos—alone even tho I wa surrounded by people, unnamed, reborn. A boy called Eratus.

The journey felt endless. My heart was still anchored in Troy, though my body was carried elsewhere. The sea was calm, but I was not. Each night, I lay awake, clutching the borrowed lyre they had thrust upon me, whispering prayers that went unanswered.

When at last the cliffs of Pylos rose before us, I felt no relief—only a dull resignation.

On the shore, King Nestor stood tall and weathered, his voice carrying over the surf as though it had ruled waves themselves. He looked me over with the sharp eyes of a man who had seen too much war. Then he smiled, a thin curve of lips that did not quite reach his gaze.

“You will like it here, boy,” he said firmly, as though commanding me to believe it. “Be grateful we spared your life. Many priests of Troy were not so fortunate.”

I bowed my head lower, hiding the burn in my throat. My silence was safer than truth.

Nestor studied me a moment longer, then added, “I have a younger son. He still lives under my roof. About your age. Perhaps… you can be brothers to one another.”

The words hit me strangely, like warm cloth pressed to a fresh wound. A brother? I had never known one. My chest ached at the thought of belonging, but I could not trust it—not after all that had been ripped away.

I only nodded, still staring at the ground. Inside, I whispered to myself: "I am not your boy. I am not anyone’s brother. I am Aegleia. I am my father’s light, though it flickers now... though he abandoned me."

But aloud, all I managed was a quiet, “Yes, my king.”

And so I followed him inland, into a life that was no longer mine, toward a family I was never meant to have.

The halls of Pylos were quieter than Troy, though to me they roared with strangeness. I kept my head bowed as King Nestor’s hand pressed heavily to my shoulder, guiding me through torch-lit corridors of stone.

When at last we stopped, he called, “Peisistratus! Come here, boy!”

I looked up.

And there he was.

The youngest son of the king. His face bore none of the hardness of war I had come to know in men. His eyes were soft, warm like morning sun on seafoam, untouched by blood or smoke. He carried no armor, no scars, only the kind of gentleness I thought had been burned away from the world.

When he reached us, he didn’t ask questions. He didn’t stare or probe, or search me for lies. He simply stepped close, smiled faintly… and hugged me.

I froze.

No one had done that in so long. Not since my mother. His arms were light but certain, wrapping me in something I had not realized I had been starving for. A brother’s touch. A stranger’s kindness. The tears came, hot and unstoppable, streaming down my cheeks before I could even bite them back.

Peisistratus pulled away immediately, alarm on his face.
“I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, hands lifting as though he had wounded me. “Did I—did I do something wrong?”

Before I could answer, Nestor’s boot nudged against my side, not harshly but firmly enough to sting. “No crying here,” he said, his tone edged like iron. “I told you, boy, you are lucky. You are alive. Don’t waste it.”

I swallowed my sobs, my throat raw, wiping at my face with the back of my sleeve.

The king leaned closer, his voice low but sharp, as though it were law: “One more thing. If anybody asks you, you are not Trojan. You are from Opus. An errand boy sent here by their priests. You have that sort of physique. Lithe. Quick. Just like the Opus lad who fought with Achilles.”

His words pressed against me like chains. I nodded, because what else could I do?

“Yes, my king,” I murmured, lowering my gaze again.

But inside, my heart was breaking — because for the first time since Troy burned, someone had touched me with gentleness… and the very next breath reminded me that I must bury myself in lies if I wished to survive.

Peisistratus never pressed me. Not once.

When the others called me Trojan stray behind my back, or when they scoffed at the way I moved, too light and soft to be a warrior, he would glare them into silence. But he never asked me for answers. Instead, he simply stayed.

He would sit by me during meals, nudging extra food onto my plate when he thought no one was looking. He would talk about small things—the sea, the storms, the smell of olive trees in summer—and when his voice trailed off into spaces he thought I couldn’t fill, I would manage a nod, or sometimes a faint smile. That was enough for him.

Once, late at night, when the torches had burned low and the hall was quiet, he whispered: “You can tell me, if you want. About Troy. About what you lost.”

My chest clenched, and the words rose like a flood — my mother’s face, the temple in flames, the gods who had abandoned me. But they burned my throat on the way up, and I could not let them free. Not yet.

So I only shook my head.

He studied me for a long moment, his gentle face shadowed by the flicker of firelight. Then, instead of pushing, he laid a hand on my shoulder and said softly,
“Then I’ll just wait until you’re ready.”

No one had ever offered me that before — the space to exist, even broken, without demand.

And though he didn’t know the truth—not about my blood, not about my father’s glow still hidden in me, not about the girl’s body I bound and hid beneath rough cloth—Peisistratus’ silence became my refuge.

I owed him more than I could ever say.

Always.

【PRESENT】

I finished my story, the words still trembling in the air, and silence fell over us. The fire crackled, but it felt like the whole world was holding its breath.

Then Peisistratus smiled—that same gentle, frustratingly knowing smile he had worn all those years ago in Pylos. “You really thought I was that stupid?”

My brow furrowed. “What…?”

He leaned forward, eyes softer than I had ever seen them. “You think I didn’t notice that you never aged past sixteen? It’s been ten years. You should’ve grown into a man by now, not stayed a boy.”

It hit me like a thunderclap. My chest cracked open.

Peisistratus kept going, voice low, steady, almost tender. “You never bathed with us. You never let anyone touch you. Every month you held your stomach and curled in silence, as if trying to crush the pain away. I am not stupid… Aegleia.”

The sound of my true name, spoken aloud for the first time since Troy, ripped me apart. My hands lit in a trembling glow, sparks of Apollo’s blood flickering through me, too fragile to hold.

And before I knew it, I lunged forward and threw my arms around him. Hugged him so tightly I thought my bones would shatter from the strain. My tears soaked his tunic, hot, endless, violent.

I sobbed like a child again. Not a priest. Not Eratus. Not a survivor. A child who had been hiding, who had been waiting all these years for someone, anyone, to call her by her name.

Peisistratus didn’t move, didn’t push me away. He only wrapped his arms around me and held me, strong and steady, as if to tell me: "You’re safe now. I know you. I see you."

But then I felt another warmth—hesitant, trembling—press against my back. Stronger arms, clumsier, but no less full of care.

Telemachus.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just leaned into me, his forehead resting lightly against my shoulder, as though lending me some of his breath so I wouldn’t collapse entirely. For a girl who had spent half her life hiding, the weight of two people holding me without judgment was almost too much to bear.

I gasped against Peisistratus’ tunic, then twisted, my tears still hot on my face, and fell into Telemachus’ chest instead. My arms wrapped tight around him, as if I could stitch myself into him, as if his body could anchor me to this world that had always tried to cast me away.

“Thank you, Telemachus,” I whispered, voice cracking, but truer than anything I had ever spoken.

He drew back only enough to look at me, his eyes shimmering, his hands trembling as they held me steady. “Don’t thank me,” he said softly. “Thank you for surviving long enough to let us find you... Aegleia.”

The words carved into me, deeper than any prophecy.

I pressed my forehead to his chest and closed my eyes, caught between them both—Peisistratus, the brother who had carried me through silence, and Telemachus, the witness who saw the truth of me and called it light.

For the first time since Troy fell, I didn’t feel alone.

Chapter Text

I couldn’t shake her words, even after the oars dipped us far from the cliffs and the spray stung my face. I had heard many tales—heroes boasting of monsters, old men muttering about gods—but never one spoken so quietly, as if every syllable cost the speaker blood. Aegleia’s story clung to me like damp linen: the terror in her voice, the way she had not begged for pity, only for silence.

Part of me burned with anger, that anyone could twist a girl’s life into something so cruel. Another part felt ashamed. Ashamed that I, who had dreamed of battles and voyages, had never considered what it meant to survive them. She was not like the singers’ maidens, golden and distant—she was flesh and grief, and still she endured.

I wanted to speak to her, to promise her safety now that she was with us. But the words stayed behind my teeth. What did I know of safety? My own father had wandered half the world and still had not found his way back. All I could do was listen, and carry her story inside me, like a weight I wasn’t sure I could set down.

When I pushed the door of the sleeping cabin open, the air inside was heavy, still. Peisistratus sat on the edge of the bed, his face buried in his hands, shoulders drawn like he carried the whole sea on his back.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

He shook his head, not looking at me. “Nothing… and everything at the same time.”

I crossed the room and sat at the other end of the bed. The wood creaked under our weight. For a moment, we just breathed, the silence pressing between us.

“I’m sorry,” I said at last. The words tumbled out clumsily. “For dragging us into this. For almost—”

He cut me off with a sharp breath. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Telemachus. None of this was your doing.”

I wanted to believe him, but the shame was still lodged in my chest. I twisted my hands together, staring at the floor.

“What was Circe like?” he asked then, his voice low, cautious.

“Scary,” I admitted. “Her eyes… her smile… like knives hidden in honey.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then, almost too softly: “Her magic… did it work on you? Did she try anything?”

The question dragged the memories out like a fisherman’s net. Her touch on my face. Her voice curling like smoke. My body betraying me, stiff and helpless, as if I were burning with cold fire. My breath hitched. My hands dug into my arms, clutching as if I could scrub away the feeling.

“Gods,” Peisistratus said quickly, standing, alarm flashing in his eyes. “No—no, that’s not what I meant—”

“I lost all control,” I whispered. My voice cracked, small and broken. “My body—it was like it wasn’t mine anymore. Like dry ice on my skin. I… I don’t know how else to explain it.”

He moved before I even realized. His hand came down gently on my shoulder. A simple touch—but it spread through me like warmth after winter, soft and steady. The icy burn faded. My chest eased. And in its place… something else bloomed. Something lighter, gentler, fluttering in my ribs like wings.

Peisi’s hand still rested on my shoulder, grounding me like an anchor in storm-tossed seas. He leaned a little closer, his brows furrowed.

“Are you… okay?” he asked, voice gentler than I’d ever heard it. “Do you need space?”

I shook my head quickly. “No—I’m fine.”

He hesitated, then began to pull his hand back.

The words tumbled out of me before I could stop them. “No. Don’t… don’t take it off.”

His eyes widened slightly. “Huh?”

Heat climbed up my neck. My chest squeezed. “It feels like… everything stops when you put your hand on me. Like I can breathe again.”

Something flickered across his face—surprise, then something else I couldn’t name. Slowly, almost reverently, he set his hand back on my shoulder. And then, with the other, he reached up and brushed his fingers along my cheek.

I melted. My body loosened like it hadn’t in days, my head tipping into his palm as if it had always belonged there.

I opened my eyes and saw him watching me. Really watching me. His cheeks were flushed, a warm crimson that darkened against his skin. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, the hollow at his neck moving. And his eyes… gods, his eyes looked like they wanted to consume me whole.

The air between us thickened. My skin tingled everywhere he touched, heat gathering not in fear this time, but in a need I didn’t know how to name. My chest pounded. My breath came shorter, sharper. It was the same ache, the same burn I had felt that night... in secret. Only stronger. Fiercer.

Something stirred low between my legs, rising unbidden. Panic hit me—I curled slightly, trying to hide it, heat flooding my face. My hands fumbled, desperate to cover the shame of my body betraying me.

Peisistratus' thumb brushed the side of my jaw, soft and hesitant, and I thought I might shatter right there. My whole body trembled beneath his touch, heat rolling through me in waves I couldn’t control.

Then I saw his eyes flick downward.

My stomach dropped. He noticed.

His own face bloomed red, darker than before, his lips parting as though words had caught in his throat. He pulled his hand back just a fraction, then stopped, frozen, caught between retreat and longing.

Shame scalded me—I shifted, trying to curl away, but there was no hiding it. My body had betrayed me fully now. My breath came sharp, my chest rising and falling too fast.

“I—” My voice cracked, and I couldn’t finish. I didn’t even know what I wanted to say.

But then I saw him. He wasn’t mocking me, wasn’t disgusted. He was… the same. His flush reached all the way to his ears, and his hands trembled slightly as if he didn’t know what to do with them. His eyes darted away, then back to me, wide and terrified and hungry all at once.

We were mirrors. Both wanting, both afraid to ask.

The strangest part was the certainty growing in me: no one, not even Circe with all her dark magic, had made me feel this way. No beauty, no siren song, no goddess’s touch had ever reached me like this. Only him.

And I didn’t understand. My body kept rising, straining with need I had no words for, and yet… it wasn’t about the body. It was about him. His warmth. His safety. The way he looked at me like I wasn’t a boy lost in another man’s shadow, but something—someone—worth seeing.

I swallowed hard, voice breaking when I whispered, “Why… why does it feel like this? I never… I never felt this way for anyone. No matter how beautiful. No matter how—” My throat tightened. I met his gaze, my face burning. “Why only you?”

I barely had time to breathe before he moved. No hesitation—just a rush, like a dam breaking.

His lips crashed against mine, sudden and desperate, tasting of salt and fear and longing. My whole body jolted, stiff for half a heartbeat before melting into the fire of it. His hand cupped my jaw, strong but shaking, and I thought I might collapse into him if he didn’t hold me up.

Then it ended—too soon. He pulled back, eyes wide, lips parted, panting like he had just run across the whole deck.

“I—I didn’t… was that— I mean, I shouldn’t have— I’m sorry, I—”

“Peisi.” My voice came out hoarse, trembling with need.

He froze and flushed even more. He liked the nickname. "I'm sorry, I—"

“Shut up.” My hands fisted in the fabric of his tunic, dragging him closer. My chest pressed to his, our foreheads almost touching. “Just shut up, and do it again.”

His eyes darkened, and this time there was no pause.

He kissed me harder, lips molding to mine like they had always been meant to fit. I gasped into him, and he swallowed the sound greedily. His hands slid up into my hair, threading through it with reverence and urgency all at once, and I thought I might combust from the sensation alone.

I clutched at him—his shoulders, his arms, the solid warmth of him—afraid that if I let go he’d disappear. The world tilted, spun, and then stilled entirely in the circle of his embrace. His mouth moved against mine, slower now, like he was tasting me, learning me, each brush and pull setting fire to places in me I didn’t even know existed.

I’d never felt this. Not when I tried to imagine desire in the dark. Not when Circe’s touch poisoned my skin with forced heat. This… this was alive. Pure. My body was burning, yes—but not with shame, not with fear. It was the warmth of something I had only dreamed about.

When we finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, both of us gasping for air, I could barely speak. My lips tingled, swollen, aching for more.

Peisi’s voice was a whisper, wrecked and trembling:
“Gods… Telemachus… what are we doing?”

I smiled faintly, though my heart pounded so hard it hurt.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, breathless. “But don’t stop.”

And so, he kissed me again.

His lips left mine only to trail downward, slow and searching. Across my jaw. My throat. Each touch left a burning brand that made me shiver and arch toward him. His hands mapped me too, steady and reverent, as though I were something sacred he was afraid to break.

I didn’t know how to breathe anymore. Every nerve in my body was lit, every inch of me pulled taut with something I couldn’t contain. My skin burned under his mouth, and the closer he moved, the hotter, the needier, I became.

By the time he drew back, his lips curved in a daring smile, I was shaking.

“Need some help?” he asked, voice husky, teasing but tender.

My face flamed. Shame, want, and something new and terrifying twisted inside me. My voice broke when I whispered: “…yes.”

His gaze softened. “Tell me when to stop.”

He touched me with patience I never knew anyone could have—slow at first, gentle as if testing what I could bear, then deeper, fuller, until I was trembling in his hands. The world blurred; I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out, my body betraying me with wave after wave of unbearable heat.

I thought I might drown in it. But every time I faltered, every time the storm rose too sharp inside me, Peisi steadied me—pulling me back, controlling the fire until it nearly broke me apart.

It was overwhelming. Beautiful. Terrifying.

When release finally came, it was like the sky itself cracked open, light bursting behind my eyes. I gasped into his shoulder, clinging to him desperately as though I might vanish without his arms around me.

And he just held me, strong and sure, his hand running slowly up my back as if to say: "You’re safe. I’ve got you. Always."

“Peisi…” I whispered, my voice barely audible, like I was afraid the world might hear.

His hand found mine immediately, fingers entwining with mine, and he pulled me down gently, until we were lying side by side. “Telemachus,” he murmured, the sound of my name on his lips making my chest tighten with warmth. “Are you… really here with me?”

I smiled softly, brushing a lock of his hair behind his ear. “I am. I’m not going anywhere,” I replied. “Not now, not ever.”

His eyes, dark and glimmering, searched mine like he wanted to memorize every detail. “You’re… amazing,” he breathed, a shy flush coloring his cheeks. “I… I don’t even know how to tell you everything I feel.”

I leaned closer, resting my forehead against his. “You don’t have to say a word. I can feel it. Every look, every touch, every heartbeat—it’s all enough.”

He chuckled, soft and warm, and whispered, “I’ve waited… waited for this. For us. For you.”

I traced gentle patterns along his arm with my fingers. “And I’ve been waiting too,” I said, my voice trembling with honesty. “Every day, every moment, hoping we’d find each other like this.”

He pulled me closer, wrapping his arms around me, and I could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. “Tele…” he murmured again, and I pressed my lips to his temple, inhaling him, memorizing the scent, the warmth, the quiet strength he always carried.

“I love you,” I whispered, letting the words spill freely. “I’ve never… never meant anything else, Peisi.”

His grip tightened, his lips brushing against my hand as he smiled, eyes shining. “I love you too, Telemachus. More than I can ever say. You… you are my heart.”

I pressed myself against him, and a mischievous thought struck me. “You deserve to be pleasured too, don’t you?” I whispered, my hands brushing over him as I gently pushed him down to lie back.

His chest heaved beneath me, each heartbeat a deafening drum—like a storm contained inside him. I laughed softly, a mix of disbelief and delight, feeling the warmth of him under my hands.

Carefully, slowly, I traced the contours of his shoulders, arms, and back—exploring, returning the care he had shown me. Every touch was a question, every caress a promise. I wanted to hold him up, to give him what he had given me.

Peisi’s eyes widened, then softened, and I could feel the tension in him melting, his breath evening out as I lingered close. I whispered reassurances, pressing my forehead to his, letting him feel my pulse align with his.

We didn’t need words. The warmth, the closeness, the trust—it was enough. Every sigh, every shiver, every small laugh was a testament to the bond we shared, stronger than fear, stronger than hesitation.

When we finally paused, lying together, our hands still intertwined, I felt the steady rhythm of him next to me—and I knew, in that moment, that we had both been seen, both cherished, both held.

We stayed like that for a long while, speaking in soft, intimate murmurs. Sharing memories, hopes, fears, secrets we hadn’t told anyone else. I brushed stray hairs from his eyes, traced the line of his lips, and let my fingers wander over his hands. He responded with small caresses, brushing his thumb across my knuckles, letting me feel the steady pulse of him.

At one point, I whispered, “Do you know how beautiful you are to me? Not just your face… your heart, your soul. Every part of you shines brighter than any star.”

His lips curved into a shy, almost disbelieving smile. "He chuckled, then whispered against my lips, “I think… I think I could stay like this forever. Just like this, with you.”

I smiled, resting my cheek against his. “Then we will,” I promised. “As long as the seas rage, the winds howl, the world tries to tear us apart… we’ll find each other. Always.”

And there, in the quiet of the cabin, with the soft sway of the ship beneath us and the night sky outside, we stayed wrapped up in each other, speaking in whispers, holding hands, sharing heartbeats. No words could capture everything we felt—but that didn’t matter. We had this moment, and it was enough.

I woke to the quiet sway of the ship, the soft light of morning spilling through the cabin window. The other side of the bed was empty, and my heart immediately twisted into knots.

What if what if last night meant nothing?

My stomach tightened.

Was that all just a dream I let myself believe?

I sat up slowly, hugging my knees, trying to calm the sudden wave of anxiety.

What do I even do now? How do I act?

My mind raced with every possibility, every misstep I could make.

The door creaked, and I froze. My pulse spiked, every nerve on edge.

He walked in. Calm, smiling, completely unbothered by the anxiety that had been devouring me from the inside.

My throat went dry. I held my breath, waiting for him to say something, anything—some indication of where we stood, what he thought, what we were now.

Instead, he closed the distance between us with that familiar, confident ease. He leaned down and pressed his lips to mine in a quick, teasing kiss. My heart leapt, the tight coil of panic in my chest finally unspooling.

“Good morning, handsome,” he said, his smile soft and full of warmth.

I blinked, stunned. A weight lifted off my shoulders, and I felt myself smiling back, truly smiling, for the first time that morning. Relief, happiness, and a fluttering rush of affection flooded through me.

Everything was fine. Last night wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t an experiment. It was real.

I reached up to touch his face, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath my fingertips, and whispered, “Good morning… Peisi.”

He chuckled softly, brushing a hand over my hair, and I knew, just knew, that whatever else happened, we were on the same page. I felt reassured, safe, and more alive than I had in days.

And somehow, that simple “good morning” told me everything I needed to know.

I fidgeted, my hands twisting in the sheets, and finally blurted out, “Uh… what… what does all this mean? I mean, what are we?”

He looked at me, that easy, teasing smile tugging at his lips, but there was warmth in his eyes. “Huh?”

I nodded, heart hammering. “I don’t even know how to… label it.”

He chuckled softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from my forehead. “Well… I’m gay,” he said simply, as if that explained everything. “But that’s not the question here. What about you, Tele?”

I swallowed hard, my voice trembling slightly. “I… don’t know exactly. But I do know one thing. I love YOU. I’ve loved you ever since I first laid my eyes on you. I think they call that love.”

He laughed, quiet and full of joy, and leaned closer. “That’s all that matters.”

I blinked, nervous, desperate. “So, are you… I mean, does that mean…?”

“What?” he asked, tilting his head, teasing me with his gaze.

“Am I your boyfriend?”

He leaned in and rested his forehead against mine, eyes glinting with affection and certainty. “Yes… yes to everything you imagined. You ARE my everything, Tele.”

A familiar presence made me glance up. Aegleia had paused in the doorway, her lips curved into a mischievous, knowing smile.

“Am I… interrupting something?” she asked, her voice teasing yet warm.

Without a word, Peisi and I instinctively spread our arms, inviting her into our circle. She stepped forward, slipping between us, and we wrapped ourselves together in a gentle, grounding group hug.

Her hands brushed lightly against our shoulders, and I felt the warmth of her energy settling over us. Then, almost in a whisper, Aegleia murmured a prayer: “Goddess of love, keeper of hearts, may these bonds remain steadfast. May their hearts burn with truth, and may they never falter in the path of their affection.”

I felt a shiver of warmth, a fluttering in my chest. Peisi pressed his forehead to mine again, smiling softly. “See? Even the gods favor us,” he said, half-joking, half in awe.

Aegleia stepped back with a playful bow, her eyes twinkling. “I will not intrude further… but know this: the Fates themselves are smiling upon you two.”

We lingered a moment longer in the embrace, hearts aligned, the silence filled with trust, love, and the quiet blessing of the divine.

Chapter Text

The day passed in quiet monotony, though even in the midst of maps and calculations I found myself stealing glances at Peisi, a small smile tugging at my lips when he wasn’t looking. His presence was a comfort, a steadying warmth beneath the sun’s glare as I traced routes and angles, plotting where the winds might carry us next.

But as night began to fall, a weight settled over the ship. Shadows stretched long and strange across the deck. The air felt thick, almost watchful, and I could sense Peisi’s unease even before he spoke it. I wanted to dismiss it, to say it was only the twilight playing tricks, but the shiver down my spine told me otherwise.

And then Aegleia appeared at my side, stepping lightly so as not to disturb the quiet hum of the evening. Her eyes held that same glow she always carried—soft, yet alert, as though she could see more than just the darkness around us.

“Telemachus,” she said, her voice low, urgent but calm, “I need to tell you something… something that cannot wait until morning.”

I looked up from my maps, my quill still poised over the parchment, and met her gaze. My heart tightened with a mixture of curiosity and dread. “What is it?” I asked, my voice steadier than I felt, though my hands were clammy.

Aegleia paused, scanning the horizon as if she could read the shadows themselves. Then she spoke again, each word deliberate, “The night carries more than stars. There are whispers in the wind, and not all are friendly. You must be vigilant, for the danger approaches, and it will not wait for sleep.”

Peisi stepped closer, his hand brushing mine, grounding me, but the warning in her tone had already settled deep in my chest. I nodded, forcing a semblance of calm, though my mind raced. “Tell me everything,” I said. “Do not hold anything back.”

I stared at Aegleia, my mind spinning faster than the wind in the sails. Her eyes were calm, piercing even, but there was a gravity there that pressed against me harder than the rocking of the ship. “All you have to do is trust me,” she said again, her voice soft but firm, almost musical in the way it carried over the creaking deck. “Do exactly as I say, and you will see the morning light. Fail, and…” Her words trailed off, but the implication struck me like a thunderclap.

I swallowed, feeling the weight of her authority settle over me. She was no ordinary woman. No ordinary priest. And certainly no ordinary mortal. Half god, half priest, radiant beyond measure—how could I question her command? Yet… the precision of her instructions sent a ripple of confusion through me.

“Six torches… six men… guarding the ship until the morning?” I repeated, each word tasting strange on my tongue. My hand instinctively brushed over the map, trying to reconcile her numbers, her logic, with the practical reality of what we could do. “Why six? And… who guards whom?” My thoughts spiraled, trying to find sense in the specificity.

Aegleia’s gaze softened just slightly, as if she could read my uncertainty. “Telemachus,” she said gently, but there was an edge of steel beneath the warmth, “I am not asking for your understanding, only your obedience. The night has its own will, and it does not wait for mortal reasoning.”

I paused, taking a deep breath, my chest tight. The rational part of me wanted clarity, a reason, a plan I could understand. But another part—the part that had seen her power, the calm authority, the way even the wind seemed to obey her presence—told me there was no questioning. The priest, the half-divine light that had guided us, knew more than I could ever fathom.

Slowly, my hands moved, still trembling slightly, as I began to follow her instructions. My mind raced with doubts, but beneath it all, a small, stubborn flame of trust ignited. If she said this would keep us alive until morning… then I would do it. I had to.

I glanced at Peisi, who watched silently, concern etched on his face. I caught his eyes for a brief moment, and a silent understanding passed between us: we trusted her, even if we did not understand everything. And perhaps, that was all we could do tonight.

So, step by step, I began. Counting six porches, choosing six men, placing them with care, assigning their roles as Aegleia had commanded. Each action felt like a ritual, every movement weighted with importance, my pulse thrumming in time with the ship’s groaning timbers. Confusion lingered, gnawing at the edges of my mind, but beneath it all, a thread of faith held me steady.

Because she was Aegleia. Half god, half priest, and the one who had already saved us more times than I could count. And if anyone could guide us safely through the night… it was her.

The ship creaked under the weight of the night, the wind whispering along the sails like a voice I couldn’t quite place. I lay on my cot, staring up at the dark wood above me, heart hammering, mind racing. Every shadow seemed too long, every sound too deliberate.

Peisi was beside me, shifting slightly so that he was half-sitting, half-leaning against the wall. He didn’t look scared—he never really did—but I knew him well enough to know that his eyes were scanning, calculating, trying to read the night like he could measure its danger.

“Do you think she’s seeing something… worse?” I asked quietly, my voice barely more than a whisper. “I mean… what if this isn’t just precaution? What if she knows something we don’t?”

Peisi sighed, his fingers drumming softly against the wood. “It’s possible,” he admitted. “Aegleia… she’s not like anyone we’ve ever met. She sees things… in ways we can’t. I’ve seen it. She knows the currents, the winds, even the shadows before they move. And when she says we must do something, it’s never without reason.”

I hugged my knees closer, trying to shrink away from the thought of what that “reason” could be. “But six porches… six guards… it feels so… precise. Like a spell, or a trap. What if something comes for us anyway?”

Peisi’s hand brushed mine, light but grounding. “Then we fight. Or we survive,” he said. “But that’s why she’s asking for trust, not questions. She can’t teach us everything; some things we only feel in the moment.”

I nodded slowly, though the knot of anxiety didn’t loosen. “I just… I don’t want anyone else to die. I’ve seen too much already.” My voice cracked a little. “And what if she knows something about me too… something I’m not ready for?”

Peisi shifted closer, resting his shoulder against mine. “Then we face it together,” he murmured. “You’re not alone in this, Tele. Not now, not ever. Whatever she knows, whatever comes, we’ll manage it. Just… breathe. Trust her. And trust yourself.”

I took a deep breath, feeling a small flicker of warmth in the dark, my racing heartbeat slowing a fraction. I looked at Peisi, his face calm but attentive, and the tiniest smile tugged at my lips. “Yeah… together,” I whispered.

We fell into silence after that, letting the creaks of the ship and the moans of the wind fill the gaps in our conversation. But under the quiet, I felt something like courage growing, fragile but real. And I knew that no matter what Aegleia had in store, we had each other—and that was enough to survive the night.

I barely had time to process the creak of the ship before a violent tremor jolted through the hull. My cot lurched beneath me, and I tumbled to the floor with a sharp thump, the breath knocked from my lungs.

“What the actual—” I started, but Peisi was already scrambling to his feet, cursing under his breath. The walls of the cabin shook as if the ship itself had grown teeth. Outside, a chorus of screams rang out.

“Men!” Peisi shouted, grabbing his sword from where it leaned against the wall. “Grab your weapons! Now!”

I followed, heart hammering, climbing over the bedding as the cabin door rattled violently. The deck was chaos. The sailors were gripping ropes, shields, and swords, bracing against the shuddering of the ship, but the sound of roaring above the waves made my stomach drop. It wasn’t wind. It wasn’t thunder.

Then I saw it.

Rising from the dark waters, a colossal shape, twisting and writhing, with heads like serpents and eyes that glowed in the moonlight. Scylla. The sea around the ship boiled and frothed like a cauldron, each of her six heads snapping hungrily, claws scraping along the deck, sending men tumbling and screaming.

The screams were unbearable. “Captain! Captain!” the crew yelled, but I could do nothing but freeze for a moment, my chest tightening as terror clawed at me. This wasn’t some myth whispered in temples or sung in epics—it was alive, enormous, terrifying, and it was here.

Peisi grabbed my arm. “Telemachus, we have to move! Now!”

I tore my gaze away from the writhing monster just in time to see a sailor’s arm being snatched clean off, tossed like a ragdoll into the waves. My stomach turned, and I had to force myself not to scream. I drew my sword, hands shaking, gripping it with every ounce of strength, and ran alongside Peisi.

Scylla’s heads twisted, one lunging at the railing. I slammed my sword against it, hearing a sickening thwack that vibrated up my arms. Another head swung toward a sailor, knocking him into the water with a scream that I’ll never forget.

“Keep moving! Don’t stop!” Peisi yelled, his eyes wide, voice sharp, commanding. I followed, trying to stay close to him, trying to keep the men together. Every step was a battle against the pitching deck, every second an eternity as Scylla’s monstrous heads snapped and reached.

I felt the panic rising, my chest tight, and yet I had to focus. Six men needed guarding, the ship needed balance, and I couldn’t let fear paralyze me. I swung my sword at one snapping head, barely missing a terrible, gaping maw, and it hissed at me, retreating momentarily.

The night air stank of salt, fear, and terror. Waves slammed against the ship like the fists of some angry god. I shouted, barking orders, trying to coordinate our defense, my mind a storm of dread and calculation. “To the port side! Hold the line! Watch the ropes!”

Every scream, every splash, every roar of the sea carved itself into my memory. And yet, amid the chaos, Peisi’s hand brushed against mine as he yelled something over the din. A small spark of focus, a reminder that I wasn’t alone.

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to steady my shaking hands. “We survive,” I muttered to myself, gripping the sword tighter, glaring at the monstrous creature looming over us. “We survive. We survive. We survive.”

But deep in my chest, a cold knot of dread whispered that this was only the beginning. The air burned with salt and smoke.

“Hold the line! Keep the torches high up!” I shouted above the crashing of waves, my voice shredded by the chaos.

The deck shuddered beneath my feet, every plank groaning like it would splinter in half. Men scrambled, their shadows flickering against the rocks as the firelight stretched and twisted across the black maw of the cavern.

I thought light would save us. I thought the dark was her ally.

Gods, how wrong I was.

Scylla’s scream tore the night in two. Not a voice—never a voice—but a shriek of hunger, a storm forced into flesh. Her heads erupted from the cliffside, each snapping maw large enough to crush a man whole. Six shadows, lunging, searching.

“Left flank, shields up!” I barked, shoving a soldier forward, forcing order into the madness. I saw her teeth close over him before the words even left my mouth.

Blood misted the air, glowing red in the torchlight. Another man cried out, fire spilling from his hand as the torch toppled and rolled.

Every instinct in me screamed to fight, to protect, but the truth—no sword, no spear, no shield could touch her. The only thing I had was order. My father’s voice rang in my skull, the memory of his commands, his unshakable presence. I tried to summon it, to be him.

“Form the circle! Torches forward! Blind her, blind her!”

They obeyed. By the gods, they obeyed me. A dozen men, fire raised, a wall of defiance. For a heartbeat—one blessed heartbeat—I thought it worked. The flames lit her skin, each scale gleaming wet and terrible, her eyes recoiling at the blaze. She shrieked again, but pulled back.

A breath of victory filled my chest—

And then I saw.

Her heads did not retreat. They chose. They snapped, not at the ship, not at the shields, but at the fire itself. At the men who bore it.

One head lunged, snatching Diores straight from the circle, his torch sputtering as it fell to the deck. Another tore Philonios in two, the torch still clutched in his white knuckles, burning bright until it hit the sea with a hiss. Everywhere I looked, it was the same—each head finding its mark, each strike aimed unerringly at the flames.

The pattern cut into me like a blade.

The fire wasn’t their salvation.

It was their execution.

I had given the order.

“No… no, gods, stop!” My voice cracked, useless against the roar of the sea and the beast. My throat filled with smoke and shame. I wanted to seize every torch, to hurl them into the waves, to take it back. But it was too late. My men—their eyes wide, waiting for me to save them—held their fire high because I told them to.

And Scylla fed.

One by one, they vanished. Screams cut short, torches swallowed in black. Each strike was faster than sight, like lightning that never stopped. The circle broke. The order dissolved. What I had built to save them had become the very beacon that doomed them.

I stood frozen, sword limp in my hand, watching the carnage unfold. My chest hammered with a truth too bitter to swallow.

I was not my father.

I was not a hero.

I was the reason they died.

The world had narrowed to a single, unbearable clarity: their screams, their faces, the fire. Every mindless roar of Scylla’s heads etched itself into my skull, replaying in sickening loops. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. Every lash of her tails, every snap of teeth, it felt like it was meant for me.

The ship groaned beneath the waves, her heads lashing, and I barely saw Peisi move. He was there before I knew it, his hands grabbing me, pulling me back as though he could wrench the horror out of my chest. He shoved me behind the mast, throwing himself between me and the beast, shielding me like a wall. The wind and spray lashed my face; salt stung my eyes, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t care.

“Tele—look at me!” His voice, urgent and steady, cut through the ringing in my ears. “Telemachus! You’re alive. You’re here! Breathe!”

But I couldn’t. My eyes glazed over with that vacant yard stare, the world draining into a black fog of despair. I saw Diores, Philonios, the others—their terrified faces burning in my mind. I felt their weight in my chest. My fingers clawed at the deck, but there was no ground solid enough to hold me. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t save them.

“I killed them, Peisi…” My voice cracked. I could barely form words through the tightness in my throat. “I told them to hold the torches… she… she chooses the ones with the fire… the fire… and they—they followed my order… and she took them…”

Peisi’s hands were on my shoulders now, shaking me gently but firmly. “No! No, don’t—don’t you say that! You did everything you could, Telemachus. Listen to me—you can’t control a monster like that!”

I shook my head violently, water dripping from my hair, salt burning my skin, and shouted, “But she—she lures on the light! The fire! Everyone who had a torch… it was me! I told them to hold the fire! I’m the reason they’re gone!”

Peisi grabbed my face then, forcing me to meet his eyes, and I swear his gaze carried the force of a storm. “Tele, listen to me! You are not the monster! You are my prince, my boyfriend, my—” He swallowed, as if weighing each word, “my love. What happened out there—it’s not on you.”

I felt like I was going to collapse. The deck pitched violently under another wave, throwing me forward. Peisi grabbed me again, hoisting me upright, pushing me toward the center of the ship where the torches were fewer, the danger slightly less. My stomach twisted in knots. “Peisi… but they followed my orders. They trusted me! They trusted me!”

“I know,” he said softly, almost breaking. “I know. And you tried to save them, every second. You’re the only reason anyone survived. You are not their death. You are their hope.”

I wanted to believe him. I needed to. But every scream, every snap of those teeth, every burning torch, it all replayed behind my eyes like a merciless loop. “But—she hunts the fire… she chooses them… she chooses who dies…”

“And she doesn’t choose you,” Peisi said firmly, placing both hands on my shoulders, holding me still. His dark eyes held mine like a tether, pulling me back from the edge of the void. “You’re here. You’re alive. And we will survive this. Together.”

I swallowed, chest heaving, and the salt water stung my eyes, mingling with tears I hadn’t realized were coming. I blinked, trying to focus, trying to remember the orders I had given, trying to find some strategy, some tiny leverage. My hands gripped the mast, knuckles white, but Peisi never let go, never faltered.

“I—I…” My voice caught, a broken whisper. “I could have—if I had known—if I hadn’t… I…”

“Shh,” Peisi said, cupping my face, thumb brushing my cheek. “There is no ‘if’ here. You did what you could. And now we move. Now we survive. You’re not alone.”

I could feel my knees start to give, the adrenaline finally ebbing enough for exhaustion to sink in. I leaned into his hold, letting the storm rage outside, letting the terror press against the hull, and just for a heartbeat, I felt a tiny, fragile anchor—Peisi—holding me steady.

Even amidst the screams, the salt, and the unholy howls of that beast, I realized something terrifying and beautiful at once: I could still breathe.

Because he was here.

The realization hit me like a thunderclap.

She told me to light the torches.

She told me to send the men to guard the ship.

She knew.

I didn’t even think—I sprang from my place on deck, water still dripping from my hair, heart hammering in my chest.

“Where is she?!” I screamed, my voice carrying over the chaos, over the screams of the men and the crashing of the waves. “Where is Aegleia?!”

I roamed the deck, eyes wild, until I spotted her tucked away, trying to stay out of sight. My hands found her collar, yanking her up like she was a child, shaking her with the force of my fury. “Did you know this would happen?! Did you know?!”

She flinched, her face pale, eyes wide, and I almost saw… almost saw fear—not for herself—but for me. “I—I didn’t!” she stammered, voice small, almost trembling.

Peisi stood frozen nearby, confusion written all over his face. “Tele… what are you—”

I didn’t let him finish. I shoved her back, letting go of her collar, but my hands didn’t stop moving. I pressed forward, grabbing her again as she stumbled onto the mattress. She fell back, and in that instant I felt taller, more monstrous in my rage than ever before. My chest heaving, I screamed at her, my voice raw and broken, “You probably knew everything! Every single pattern! Every single death—it’s been you, hasn’t it?! Always you!”

Her voice was desperate, pleading, trembling as she raised her hands. “How can you say that?!”

I saw Peisi’s hesitation, the conflict in his eyes. He hadn’t moved to protect her—not this time. He couldn’t. Even as she begged, I felt the weight of the truth settle like a blade in my chest.

“You either go,” I said, my voice low and dangerous now, “and fix this with your Apollo’s child magic—or I will shove you right into the mouth of Scylla myself!”

Her eyes went wide, hands flying out to try to stop me, but I grabbed her, dragging her toward the deck again, ignoring her screams and struggling. Her small, desperate cries tore at me, “No! Tele! Please! You can’t—”

“You told me to light the torches! You told me to sacrifice six men!” I shouted, voice breaking, fury and fear tangled into one. “Is that it? You lured them to their deaths!”

She gasped, trying to wrench herself free, and in one final, desperate scream, she shouted, “THAT IS THE ONLY WAY! If I hadn’t told you what to do, Scylla would have swallowed us all!”

I froze for a heartbeat, the words sinking in, cutting through my rage like a blade. “So… you sacrificed six men? You—”

“Yes!” she screamed back, tears streaming down her face, her voice raw with panic. “If I had told you why, you’d never have done it! We would all have died!”

I stood over her, chest heaving, anger still coursing like wildfire through my veins. “Damn right I would not!” I shouted, voice cracking with fury. “We would have found another way! Another way!”

Aegleia’s hands flailed, her own voice cutting through the roar of the sea. “DAMN MORTALS AND YOUR MORALS!”

I bellowed back, louder, letting my rage ring across the deck, over the wind and the crashing waves. “DAMN THE NON-MORTALS AND THEIR SELFISHNESS!” My finger jabbed at her chest, sharp, precise. “Sorry for breaking it to you, but you’re not stardust and ambrosia either!” I poked again—flesh. And again—blood. “Made of flesh—” (poke) “and blood—” (poke).

Her eyes widened, a mix of fury and shock, but I wasn’t done. I stepped closer, letting the wind whip at my hair, letting my voice carry every ounce of defiance I could muster. “Go on,” I dared her. “Cast some spells on me, aren’t you a godling?”

Silence. She didn’t answer. My smirk grew, dangerous and cocky. “That’s what I thought. You aren’t that powerful, are you?”

Her voice came then, quiet, almost a whisper, but cutting. “My powers... don’t work on the open sea. I can’t handle water.”

I let her words sink for just a second, then turned to Peisi, nodding sharply. “Lock her.”

Peisi moved without a word, his movements smooth and certain, because he knew that letting her wander freely now was far too dangerous.

Aegleia struggled, flinging herself at the door as Peisi slammed it shut, the heavy wood echoing with finality. The lock clicked into place.

“You—! No! You fools!” Her scream tore through the cabin, raw and desperate, bouncing off the walls. “You will pay! You cannot survive without me—you arrogant, puny mortals!”

I stood there, chest heaving, staring at the locked door, feeling the adrenaline slowly drain. She pounded and cursed, voice echoing behind the barrier, but I didn’t flinch. She was powerless now.

The moment we stepped bak on the dock, the sun broke through the clouds, casting golden light across the churning sea, Scylla was gone. A collective gasp rose from the crew, their fear still palpable. But that relief quickly twisted into suspicion. All eyes turned to me—my own men, my brothers at arms—faces twisted with doubt and anger.

“Captain!” one of them shouted, voice trembling. “Look me in the eyes, and tell me... that you did not just SACRIFICE SIX MEN!”

Another stepped forward, sword drawn. “You did this, didn’t you? You played with our lives!”

I raised my hands, trying to calm them, my voice ragged from shouting and panic. “No, listen! My brothers, I—no, I didn’t—”

But they didn’t listen. Their faces were twisted in fear and anger, distrust burning in their eyes. One by one, they lunged at me, swords swinging, desperation in every strike. My heart pounded, adrenaline surging, but I didn’t want to hurt them.

I blocked and parried, stepping back, twisting my body to avoid their blows. I pushed a sword away with the flat of mine, dodged a slash to my shoulder, and narrowly avoided a stab aimed for my chest.

“Wait! Please! My intention—listen to me!” I yelled, voice cracking. “Do not make me hurt you! You must trust me!”

Another sailor swung a heavy blade, and I ducked under it, countering with a quick strike that only pushed him back, not harmed him. My arms ached, every block sending jolts through my shoulders, but I had to hold them off, keep them alive.

“Stop! I am not your enemy!” I shouted again, panting, voice hoarse from the battle. “Every move I made was for you—all of you!”

They didn’t hear me. Anger and fear had blinded them. One sailor, faster than the others, lunged and drove his sword directly into my side. I froze, a sharp pain ripping through me. Blood blossomed beneath my tunic, warm and sticky, and my knees buckled beneath the blow.

I tried to catch my breath, to speak, but all that came out was a gurgling, choking sound. My hand clutched the wound instinctively. Pain tore through me with every shallow inhale.

“Telemachus!” Peisi’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. I barely registered him at first—my vision blurred—but then I felt his presence. He lunged, striking the sailor’s arm with precision and strength that made me gasp. The sword clattered to the deck as the man screamed in pain and shock.

Peisi planted himself between me and the crew, eyes blazing with fury. “Back up, every one of you!” he shouted, voice booming like a god. “If you do not step away now, I swear—every last one of you—I will kill you all!”

The men froze. They were terrified of him, of the force of his anger. Slowly, shakily, they took a step back. Their swords lowered, hands trembling.

I sagged against the deck, blood still pooling along my side. My breaths came shallow, painful, and every cough rattled through me, bringing up warm, metallic blood. Peisi’s hand was at my shoulder, steadying me, but I could see the panic in his eyes.

“Tele,” he said, voice tight, almost breaking. “Stay with me. Breathe. I’ve got you.”

I tried to nod, tried to swallow, but the pain was overwhelming. “I… I’m… I—” I coughed again, blood splattering the deck, “—I’m… hurt… It… hurts a lot.”

He knelt beside me, cupping my face, and muttered under his breath, words that I could barely hear through the ringing in my ears. “Do not leave me, not now. Not like this. You are my captain, my heart, my—” He swallowed, voice thick, “my everything. You will survive. You must survive.”

The sailors, now wary and confused, muttered amongst themselves. A few stepped back further, still wary, still afraid, but they weren’t attacking anymore.

I tried to speak again, my hand weakly reaching for his, trembling in blood and pain. “I… I… can’t… I—”

Peisi pressed a hand to my wound, applying pressure as best he could. “Don’t talk. Just breathe. Focus on me, not the pain. Not the blood. Not them. Only me.”

I let his voice anchor me, his touch steadying me as best it could. My chest burned, every heartbeat a drum of agony, but somehow, amid the pain and the shallow breaths, I felt a spark of warmth, a tether pulling me back from the brink.

I coughed again, a long, trembling sound, tasting blood, and Peisi whispered, “I won’t let you die. Not today. Not ever.”

I wanted to reply, wanted to tell him I was scared, that the pain was unbearable, but my throat ached and my body trembled. All I could do was let him hold me, let him anchor me while the world around us was chaos, fear, and blood.

I was slipping. My chest ached with every shallow breath, blood seeping out of me like the sea was drawing me down into its black maw. My eyelids grew heavier with every heartbeat, and I felt Peisi’s hands trembling against me. His voice was breaking—he was calling my name, screaming it, begging me to hold on.

And I was about to let go. About to close my eyes forever.

Then—

BOOM!

A deafening crash shook the timbers, like a door being shattered off its hinges. The sailors froze, swords still clutched in their hands, but suddenly pale, their faces twisted in fear. I heard a voice—sharp, commanding, ringing like bronze struck by iron: “Back off.”

The sound echoed, unearthly, too powerful to belong to any mortal throat. My vision blurred, but I caught a glimpse of the men stumbling backward, as if pulled by invisible force.

Then… muffled sound. A chant, low and incomprehensible, as if spoken through water. I couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe without feeling the world spin away from me. But then, suddenly, I felt it.

A warmth. A fire that wasn’t burning me, but flooding through me, filling my veins, driving out the cold. The pain dulled, then retreated, my lungs opened, and my chest was filled with golden air. I gasped, and the light blinded me.

And in that light… he stood.

I knew him instantly, though I had never seen him with my own eyes. The god of the bow, of the sun, of prophecy. Apollo. His form burned too brightly to behold, but his voice carried like thunder wrapped in honey.

“This is the last time I let you live, son of Odysseus,” he said, and the weight of his words pressed on me like stone. My throat closed, my heart raced, but I couldn’t look away.

“Because of Polites,” Apollo continued, his golden eyes piercing mine. I flinched, memory slamming into me—the name I had not spoken aloud in so long. My father’s comrade. The one who died by godly whim.

The god’s voice was final, merciless: “Go home. Go home and stop your search.”

The words rang in me like a prophecy branded onto my soul. And then the light was gone.

I gasped, lungs filled with air so suddenly it felt like drowning. My eyes snapped open. Peisi was still holding me, trembling, tears wetting his cheeks. The wound at my side—gone. My skin smooth, only the bloodstains of what had been there moments before.

And in front of me, pale in the dim light, stood Aegleia. Her eyes were cold. Her face distant, unreadable. No softness. No warmth. Only frost.

I staggered upright, still weak, staring at her. “You… you did this?” I croaked, my throat raw.

She tilted her head. “I did. But it was father's approval to do so.”

Her voice carried none of the relief I expected. No kindness. Just something sharp, distant. As if it had cost her nothing—or worse, as if she regretted doing it.

The memory of Apollo’s burning eyes still seared into me. His words still rang in my bones. I shivered, not from pain, but from fear. From the weight of knowing the gods themselves were watching me, and that their mercy had limits.

And yet, as I stared at Aegleia, cold and unreadable, I realized: she knew. She knew it wasn’t her who had saved me fully. She had been the vessel, yes, but the power that healed me—that was Apollo himself.

And he had spoken.

But still, Aegleia’s eyes bore into me, sharp as daggers, as though daring me to thank her, or curse her, or beg her for answers.

I couldn’t tell if I hated her… or owed her everything.

Chapter Text

The wind snapped without warning. One moment, it was a tired sigh against our sail, the next it cut sharp, like an arrow loosed from nowhere. Every man on deck stilled. I felt it too—that pressure in the chest, that silence that hums like a bowstring pulled too tight.

She came walking across the deck as if she’d been waiting all along. No footstep stirred, no sound but the whisper of her cloak moving, the glimmer of silver in her hair that caught the moonlight even though the sun had not yet fallen.

Artemis.

Every mouth clamped shut. You could hear the oars drip water back into the sea, one drop at a time. Even the gulls circled wide, too wary to scream.

I didn’t dare breathe. Her eyes slid past me like I was nothing more than the shadow of the mast. My skin prickled where she looked, as if her gaze could strip me down to bone.

Aegleia, broke the spell. She blinked, looked up, and hissed a single word, too loud in the thick silence.

“No.”

The men behind her coughed to break the silence too, but it came out strangled, panicked. My heart was thundering, begging me to kneel, to hide, to throw myself into the sea—anything but stand here under her gaze.

And then she smiled.

It was the worst thing of all.

I had never seen Aegleia look small before. Not when she had snapped at me, not when she had baited Scylla herself with her curses, not even when the crew had begun to doubt her. But when Artemis’ shadow fell over her, she shrank into it, like a child again.

“My huntress,” Artemis said, voice low, dangerous. “My little niece. Do you know what you’ve done?”

Aegleia raised her chin, trembling, but her words cracked: “I did what I had to.”

“What you had to?” Artemis laughed—no, not laughed, she spat the sound, cold and venomous. “I taught you precision. I taught you silence. I told you to wield your arrows with restraint. But you—” her silver eyes darted toward the men, the ship, me—“you’ve grown reckless. Sentimental, at best.”

Aegleia’s lip trembled. “I didn’t betray you—”

“You betrayed everything!” Artemis’ voice struck the sails like a whip. The crew stumbled back as if the deck itself quaked. “I gave you every chance to end them in Troy’s name. To let the sea claim them quietly. To balance the scales. But you—my favorite, my own blood—you spared them.”

Her hands glowed faintly with light, like a hunter’s bowstring drawn. “Your dead friends would speak louder than you do now. I promised you protection. I called you my huntress. And still, you failed the test.”

Aegleia’s voice cracked, pleading: “I tried! You don’t understand—”

“I understand enough.” Artemis’ tone cut the air. “You let yourself weep. You let yourself grow attached to mortals who would slit your throat without hesitation. You wasted every gift I gave you on sentiment. And now—” her cloak whipped back with the wind, her words a sentence—“now you are no longer mine.”

Aegleia staggered, tears brimming but her jaw set. “So that’s it? I was nothing to you but your pawn?”

Artemis’ eyes softened for only a flicker, a breath, before hardening again. “I saw you as more than that. My blood. My chosen. And still—you’ve proven yourself weak. You want to call yourself mortal?” She stepped closer, towering. “Then you’ll die like its worst kind.”

Aegleia’s tears finally fell, her hands sparking faintly with Apollo’s light, but she said nothing. Not a defense, not a plea. Only silence, bowed and broken.

Aegleia bit back at her aunt, trembling but fierce. “At least I know what I’m fighting for!” she shouted, fists clenched. “Since you claim you’re so much wiser, why is your life spent all alone?” Her voice broke on the last word, but she forced it louder, rawer. “You’re alone!”

Silence. A silence so heavy even the waves seemed to hold their breath.

Artemis’ silver eyes narrowed. Her voice came low, cold, the sound of a blade being drawn. “One day you’ll hear what I’m saying. One day you might understand. One day... But not today, because after all—” she leaned down, her words like venom—“you are mortal as well. Not just mortal. You are just a man. And when I see you act as one, I must do what I have to do.”

Aegleia’s face drained of color. Her lips parted, her body trembling. “No! Please—no!” she screamed, stumbling back, hands raised like a child begging a parent for mercy.

Peisi and I froze, blades in our hands but useless against a goddess. I could barely breathe, let alone move.

"Your filthy father may have spared you, but not me. It wouldn't be your first time killing someone, but as you wish..." Artemis lifted her hand, and her voice became a thunderclap. “This day—you sever your own head. This day—you cut the line. This day... you lose it all. This… is my GOODBYE!”

Her palm came down like the strike of a hunter’s arrow. A flare of silver light blinded us all.

Aegleia’s scream ripped through the deck—then cut off.

When the brightness faded, Artemis was gone. Vanished, like a bowstring loosed into night. Only the reek of divine power hung in the air.

Peisi and I turned, blades still raised, hearts pounding.

And there, sprawled on the deck where Aegleia had stood—was a stranger. A guy, older than me, broad-shouldered. His hair matted with sweat, his body trembling like a newborn. Twenty-six, maybe, but hollow-eyed and broken.

He gasped for air, clutching his chest. And in his voice—I still heard her. Aegleia.

I stood frozen, staring at the man on the deck.

He was… beautiful. Broad shoulders, sun-browned skin, a face sculpted like one of the statues in Ithaca’s temple. If I had seen him in any other harbor, I would have mistaken him for a proud sailor, a warrior perhaps. But the way he gasped for breath, the wild panic in his eyes, the trembling of his hands—no, I knew.

I knew before anyone else.

“Aegleia…” I whispered. My voice cracked on her name.

Leisi’s head whipped to me, confusion and terror flashing across his face. The crew murmured among themselves, pointing, whispering—who was this stranger? Where was their priestess? But I knew. Gods help me, I knew.

Her worst nightmare.

Artemis had not killed her. Artemis had done worse. She had left her alive in the one prison she could never escape—her own skin. A skin that was not hers.

Ten years of waiting, of pretending, of hiding beneath the name Eratus. Ten years of hoping the gods would keep their promise, that her true self would shine through one day, that her disguise would end and she would stand as who she was meant to be. And now—

Now Artemis had stolen that from her.

I felt my stomach twist like a blade had been shoved in.

The man—Aegleia—clawed at his face, his chest, his arms as though he could rip the curse away with his fingernails. “No—no, no, no!” he screamed, voice breaking, raw and guttural. “Not this—not this again! Don’t—don’t take me back! Please!”

The crew backed away, wide-eyed, muttering curses under their breath. Some crossed themselves. Some spat on the deck. They thought a demon had appeared among them.

I wanted to shout at them, to explain, to make them see. But what would I say? That this man was Aegleia, the priestess who guided us? That Artemis had cursed her into this body? Would they even believe me?

My heart ached watching her crumble. Her face—his face—was wet with tears, hair falling in tangled strands. She pounded her fists against the planks of the ship. “She promised me—she promised!” she sobbed. “Ten years… ten years, and now nothing. Nothing!”

Leisi looked at me, horror in his eyes, silently begging me to do something. But what could I do? What comfort can you give someone who has just lost themself?

I dropped to my knees beside her, grabbing her wrists before she could hurt herself further. “Aegleia! Listen to me!” My voice shook, my throat raw. “You are still you. Do you hear me? You’re still you, curse or no curse.”

She stared at me, trembling, eyes wild and lost. “No,” she whispered hoarsely. “No, I’m nothing. I’m just… I’m just him again. I’m just Eratus. I’m just… a lie. After everything I've done to please them all.”

"Please who?"

"The gods."

【10 YEARS AGO; POV SWITCH】

The string burned against my fingers as I drew it back, the bow trembling with the weight of the arrow. My shoulders ached, my arms quivered, but I held steady because I had to.

“You’re dropping your elbow,” Artemis said coolly. She didn’t even look at me, just leaned against the nearest olive tree like the goddess of the hunt had all the time in the world to correct mortal mistakes.

I bit my lip, adjusted, released.

The arrow sliced through the air and buried itself into the target’s edge. Not the center. Not even close.

“Better,” Artemis murmured, finally deigning to look my way. “But not good enough.”

I glared at her. My arms were shaking from hours of practice, sweat clinging to my back, and still she looked at me like I had only existed to prove her patience endless.

“How long,” I panted, reaching for another arrow, “before he comes?”

Artemis’ head tilted slightly, silver circlet catching the sunlight. “Who?” she asked, too lightly.

“My father,” I said, forcing the words out before my courage broke. “You said… you said he would come for me. That the god of the sun doesn’t forget his children. It’s been ten years.” My voice cracked. “Ten years, and nothing.”

She watched me in silence, eyes the same gray as storm clouds over the sea.

I hated that look. The one that meant she knew something she wasn’t telling me.

“You promised,” I whispered, gripping the arrow so tight my knuckles turned white.

Artemis pushed off the tree and walked toward me, her movements as smooth as a stalking predator. “Promises,” she said slowly, “are a mortal way of keeping hope alive. The gods do not make promises. We… prepare.”

“That’s not an answer,” I snapped.

“No,” she agreed calmly, taking the arrow from my hand before I could shoot. “It isn’t.”

I stared at her, throat tight. The sun dipped lower, painting the hills of Troy in blood-red light, and for the first time I wondered if she was keeping something from me. Something about my father. Something about me.

I wanted to ask again. To demand it. But Artemis was already handing me back the arrow.

“Draw,” she ordered softly.

And like always, I obeyed.

"I was wondering, since prince Hector is ki—" I had barely opened my mouth before Artemis’s voice snapped through the warm night air, sharp and cold as an arrowhead.

“Shhhh! Someone will hear you.”

I blinked, confused, because all I had done was ask about Prince Hector—about who killed him, why the city mourned him like the heart had been ripped out of its chest. But Artemis’s eyes cut toward the temple doors as though shadows themselves might be listening. Her entire body was a bow pulled taut.

“What?” I whispered, unsure why my question had set her on edge.

“Come here, Aegleia,” she said at last, her tone softening.

I crossed the marble floor toward her, heart thudding, sensing a weight in her words I didn’t yet understand. Artemis reached for me, pulled me closer until her breath was warm against my ear, her voice low.

“Princess Cassandra has spoken,” she murmured. “She says Troy will burn. The fire will swallow this city whole.”

For a moment, my stomach lurched. Fire. Troy. The walls, the temples, the shrines, all crumbling in the flames. I made a face before I could stop myself.

“But… auntie—”

The world exploded.

“DON’T CALL ME AUNTIE, YOU KID!”

I flinched, heat rushing to my cheeks, my tongue tangled. Her voice cracked like a whip, echoing off the temple’s stone walls. For a heartbeat, she was not the Huntress, not the silver-faced goddess people worshipped with trembling hands—she was fury itself.

“…Goddess Artemis,” I managed, voice barely a thread. “I predicted that. Ten years ago.”

Her eyes snapped toward me, sharp enough to cut. “WHAT?”

I swallowed hard but forced myself to speak. “When Helen first arrived… when she came to Troy… she was wounded, and I healed her. That’s when I saw it. The vision. Fire consuming the city. It’s haunted me ever since.”

For a moment, she only stared. Then Artemis pressed both hands over her face and let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl.

“Oh, Apollo,” she muttered, voice dripping venom, “how long am I supposed to keep up with your mess? First the prophecies, then the curses, now this…” She exhaled sharply, pulled her hands away, and her eyes burned into mine. “Listen to me, Aegleia. You must not tell anyone about that vision. Do you understand?”

My mouth went dry. “Why?”

“Because…” Her voice dropped even lower. “Because the gods have a plan.”

A chill prickled my arms. “What plan?”

Artemis’s gaze shifted, colder than the river Styx. “They plan to kill Achilles.”

My breath caught. “Achilles? The son of Thetis? The one dipped in the Styx so no mortal weapon can harm him?” I shook my head in disbelief. “How is someone like Paris supposed to kill a godling like that?”

Artemis turned slowly toward me, her expression unreadable.

“Exactly,” she said.

I froze.

“Oh, Hells,” I muttered, stomach twisting. “I don’t like the way this is going.”

Artemis’s lips curled, almost bitter. “The only way to kill Achilles,” she said softly, “is for someone as powerful as him to strike him down. Another godling.”

Her eyes locked on mine.

My blood ran cold. “What?” I took a step back. “No. No, no, no, no. There is no way. I’m a healer. I don’t kill.”

Her gaze didn’t waver.

“Why do you think I’ve been training you?” she said, each word landing like a stone in my chest. “You think I have time to deal with my brother’s arrogant, mortal daughter? Achilles has broken the scales, Aegleia. Balance must be restored. The world does not survive men like him.”

I stared at her, heart hammering. Training. The endless drills, the nights spent sharpening my aim, the strange lessons that seemed too violent for someone who only ever wanted to heal.

“You can’t be serious,” I whispered.

Artemis tilted her head, eyes glowing like moonlight on water. “The gods are always serious.”

I swallowed hard, my pulse thrumming in my ears. My hands, the same hands that once stitched wounds and mixed salves, now curled into trembling fists. I could almost hear the crackle of flames in the distance, the prophecy thrumming like a drumbeat beneath my ribs.

Me. They wanted me to kill Achilles.

And I wasn’t sure if the gods understood what they were asking—or if they simply didn’t care.

“Even if I agreed,” I said, my voice shaking, “how in the name of all the heavens am I supposed to kill him? I’m a healer. He’s Achilles. He’s… he’s...”

Artemis didn’t even blink. “Don’t you worry,” she said softly, too softly. “That is why I am here.”

“No. No, no, no.” My hands flew up, words stumbling over themselves. “I didn’t say yes! I never said—HEY—!”

Before I could finish, Artemis’s hand shot out like a striking snake. Her fingers clamped around my wrist, cold and strong as iron.

“Listen to me, girl,” she hissed, her face inches from mine. “If you do not obey the will of the gods, I swear on the River Styx, your temple will burn with Troy. Do you understand? The same flames Cassandra saw will swallow your altar, your priestesses, every sacred thing you love.” Her eyes flashed like silver lightning. “Do you care so much for Thetis’ arrogant little son? Or do you care for your mother’s life?”

The words slammed into me like a spear.

“No! Not my mother!” My voice cracked, my throat raw. “Don’t you dare!” I wrenched my hand free, breath coming fast, heart slamming in my chest.

Artemis didn’t flinch. She didn’t even look angry. That was worse.

“Then listen to me,” she said coldly. “Listen well, Aegleia.”

I stood there, shaking, my wrist still throbbing where her fingers had dug into me. I wanted to run. I wanted to scream. But Artemis only looked at me with those merciless silver eyes, like moonlight on a blade.

“The plan,” she said at last, voice sharp as the string of her bow, “is simple. The gods have spoken, Aegleia. Troy will fall, but before it burns, blood must answer blood. And Achilles’s blood is the price.”

My stomach twisted.

She took a step closer. “You will be changed. A body of a man, the face of Prince Paris himself—so Achilles sees his killer before the arrow strikes. You will go up to the highest tower of Troy, above the gates, above the battlefield, above everything. From there, you will shoot him.”

I stared at her. My own voice felt strange in my throat. “You’re telling me… to become Paris.”

“Yes.”

“That is madness. That’s—”

“—the will of the gods.” She cut me off like the snap of a bowstring. “Apollo himself decreed it. Paris is the prince who began this war. The lover of Helen, the breaker of oaths. It is only fitting the world believes his hand ends the greatest warrior Greece ever bore.”

I couldn’t breathe for a moment. “And why me?”

Artemis’s gaze softened—only for a heartbeat. “Because I already told you that Achilles cannot be felled by a mortal man. His mother, Thetis, dipped him in the River Styx when he was an infant. The waters made him invincible. No sword, no spear, no arrow can pierce his flesh.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” My voice cracked. “He’s untouchable.”

“Not quite,” Artemis said, and now her voice lowered, like the wind before a storm. “His mother held him by the heel when she dipped him. That single place, where mortal skin touched immortal water, was never bathed. One spot of weakness.”

I swallowed hard. “His heel.”

Artemis nodded once. “Yes. A godling’s weapon, guided by a god’s hand, into the one mortal place he has left. That is how you kill Achilles. That is how you end the wrath of Thetis’s son. That is how you buy Troy its last, fleeting breath.”

I wanted to laugh. It came out hollow. “And you think I can do this?”

She only looked at me. Not as her niece. Not as a girl. As if I were nothing more than the string of a bow she intended to pull until it broke.

I could feel it crawling under my skin the moment Artemis’s magic took hold. The shift. The tearing. The reshaping.

One heartbeat, I was myself—a girl who healed wounds, who mixed herbs, who prayed to the moon.

The next… I wasn’t.

Broad shoulders. Taller frame. Calloused hands that were no longer mine. The weight of muscle I never wanted. My hair cropped and dark. The mirror of Paris—the charming prince who started all of this—stared back from the still water where Artemis left me.

I wanted to vomit.

I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want to live in someone else’s body, let alone his. Every step felt like sand grinding in an open wound. The soldiers escorting me through the palace whispered “Prince Paris” with respect, and it made my skin crawl because it wasn’t me. I was Aegleia, damn it. A healer. Not a killer. Not a man.

But Artemis’s curse burned in my veins. Do it, or watch everything burn with you.

Up the winding stairs of the Trojan tower, the city spread below like a map waiting to be rewritten in blood. The bow felt heavy across my back, heavier than the fate she’d shoved onto me. I didn’t breathe as I reached the highest point, the wind snapping at my cloak.

And then—Helen.

She swept out into the sunlit balcony below, her beauty like it could stop wars. Well. It had started one.

“Paris, my dear,” she called up to me, voice dripping honey. “What are you doing up there?”

I froze.

She took a step closer, frowning. “Paris, dear… is something wrong?”

Slowly, I turned to face her. Let her see me. Let her see the fire in my eyes Artemis cursed into place.

Helen’s smile faltered. She blinked once, twice. Then she gasped, voice shrill enough to wake the dead.

“You… you are not Paris,” she stammered. “Who are you? WHO ARE YOU?”

Something inside me snapped. Weeks of training, curses, the weight of the bow, the body I hated—

“Silence, foolish woman,” I bit out, the words falling sharp like bronze on stone. Ancient, cold, not mine. “Go inside before your shrieking ruins more than your life.”

She opened her mouth—probably to summon guards.

I moved before the thought finished forming.

Three arrows. Three guards. Three bodies crumpling before they touched the floor.

Helen stood frozen, pale as marble.

“Inside,” I told her, turning the bow slightly, voice low enough to scrape like a blade. “Now.”

She obeyed.

Because even she knew the gods were watching.

I crouched at the edge of the tower, bow strung, the wind tugging at my hair, and I thought of Paris.

Prince Paris. The golden boy of Troy. The one whose face launched a thousand ships. The one whose mess dragged us all into this hell.

And where was he now?

Hiding.

He knew someone was coming to do his work for him, to win his glory while he stayed safe in his silks and perfumes. The mighty prince, the archer of Troy, the man who claimed Helen like a prize goat… couldn’t even lift his own bow.

I wanted to scream.

Sixteen. Sixteen years old, cursed into a stranger’s body, shoved onto this tower like some sacrificial lamb with a quiver of arrows. Paris had ten years to be a hero and never once had the guts to face Achilles himself. But the moment he heard someone else would do it—someone who wasn’t even a man—he slunk into the shadows like the coward he was.

The great Paris of Troy. What a joke.

My hands shook against the bowstring. Not from fear, no. From rage.

Because I was the one sitting here, heart pounding like war drums, waiting for the greatest warrior Greece had ever known to step into range so I could end him.

I was supposed to be learning the names of flowers, not the places a blade could pierce between ribs. I was supposed to mend skin, not break it.

But the gods didn’t care.

Artemis didn’t care.

Apollo didn't care.

And Paris sure as hell didn’t care, so long as someone else killed Achilles for him while he stayed safe and pretty behind the walls.

“Coward,” I muttered under my breath, fingers curling tighter around the bow.

Because when Achilles came into view, it would be my hands stained with his blood.

Not Paris’s.

Mine.

And then I saw him.

Achilles.

The golden son of Thetis, sunlight gleaming off his armor like he was carved out of the sun itself. He moved like no one else on earth could—like even the ground bowed beneath his steps.

My breath caught. My fingers pulled the bowstring taut until it trembled.

This was it. One arrow. One shot. One moment, and the whole tide of this cursed war would turn.

I could almost see it now—the arrow sinking into his heel, the mighty Achilles falling, the Greeks howling in despair.

And then—

“Not yet,” a voice said behind me.

I nearly jumped out of my skin, spinning around. Artemis stood there, silver eyes cold as moonlight, bow slung at her back like she didn’t need it because the whole world obeyed her anyway.

“Are you kidding me?” I snapped, heart hammering. “He’s right there. If you want him dead, you might as well kill him yourself.”

Her gaze cut to me, sharp as a blade.

“Shut up.”

I laughed bitterly. “Oh, that’s all you have to say? I didn’t want any of this, you know—this body, this curse, this whole mess—”

“Shut. Up.”

The words cracked like thunder, and I froze.

She stepped closer, eyes raking over me, lips curling like I was something rotten. “You disgust me even more as a man.”

That one hit harder than I wanted it to. I clenched my teeth. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t—”

“Enough,” she hissed. “Do you think I care what you want? Do you think the gods stop for the wishes of a single, selfish girl?”

I opened my mouth, but she raised a hand, cutting me off like I was nothing more than a child.

“Not yet,” she said again, voice low and cold. “You will wait. You will strike when I tell you, and not a heartbeat sooner. Or everything burns—including you.”

I gripped the bow so hard my knuckles went white, anger crawling like fire beneath my skin. But I didn’t argue.

Because Achilles was still coming closer.

And because Artemis had just reminded me what happened to those who disobeyed gods.

He was close enough for me to see his eyes.

Gods, he was hardly older than me. Maybe a few years. But in his eyes—those fierce, sea-colored eyes—I didn’t see a warrior. I saw someone my age who had grown up far too fast, who had traded laughter for war cries and childhood for battlefields.

My throat went tight.

Because suddenly, I wasn’t looking at the son of Thetis, the golden hero of Greece. I was looking at a boy who had been dipped into the Styx not because he wanted glory, but because a mother had been desperate to protect him. I could almost see her, Thetis, holding her squirming baby by the heel, lowering him into those dark waters, praying he’d be untouchable, praying he’d never bleed.

And yet here I was, fingers trembling on the bowstring to end him.

What was I doing?

This wasn’t a monster. He wasn’t even my enemy. He was just like me—another pawn on the board of the gods, another youth stripped bare by the greed of Olympus.

The wind shifted. He stopped walking, lifting his head, as if he sensed something. As if he could feel the arrow trained on him, feel me shaking where I stood.

His eyes met mine across the distance.

And for one heartbeat, I thought he knew. That he could see through the armor, through the disguise, straight to the trembling girl holding the bow.

My chest ached. My eyes burned. I hated myself.

Because the gods wanted this.

And I was about to give it to them.

“Steady,” Artemis snapped. Her voice cut like a blade, crisp and merciless. “Your hands are shaking. Do you want him to see you before it’s done?”

I bit down on my lip hard enough to taste iron. My arms ached from holding the bow drawn so long, the string biting into my fingers.

“He’s walking into place,” Artemis murmured, eyes never leaving the boy below. “Wait… wait…”

I hated her in that moment. I hated her calm, her cold eyes, her voice that carried no weight of what she was asking me to do.

“You’re a huntress. Act like it,” she hissed when she saw my breath falter.

I swallowed hard. My vision blurred—not from the wind, not from the sun—but because my eyes were burning, filling fast.

When he finally stopped moving, when the gods themselves seemed to hold their breath, I knew this was the moment.

My arms trembled violently.

I couldn’t look at him anymore. Couldn’t look at the boy whose mother had dipped him into a river so he would never know fear, only for the gods to decide it was time for him to die anyway.

My chest heaved. The tears spilled before I could stop them.

“Do it,” Artemis said sharply.

I shut my eyes tight.

“Forgive me,” I whispered.

The words tumbled out of me before I could think.

“Hades,” I breathed, voice cracking, “bear witness. May you shield his soul in the Underworld.” My hands trembled. My whole body trembled.

“Now,” Artemis said, her voice like stone.

“Forgive me…” I choked once more, then let the string slip from my fingers.

The arrow sang through the air, slicing the wind.

A gasp erupted below.

When I opened my eyes, it was done. The great Achilles—the son of Thetis, the terror of Troy—staggered, confusion flashing in his eyes before pain twisted his face. His hand reached for his heel, for the shaft buried there… but it was too late.

He collapsed to the earth like the gods had yanked the strength from his body.

And I just stood there, bow slack in my hands, shaking, tears streaming hot down my face.

I had killed him.

I had killed Achilles.

And nothing would ever wash the weight of it from my soul.

I dropped to my knees. The earth hit hard, but I barely felt it. My chest heaved like I couldn’t breathe, like the air had turned to fire, like the whole sky was pressing down on me.

Artemis was gone.

I couldn’t make sense of it. My mind wouldn’t hold the thought. My hands shook so violently I dug them into the dirt just to stay tethered to the world. The wind tasted like salt, or maybe that was just my tears, I didn’t know anymore.

Then it ripped through the air—

A scream.

Not the kind mortal kind. It was a sound made for gods, for oceans and storms, for grief too large for language.

Thetis.

The sound shattered against the mountains, split the sky. Birds rose in dark clouds. Waves slammed into the cliffs. Somewhere, the world bowed under it.

My hands clamped over my eyes, as if I could shut it all out. As if darkness would keep the truth away.

“Forgive me,” I choked. The words scraped my throat raw. “Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me.”

Over and over until I wasn’t speaking anymore, only sobbing the same plea into my palms, like maybe if I said it enough, the Fates would rewind time, bring him back, give me another chance.

But the sea stayed silent. The sky stayed broken.

And he didn’t come back.

【PRESENT; POV SWITCH】

From the back of the boat, one of the older men shot up like he’d been struck by lightning.

His voice cracked when he shouted, “Hey! I know who that is!”

We all turned.

The man was one of the veterans—one of the few who had made it home from Troy with scars running deeper than his skin. He was pointing at Aegleia, eyes wide like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“That’s the one,” he said, breathless. “That’s the person who killed Achilles.”

The words hit like a spear through the deck.

No one moved. No one even breathed.

And then all at once, every man on board gasped.

Chapter Text

I stood, feeling every fiber of my body ignite with anger. The men were shouting over each other, pointing fingers, voices full of disgust and fear. Their eyes darted from Aegleia—still sobbing, still shaking—to me and Peisi, like we were monsters who had crawled out from some dark tale.

“You tricked us!” one of them barked. “We survived Troy… we survived hell itself… and now we’re trapped with people who want to kill us!”

Their words ricocheted in my skull, but I refused to shrink. I squared my shoulders, letting the fire in me burn brighter.

“You want to suffer no more?” I roared, stepping forward so all of them could hear. “You want to suffer no more?” My voice cut through the air like a sword. “You destroyed the city of Troy for one woman! You killed civilians, robbed their homes, murdered sons and daughters, and took women as your war prize! What kind of suffering are we even talking about here?!”

One of the older men sneered, leaning closer, his voice dripping venom. “Watch out, young prince. Your father is nowhere to be found… and yet you support the Trojans?”

I felt heat rise in my chest. My fists clenched, nails digging into my palms. “Damn well I do! I support the people fighting for their lives. If you don’t trust me… fine. Take the little boat. Sail off on your own. Get killed by Poseidon, or the Sirens, or starve in the sea. I couldn’t care less!”

I paused, letting the silence stretch, letting the weight of my words sink in. Then I pointed at each of them, voice low but deadly. “But I swear to the whole of Olympus… if you lay a finger on any of us—on me, on Peisistratus, or on Aegleia—the Trojan War will not be the worst time of your life. Not by far.”

The wind shifted, tugging at the sails, carrying the tension across the deck. They all went still, eyes wide, realizing I meant every word. And in the middle of it all, Aegleia’s sobs finally softened to quiet, stifled hiccups. I could feel her trembling, but at least now she was safe… for the moment.

They stood there for a long, heavy moment. Some shifted nervously, glancing at each other, like they were weighing their options: run or stay, trust or die. I didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn’t give them an inch. My chest burned from shouting, but I didn’t care. Every second they hesitated gave me the upper hand.

Finally, one of the older men—the same who had questioned my loyalty—spoke, voice low and grudging. “You… you really mean it, boy?”

I nodded. “Every word. Touch any of us, and you’ll regret it for the rest of your miserable lives. I don’t care how long you’ve survived, or how clever you think you are. This is my command. And I will protect my crew, my people, and those who need me—Trojan or Greek alike.”

There was a murmur among the men. Some began to mutter to each other, casting glances at Aegleia, who was still curled up, her shoulders shaking. Her transformation, her tears, the weight of everything she had done… it had silenced them in more ways than one.

One sailor, younger, timid, finally stepped forward. “We… we just want to survive, Prince. That’s all. We’ve seen too much death… too much…” His voice trailed off.

I softened slightly, lowering my tone but keeping the fire. “Then survive with us. Help us. Do your duty—not out of fear, but out of honor. Those who flee now will face the sea alone. And the sea… it doesn’t forgive.”

Another gruff voice, skeptical, muttered, “And what of this… this girl—or boy? She killed Achilles? You still trust her?”

I fixed my gaze on him. “Yes. She may have done what you think is monstrous, but it saved lives. Every choice she’s made has been for this crew, even if it looks cruel. You don’t have to understand it, but you will respect it. Or leave.”

There was a long pause. I could see their pride and fear wrestling. Some crossed their arms, still defiant. Some muttered under their breath, weighing the odds. And slowly… one by one, they lowered their heads. Not out of submission, but because they realized they had no other choice.

Aegleia looked up then, still trembling, and met my eyes. I gave her a small, reassuring nod. She blinked rapidly, the tears glinting in the sunlight filtering across the deck.

And then Peisi stepped closer, standing beside me, silent but unyielding. His presence added weight to my words. The men could feel it—the unspoken strength that backed every threat, every command.

Finally, the older man sighed heavily. “Fine… we stay. But know this, boy—we’re watching. One misstep, one false move…”

I interrupted, voice sharp. “No missteps. No false moves. We survive together, or none of us do. That’s the only choice here.”

The tension lingered, thick as the salt in the air, but the threat was clear, and the crew relented. Some muttered, some whispered, but they complied. They began tending to the ship, checking supplies, and securing the sails. They were wary, yes, but they followed.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. My body sagged slightly with relief, and I glanced at Aegleia again. She gave me a small, almost imperceptible smile. Not comforted, not happy, but alive. That was enough for now.

After the deck finally settled from the heated shouting, I felt Peisi’s presence beside me before he even spoke. His voice was quiet, cautious, but steady.

“So… what now?” he asked, eyes searching mine.

I took a deep breath, letting the salt air fill my lungs. “We sail back,” I said simply.

“Back… where?” he pressed.

“Ithaca,” I answered, feeling the weight of that decision settle like a stone in my chest.

He looked at me, eyes wide and slightly shocked. “Wait… so you’re going to stop the search for your father?”

“Yes,” I said firmly, though my heart twisted at the words. “I can't afford any more suffering. Apollo… he warned me. For the last time. If we continue, his wrath will be our last resort.”

Peisi didn’t say anything for a moment. Just stood there, letting the wind whip around us, his dark hair tangled from the storm and the chaos of earlier. Finally, he murmured, “I… trust you. Whatever path you choose, I’ll follow.”

I gave him a faint, tired smile, more a reassurance to myself than to him. “We need to protect each other now. That’s the only thing that matters.”

His hand brushed mine briefly—just enough for me to feel the steady warmth, the silent promise behind it. I glanced over at Aegleia, still curled up in the corner of the deck, silent now but her presence a reminder of all the blood, tears, and impossible choices we’d endured.

“We'll just keep sailing forward,” I said, finally breaking the quiet. “No detours, no distractions. Ithaca is waiting, and that’s where I need to be. I will give all of you ships to sail back to your homeland.”

Peisi’s voice broke through my thoughts, sharp but tinged with fear. “Sail back? What about us, Tele? What will happen to US?”

I swallowed hard, looking out over the dark, restless sea. My chest felt tight. I didn’t have the luxury of certainty. “I… don’t know, Peisi. I don’t,” I admitted quietly, the words tasting bitter. “My mother… she’s surrounded by suitors. They will not let her go. I need to take the throne.”

He froze, his eyes widening, disbelief etched across his face. “What? Are you being serious right now? You’re crazy. The suitors will try to kill you once you’re back. They’ll do everything to take the kingdom!”

“I know,” I said, my voice steady despite the fear curling in my stomach. “But I must protect my mother. She is all I have.”

There was a long pause. I could feel Peisi’s gaze burning into me, his whole body tense. Finally, he whispered, almost as if asking a prayer, “But… what about me?”

I turned to him, my eyes locking with his, the weight of my choice heavy between us. “No, Peisi, I can’t afford to get you hurt… or even killed. I can’t,” I said firmly, my voice breaking slightly despite my resolve. “You are sailing back to Pylos right after we reach Ithaca. There is… no other option.”

His jaw tightened, and I could see the struggle in his eyes—anger, fear, love, desperation—all tangled together. But he didn’t argue further. He just nodded slowly, his hand brushing against mine, brief and silent, a fragile promise between us.

The wind whipped around the deck, and I could feel the weight of everything pressing down on us—the choices, the blood, the lives we’d touched and lost. And yet, even in that moment of unbearable tension, I knew the only path was forward.

I looked out at the horizon, at the faint glimmer of dawn approaching. “We survive,” I said quietly, more to myself than to him. “And then… we endure.”

The wind tore across the deck, tugging at my hair and stinging my eyes, but I didn’t move. I just stood there, gripping the railing, letting the sound of the waves and the howl of the wind fill the emptiness inside me. And then I heard it—a voice carried on the gust, clear and warm despite the storm.

“It’s time to move on, my friend.”

My eyes snapped shut, and a single tear escaped, tracing a line down my cheek. It was Polites. I could feel him there, not in the flesh, but in memory and in spirit, and my chest tightened.

“I’m sorry…” I whispered into the wind, my voice cracking. “For failing you.”

But the voice persisted, unwavering. “It’s time to move on, my friend.”

I tried to answer, but my throat felt raw, and nothing came out. Then I heard it again, this time accompanied by another sound—the masculine timbre of Aegleia’s voice, strong and mournful, carrying across the deck to the sky.

“But how, Polites?” Aegleia called, her voice defiant, echoing into the clouds. Her eyes were fixed upward, even in that strange masculine form, and my chest ached seeing her like that.

And then Polites sang again, as if reaching through the storm, through the chaos, to both of us: “Think of all that we have been through. You’ll survive what you get into…”

I opened my eyes and looked at Aegleia, standing there on the deck, the wind tossing his—her—hair, the determination and despair mingling in those glowing eyes. For a moment, the world was silent except for the roar of the sea, the creak of the ship, and the unbroken, urgent promise of Polites’ voice.

I swallowed hard, feeling a warmth bloom in my chest despite the cold wind. “We’ll survive,” I murmured, more to myself than anyone else. “We have to.”

And somehow, with the ecoes of Polites and Aegleia’s defiance surrounding me, I believed that we could.

I saw her then. Even beneath the masculine form, the curves of muscle and the sharp lines of a man’s body, it was her eyes—Aegleia’s eyes. The same luminous, impossible eyes that had always held more than they should.

Tears streaked down her face, hot and unrelenting. Her voice, breaking through the stoic façade she’d worn for years, trembled as she whispered, “I… I failed everyone.”

I didn’t hesitate. I closed the distance between us and wrapped my arms around her, holding her like I could shield her from every war, every god’s whim, every impossible burden she’d carried.

“You didn’t fail anyone,” I said, voice low, almost breaking myself. “You did what had to be done. You survived. You’re here. That's enough.”

Her sobs shook through my chest as she clung to me, and I felt the weight of every nightmare, every choice, every impossible path she’d walked. I held her tighter, murmuring, “It’s not your fault. None of this. None of it is yours to carry alone.”

Her hands gripped my shoulders, and she pressed her face into me. I could feel her trembling, the small, fierce pulse of life that had fought against gods and monsters alike. And I realized, in that moment, that this—this closeness, this fragile human connection—was all the absolution either of us could ask for.

The sea was calm—eerily calm. No storms, no monsters, no godly wrath, only the endless stretch of water and the soft creaking of our ship cutting through it. For the first time since we’d left home, the wind was on our side. No one spoke much during the journey. Not the men, not Peisi, not even Aegleia.

She sat at the stern, her face pale and distant, as if the waves were whispering names only she could hear. Peisi kept to my side, steadying the sail and making sure we didn’t lose our course. It wasn’t the kind of voyage filled with songs or laughter. It was quiet, heavy with everything we had seen and done.

And yet, with each passing mile, I felt the pull of home growing stronger—like Ithaca itself was reaching out to us.

When the familiar green hills finally appeared on the horizon, the crew stirred from their silence. Even the most bitter of them looked up, their faces softening just slightly at the sight. It was Ithaca. My Ithaca. My father’s kingdom.

The ship touched the shore gently, as if even the sea respected our exhaustion. I stepped down first, my boots sinking into the wet sand, and for a moment, I just stood there. The air smelled of olive trees, salt, and sun-warmed earth. It smelled like everything I had left behind.

Peisi followed, brushing past me with a small, relieved laugh, and even Aegleia stood, though her steps were slower, uncertain. Behind us, the men climbed down in silence.

Then I heard it.

“The prince!” someone shouted.

Heads turned. A small crowd had already gathered on the shore—fishermen, merchants, old women carrying baskets of figs, children with wide eyes.

“The prince has returned!” another voice cried.

The words spread like wildfire through the village. People rushed closer, some with tears, some with cheers, some simply staring as if they were seeing a ghost.

I stood there, unsure if I should raise my hand, bow, or collapse onto the sand. They were all looking at me like I was a hero returned from a glorious quest. But all I could feel was the weight of what had happened.

Peisi glanced at me from the corner of his eye, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You're home now, prince,” he whispered.

Home.

The word cut deep.

The crowd blurred into noise once again. Questions tangled around me like fishing nets, pulling, pulling, pulling—Odysseus? What happened? Is he alive? Where is our king?

My lungs burned with the weight of words I didn’t have. “Not now,” I muttered. Then louder, “Not. Now.”

They hesitated, but the questions didn’t stop.

“Prince Telemachus—”

“Your father—”

I stepped back, voice slicing through their noise like the tip of a blade. “I said not now!”

Their faces froze in that awful, expectant silence. For a heartbeat I felt small beneath it all—their hope, their grief, their love that wasn’t meant for me but for the man I’d failed to bring home.

I reached for without thinking, fingers curling around the soft fabric of his sleeve. “Come with me.”
He followed, like he always did. Through the press of bodies, through the narrow path behind the storerooms, until the world narrowed down to the two of us and the silver edge of the sea.

The air was cooler here. The only sound was the water against the rocks and the heavy beat of my heart. I turned to him. His hair was still damp from the sea, curling against his forehead. His breath caught as he looked at me, like he’d already guessed what I was about to do.

I reached up and touched his jaw, just to feel something real—the warm, living proof that he had been with me through all of it. His skin was rough from salt and sun, and my hands were shaking.

“Telemachus,” he whispered. My name broke in his mouth like a wave.

I kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was the kind of kiss you give when you’re trying to carve someone into your bones. My hands slid to the back of his neck, pulling him closer until I could feel his heartbeat slamming against mine. His mouth tasted of sea air and a little of the figs we’d eaten on the deck that morning. Salt. Warmth. Home, but not the kind I was allowed to keep.

Peisi gasped against my lips, and then his hands found my waist, holding me like he could anchor me here if he tried hard enough. For a moment, the world stopped being Ithaca and suitors and expectations. It was just the space between his mouth and mine—slow, desperate, and unbearably alive.

When we finally broke apart, the air between us trembled. My forehead rested against his. I couldn’t look away, not yet.

“This is goodbye,” I whispered. It tasted like iron and sea.

His breath hitched. “No.”

“I don’t have a choice.” I traced the line of his jaw with my thumb, memorizing him. “If they don’t kill me, they’ll crown me. And kings can’t love like this.”

He closed his eyes, and I felt his hands tighten around me—not to hold me back, but to hold me closer, just for now.

His hands were still at my waist, his forehead pressed against mine as if letting go would make me disappear. I could feel the way his breath stuttered—uneven, shaky, as though he was trying to swallow a storm.

“There has to be a way,” he whispered. The words came out desperate, almost childlike. “We could run. You and I. We could—”

“Peisi.” I said his name softly, but it cracked anyway.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes wide and wet with everything he couldn’t say. “Telemachus, listen to me. We can leave before they even fully acknowledge you’re here. There are islands—places where no one would care if you’re a prince or a ghost. We could just—”

“I can’t.”

The words were small, but they cut through the air like an oar through still water. His jaw tightened, as if he could hold the world together with his teeth alone.

“Why not?” he breathed. His fingers dug into the fabric of my tunic. “Why not? They don’t own you. This island doesn’t own you.”

I laughed, but it was sharp and broken. “Yes, it does. It always has. I was born to this shore, Peisi. My father’s name lives in these stones. If I run, they’ll call me a coward. If I stay, they’ll tear me apart.” I swallowed hard. “There isn’t a version of this where I get to keep you.”

His breath caught, and for a moment his face folded—not into anger, but something worse. Something like grief.

“Telemachus…” His voice trembled as he said it. “I don’t care about kings or crowns or your father’s name. I care about you. I would follow you anywhere.”

I closed my eyes. His words hurt more than any blade ever could. Because I wanted to say yes. Gods, I wanted to. I wanted to run until the sea swallowed Ithaca behind us. I wanted a life with no suitors, no throne, no father’s shadow. Just him.

But I wasn’t born for wanting. I was born for duty.

My hands slid up to cup his face again—gentler this time, like something fragile I didn’t dare break. “And that’s why I can’t let you follow me. Please don't make it harder than it already is. ”

His brow furrowed, breath shaking against my fingers. “Please—don’t do this.”

“I have to.”

He shook his head hard, like he could shake the truth out of existence. “No, you don’t—”

“Yes, I do,” I said, almost too quietly. “Because if I don’t, they’ll take everything. And when they do, they’ll take you too. And I’d rather lose you like this than watch them destroy you because of me.”

For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. Just breath. Just the sea and the sound of something inside me shattering.

Then Peisi’s hands slid up my back and he pressed his face against the hollow of my neck, like if he held on tightly enough, time would freeze. I felt the warmth of his breath, the soft tremor in his shoulders, the way his heart knocked against mine.

“I don’t want to let you go,” he whispered.

I kissed the top of his head. My hands trembled. “I know.”

And I didn’t say "I don’t want to let you go either." Because wanting was a luxury princes didn’t have.

“I wish I’d met you in another life,” I murmured. I hadn’t planned to say it, but the words slipped out, quiet and shaking.

Peisi drew back just enough for me to see his face. His lashes were wet—not with sea spray this time. His mouth trembled into a half-smile that wasn’t really a smile at all. “In another life,” he said softly, “you wouldn’t be a prince... and neither would I... and I wouldn’t have to let you go.”

The way he said it broke something open in me. I almost reached for him again, almost let myself be selfish. But I didn’t. Princes aren’t allowed to want, and I’d already stolen too many heartbeats from him.

I cupped his cheek with a shaking hand. He leaned into the touch like it was the only thing holding him up. For a second, he closed his eyes, and I let myself look at him. The freckles across his nose. The tiny scar at the corner of his mouth. The way his lashes curled damp from the salt air. The man who had stood by me through storms and gods and silence.

“Don’t forget me,” he whispered.

I huffed a quiet, broken laugh. “You’re carved into me, Peisi. I couldn’t forget you if I tried.”

His throat bobbed, and he nodded just once, like someone accepting a wound that will never fully heal.

I pressed one last kiss to his mouth. Slow. Reverent. The kind of kiss that belongs to no one but us. It didn’t taste like salt anymore. It tasted like ending. His hands slid down my back, then fell away like a tide receding.

When we parted, the world came rushing back. The smell of olive trees. The distant sound of people calling my name. The weight of Ithaca settling on my shoulders like it had been waiting for me all along.

I stepped back first. Because I had to. Because that’s what princes do.

His eyes followed me, wide and silent and full of the kind of love that makes staying hurt more than leaving ever could.

I didn’t look back again as I walked toward the palace.
But I felt it—the way his gaze stayed on me, the way my chest ached with every step, the way the sea whispered a name it would never get to keep.

And somewhere between his heartbeat and mine, something quiet and bright burned out.

Chapter Text

I waited at the dock, the salt tang of the sea filling my lungs, but it did nothing to steady the hollow ache in my chest. My eyes scanned every shadow, every familiar wave pattern.

The dock creaked beneath my boots. I turned sharply as Peisistratus arrived, his face drawn and pale, carrying that look he always wore after seeing the impossible. Relief curled inside me at first—he’s here. But then I saw his eyes.

“Where is he?” My voice sliced through the air, sharp and brittle.

Peisi hesitated, swallowing like he was trying to pull the words out with brute force. “He… he went away. He said goodbye. Told me… told me we can’t—”

I blinked, trying to parse his words. “Wait. What? He said goodbye? He told you you can’t… what?!”

“Yes,” Peisi said, voice barely above a whisper. “He told me we can’t be together. I tried to—”

“Wait. Wait! You let him leave just like that?” My voice rose, louder than I’d intended. It carried over the dock, sharp and manly enough to make a flock of gulls scatter. I hadn’t meant to sound like that, but the words came out raw, urgent. I felt a prickle of fear even in my own chest at the sound.

“I—I didn’t have a choice!” Peisi said quickly, eyes pleading. “I tried to tell him, but he said no. He wouldn’t listen. He thinks it’s impossible. That we could never—”

“Impossible?” I barked, stepping closer, grabbing his shoulder and shaking him lightly. “Impossible? Peisi, this isn’t about your stupid love story! This is about him—his life! They’ll kill him. He’s thin. Clumsy. He can’t fight them off!”

Peisi’s shoulders slumped, and he sagged like the weight of the world was suddenly his alone. “I know. I know. But you don’t understand. He wouldn’t listen. He made his choice.”

I stared at him, my breath sharp, my pulse hammering. For a moment I forgot he wasn’t Telemachus himself. My eyes went over him—the same soft curve of his jaw, the quiet strength he’d always tried to hide. I felt a furious heat rise inside me.

“You’re literally crushed over him,” I said, voice dropping lower, almost fierce. “And you still can’t see the damn obvious? You shouldn’t have let him go! They’ll kill him, Peisi. They’ll tear him apart before anyone can blink.”

Peisi flinched as I grabbed both of his arms, shaking him slightly, my tone somewhere between exasperation and desperation. “I don’t care about your heartbreak right now! This isn’t about you! It’s about his survival! You need to do something! Now!”

He closed his eyes, running a hand through his hair. “Aegleia… I can’t. You don’t understand. We can’t realistically be together. Never. Not in this world. Not now. Not—ever.”

“Oh, for Olympus' sake, Peisi. Listen to yourself! He said no because he thinks he has to. He doesn’t get to want, he doesn’t get to choose. That doesn’t mean you—” I grabbed him again, harder this time, shaking him like the sheer urgency might break him out of despair. “You can’t just let him die! He’s alive now. We can help him. We have to!”

Peisi’s shoulders shook, a quiet, helpless sound. “He’s too stubborn. And I can’t force him.”

“You’re not forcing him!” I snapped. “You’re keeping him alive! That’s all we’re talking about! We don’t have time for moral dilemmas. Do you understand? He’s out there, thinking he’s alone in this. Thinking he has to die or be king. He can’t handle it alone, Peisi!”

He swallowed, looking at me as if I had suddenly become a different person—a hurricane in human form. “I… I don’t know what to do.”

“You start by not standing there like a damn child,” I said, voice softer now, but still fierce. “We find him. We protect him. That’s it. Nothing else matters right now.”

For a moment, he didn’t speak. Just nodded slowly, crushed but listening. And I knew that was enough. For now, it had to be enough.

I let go of his arms, but my eyes stayed locked on him. “Come on. We don’t have a second to waste.”

He exhaled, defeated, and fell into step beside me. I could feel his despair pressing like a weight, but I didn’t care. There was no time for despair. Not when Telemachus’ life hung in the balance.

The sun was merciless that day, spilling gold over the stone walls of the palace until the air itself seemed to shimmer. I could feel the heat on my neck as Peisi and I crouched behind a tangled thicket of laurel bushes just beyond the main gate. The guards, if they could even be called that, were too busy laughing at something crude to notice us.

“Now what?” Peisi hissed, leaning closer to me.

I shot him a look. “What happened to the genius prince who was supposed to have everything figured out? Oh, that’s right... that boy inside shook your little mind loose.”

Peisi grimaced, eyes flicking toward the open courtyard beyond the gate. “It’s not that—”

“Oh, spare me,” I muttered, then followed his gaze.

Men. Dozens of them, scattered around the courtyard like wolves pretending to be sheep. They lounged on cushions, drank wine, laughed too loudly, and pawed at servants like they owned the place. Their tunics were expensive, their daggers sharp—none of them belonged here.

“Who are all these men?” I whispered. “They don’t look like servants to me.”

Peisi exhaled sharply through his nose. “They aren’t. Those are the Suitors.”

My stomach twisted. “THOSE are the Suitors?” I stared, struggling to match what I saw with what I’d heard in passing. “Telemachus’ mother is, what, forty summers old? And those men are probably our age.”

Peisi’s mouth curved into something bitter. “These men don’t care about age. So long as there’s flesh on the bone, they’ll feast.”

I turned on him, narrowing my eyes. “Hold your tongue now, you wretched man. That sounded far too straight for someone like you. I almost forgot you swing the other way for a moment.”

He raised his brows in mock offense. “What? My voice has always sounded like this.”

“Yes,” I said, “like a Spartan trying to sound heroic. It’s unsettling.”

Peisi pressed a hand to his chest. “Cruel woman.”

The words hit me like an arrow slipping under armor. Cruel woman. Gods, it had been so long since anyone had called me that, or anything remotely like woman. It curled through me like warm honey, catching in my throat. For just a heartbeat, I wasn’t trapped inside this broad-shouldered, sunburnt body. I was me.

I forced the thought down before it could bloom. The palace walls loomed closer now. The air around us smelled of hot dust and spilt wine. I glanced at Peisi again. He looked brave, but I knew the kind of courage that trembles beneath the surface.

“So,” I whispered, steadying my breath, “what’s the grand plan, oh brilliant prince?”

Peisi’s mouth twitched, that look he gets when a plan begins to stitch itself together from scraps. He leaned in, eyes bright with something like mischief—the kind that used to get us both into trouble when we were younger and foolish enough to steal figs from the market.

“Listen,” he whispered. “They’re mostly young men. If we go in pretending we’re suitors too, no one will look twice. We blend. We drink. We watch. We bide our time.”

I scoffed, but it wasn’t a harsh sound. “Oh, wonderful,” I said, folding my arms. “We will stroll into the great hall, sit at their table, and charm our way through a pile of broken promises. Why didn’t I think of that?” I let my voice drip with every ounce of sarcasm I could muster.

He smiled, which only made him more infuriating. “Because you were busy doing something more useful—looking like you could knock a man into next week.”

I glanced at the state of us. Our tunics were salt-stiff and patched where we’d mended them on the deck; my sleeves were singed at the cuff from that brazier on the second night; Peisi’s leggings were stained with wine and a smear of fish oil. We looked like ghosts who kept tripping over themselves.

“Look at our clothes,” I muttered. “We look like we died seven times and came back for the funeral.” I pulled the hem of my tunic away from my thigh and sniffed it for dramatic effect. “And then we died again.”

He shrugged, quick and quiet. “We can change that.”

“You can? No, you can’t conjure courtly robes out of seaweed, Peisi.”

He cocked his head toward the inner courtyard where a line of laundry hung between two pillars, white cloths fluttering like pale flags in the sun. “See those linens drying over there?”

My eye followed his. It was a ridiculous thought—linen, of all things, billowing like a promise. “You think those are fresh? Who would leave so much cloth out in the open?”

“Servants do,” he said. “They’ll fetch them in time. If you can slip out and fetch a few, we can wrap them, look respectable enough. No one inspects suitors that closely. They’re more interested in gluttony than in tails and seams.”

I snorted. “Are you still calling me sneaky? After you wept like a child over my cloak last winter because I said the oarsmen could have an extra ration?”

“Hey,” he protested, voice half proud, half wounded, “that ration was strategic. Happy oarsmen row better.”

I let him have that moment. Then I straightened, feeling the weight of the truth behind the joke. “Alright,” I said, practical now. “But you know what you’re asking. I am not small. I am not lithe. I am six feet of sunburnt, broad-shouldered man right now. I will not pass for a trembling suitor with coin to spare. I will pass for aggression with a bad haircut.”

He breathed out a laugh that was almost a sob. “Exactly why you’re perfect.”

“What? Explain.”

“You move people. You command a room even when you’re trying not to. People see you and they remember there’s someone larger than their appetites. Use that. Walk in with your head high. No one will suspect a thing. They’ll either assume you’re an ally or a threat—both of which are useful.”

I considered it. The curse that made me look like Paris had forced me into the body of a man who carried a presence most women never got. I hated it, but tonight that unwanted gift could be a blade we could use.

Peisi reached out and brushed a stray curl from my forehead. “And if anyone gets curious,” he murmured, “I’ll be your fool. I’ll bumble through and distract them. Your height will do the talking.”

“You’ll be the fool?” I arched an eyebrow. “You’ll risk being—what? Hilarious? Charming? You’re asking me to trust the man who’s been known to faint at the sight of a goose.”

He feigned offense, then sobered. “I’ll do whatever it takes. Fetch the linens, and I’ll draw them to my side. We’ll make an entrance. We won’t drink ourselves stupid. We won’t be careless. And if anyone notices Telemachus, we will not hesitate.”

The name snagged me in the chest. For a moment my hands shook, remembering the way he’d pressed his mouth to mine as if memorizing the shape of goodbye. I folded my anger away into something colder. Whatever else, temper had to be kept.

“You promise?” I asked, voice low.

“I promise,” he said.

I let the silence sit between us, heavy and deliberate, then nodded. “Fine. I’ll fetch the linens. But if anyone looks twice, I kill them.”

He grinned that crooked grin that sometimes made me think he could brighten the underworld. “Don’t kill anyone until I give you the signal.”

“You’re on toilet duty during the feast,” I said, standing. “If you so much as hiccup, I’ll know.”

He sprang up without ceremony, ready—eyes alight with fear and with something like hope. He slotted in beside me as we melted from the thicket’s shadow and moved with the crowd, bodies parting like reeds in a stream. My heart hammered against my ribs, the old wariness sharp as a blade. I felt every gaze as if the world itself watched me strip for battle.

I skirted the outer edge of the courtyard, every movement careful. The servants bustled, carrying platters and wiping hands on their own linens. No one spared me a glance; either my figure was too ordinary for scrutiny, or my borrowed masculinity was the kind that kept eyes politely away.

I crept toward the line where the linens danced in the breeze, counting, measuring, scheming. Each cloth looked promising—thick, plain, useful. I could feel the sweat plastering my tunic to my skin. My hands closed around the nearest sheet.

For an instant I imagined the great hall beyond the laundry, and Telemachus somewhere inside, fragile and foolish and held together by nothing but stubbornness. I clenched the sheet like a talisman and whispered, so no god would hear but perhaps the one that had cursed me, “Do not let them break him.”

Then I moved—swift, deliberate, and very much a man in a body that had learned how to do impossible things.

We crouched low behind the outer wall, hidden in a patch of dry, sun-warmed rosemary. The courtyard still buzzed with the noise of the suitors’ servants, but none of them cared to look in our direction. I dropped the bundle of stolen linen at Peisi’s feet. He stared down at it like I’d delivered him a kingdom.

“Well,” I muttered, catching my breath, “if we don’t end up gutted for treason, at least we’ll look like elegant corpses.”

Peisi grinned like an idiot and started shaking out the fabric. “Elegant corpses is an improvement from shipwrecked beggars.”

We began stripping off the salt-stiff tunics. It wasn’t exactly dignified work—sand and damp cloth don’t let go easily. I turned slightly away as he pulled his over his head, not entirely sure why the sight of broad shoulders and sunlight on skin made my stomach tighten. I’d seen men change armor and clothes on battlefields; this shouldn’t have meant anything.

“Come on, Aegleia,” Peisi called over his shoulder. “If we’re pretending to be suitors, we can’t look like servants who fell off a cart.”

I hesitated, fingers at the hem of my tunic. It wasn’t the act of undressing that unsettled me. It was the body underneath—the wrong one. Broad shoulders, too-square hips, muscles that never used to be mine. A man’s body. A stranger’s body.

I pulled the tunic over my head anyway, forcing the motion to be quick and clipped. The sunlight landed on my skin like it wanted to expose every borrowed inch. Peisi turned and, seeing my hesitation, let out a soft laugh.

“You’re shy? You?” he teased, looping a strip of linen around his waist. “Aegleia, for all the gods’ mercy, you’ve faced down kings.”

“This isn’t facing down kings,” I muttered, tucking the fabric around me in a makeshift chiton. “This is pretending to be one of them.”

He smirked, adjusting his belt. “You have a male body now, Aegleia. No one’s going to blush at your shoulders.”

“Yeah,” I snapped lightly, “disgusting.”

That made him pause halfway through tying a knot. “Disgusting?”

“Yes,” I said, sharper than I meant to. “Male bodies are too loud. All edges and elbows. Feminine bodies are better.”

For a heartbeat he just blinked at me—then his grin stretched slow and wicked. “Oh… oooh! Are we finding something new about you?”

I froze. “What?”

“You fancy women,” he said in a sing-song voice, hands thrown dramatically in the air, like he’d just discovered a hidden prophecy. “This is important information, Aegleia of—”

“Shut up,” I hissed, shoving his shoulder before he could say another word.

He stumbled a little, laughing the way he always does when he forgets the world is cruel. “Fine, fine, no more discoveries,” he said, straightening the linen across his chest. “But gods, it’s nice to see you talk like yourself again.”

I rolled my eyes, though the corner of my mouth betrayed me with a twitch. “Focus. We’re not here to hold symposiums on my preferences.”

He gave a mock-serious salute. “Yes, your majesty.”

We got to work. I smoothed the wrinkles from the cloth, pulled my hair—long, unruly, sun-streaked—back from my face, and tied it loosely with a strip of linen so it would at least look intentional. Peisi dunked his hands into the nearby basin and slicked his curls back, the water catching the sunlight on his jaw. For a moment, we almost looked like proper young nobles—cleaner, sharper, less doomed.

He stepped back and gave me an assessing look. “You look like the main bastard.”

“You look like a court favorite,” I shot back, tugging at the hem of his newly tied garment.

“That’s the goal.”

We stood there in the sun, linen billowing gently against our legs, the distant laughter of suitors echoing through the courtyard walls. Somewhere in that hall, Telemachus was walking straight into a lion’s den.

I flexed my hands once. Twice. “Alright,” I said. “Let’s go blend in with the idiots.”

The palace smelled like roasted meat and arrogance.

No one stopped us at the gates. Not a single guard, not a single servant with suspicion in their eyes. Instead, the moment we stepped past the threshold, the warmth of torches and chatter swallowed us whole. Men lounged on carved benches, goblets in hand, faces flushed with wine and entitlement. I had half-expected someone to point a spear at us, but instead their eyes slid over us as if we’d always belonged there—just two more jackals circling the carcass.

Peisi and I exchanged a look, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward. Too easy, his eyes seemed to say.

We passed through the long colonnade and into the great hall. The light pooled gold on the floor, where the midday sun sliced through high windows. Linen-draped tables overflowed with platters of figs, roasted birds, and bread glistening with honey. Someone was laughing—loud, drunken, the sound of someone who’d never had to work for anything in his life.

That’s when I saw him. A man reclining at the head of one of the longer tables. Broad shoulders. Dark curls. A smile that didn’t reach his eyes. His hand toyed lazily with the rim of a wine cup, but everything in the way the others leaned toward him made it clear he wasn’t just another suitor.

“Antinous!” someone called from across the table. The name cracked through the noise like an axe splitting wood.

So that’s him. The one whose tongue dripped with honey and poison in equal measure. Even from across the room, there was something coiled about him, like a snake too lazy to strike only because it already knew its prey was trapped.

And still, no one questioned us.

Antinous turned toward us, wine catching on his lip as he smiled—bright, false, and as sharp as broken glass. “Welcome, brothers!” he called, voice smooth as olive oil. “Two more brave souls come to claim a queen, eh?”

I nearly choked. A queen. As if Penelope were a prize, not a woman mourning the man they were all waiting to steal from her. But I didn’t let it show. My jaw locked, but my mouth stretched into a thin, courteous smile.

“Join us,” he said, sweeping his arm toward the table as if he owned the palace. “There is always room for kindred men.”

Peisi shot me a sidelong glance, the faintest flicker of nerves under his practiced charm.

We approached slowly, careful not to seem cautious. I matched his stride—two suitors, two vultures come to pick the same bones as the rest. If any of these bastards saw through it, they gave no sign. A few nodded as we passed. One man with a crooked nose raised his cup in greeting. Another smirked as if appraising me, like I was some newly arrived stallion at market.

“Brotherhood,” Antinous said again, as if the word could erase the fact that this hall was nothing but treachery dressed in silk.

Peisi bowed his head slightly, polite. I mirrored the gesture, though it made my stomach twist. We lowered ourselves onto the benches near the middle of the table, neither too close to the head nor so far as to seem unimportant. The wood was still warm from the last glutton who’d sat here.

A servant passed behind us, pouring wine into our cups without a second thought. As the liquid pooled dark and rich, I let my gaze sweep the room. Laughter. Meat. Wine. And no Telemachus.

I bit the inside of my cheek, tasting iron. He should have been here—or at least visible. If they’d already hurt him...

I forced the thought down.

Antinous leaned slightly forward, eyes scanning us the way predators do when deciding how much trouble prey will give them. “You’re new,” he said, though it wasn’t quite a question. “Not from Ithaca. But we welcome ambition here.”

His voice was velvet. His smile was blades.

Peisi returned it with just enough charm to seem careless. “We heard there was a feast worth crossing the sea for,” he said, casual as breathing. “And a queen worth crossing it twice.”

A few of the men laughed—sharp and greedy. One clapped his hand against the table, spraying crumbs.

Antinous’ eyes glittered like a cat’s. “Ah,” he purred. “Good men then. Men with purpose.”

I took a slow sip of the wine, keeping my hands steady. My heartbeat was not.

Telemachus, where in the gods’ name are you?

Peisi’s knee brushed mine beneath the table. Not in comfort—more like a coded nudge.

I gave the smallest nod in return. We were in the viper’s den now. And for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t sure which of us would make it back out.

The hall stank of meat and arrogance. The suitors’ laughter rolled off the walls like something rotting—loud, heavy, and smug. Their goblets clinked as they spoke of murder as though it were a feast to be planned. And I had to sit among them, breathing the same air. Pretending.

Antinous leaned forward, a predator who believed himself already victorious.

“Now,” he began, voice smooth as oil, “when the boy returns to his dear mother’s shore… we will be waiting. We’ll hold him down like the little trembling lamb he is, and I’ll be the one to open his throat.”

The table exploded in laughter.

Beside me, Peisi froze. I felt it before I saw it—the way his body stiffened, the air catching in his lungs. His hand gripped the edge of the bench until his knuckles turned white. His eyes went wide, staring into nothing. He wasn’t hearing just words, he was picturing Telemachus. He was hearing that voice saying those words over the boy he loved.

I reached out under the table, squeezed his wrist once a silent stay still.

But it didn’t stop there. Antinous kept talking, drunk on his own power.

“And once the prince is out of the way… his lovely mother will be alone. No more weaving tricks. No more waiting. We’ll break the door down and take what should’ve been ours from the start.”

Something in me cracked. It wasn’t just disgust. It wasn’t just rage. It was a bone-deep female fury that no curse had managed to kill, even in this borrowed body. The way they spoke about her, like she was a thing. Like it was a game. Like her pain was their entertainment.

My hands were shaking under the table.

Around us, the suitors roared with laughter again, slapping each other’s backs, toasting their vile plans. Peisi had gone pale. His lips were pressed together so tightly they were almost bloodless. He was staring straight ahead, eyes glassy, jaw clenched so hard it looked painful. He loved Telemachus. He loved him. And they were talking about slaughtering him like livestock.

I felt his fingers brush mine, desperate and shaking.

“They’ll kill him,” he mouthed.

Yes.

That was the last straw.

I rose before I even realized what I was doing. The bench screeched against the stone floor. Heads turned. Not all of them, just enough for me to feel their gaze slide over me like grease.

I walked straight toward the rack of bows leaning against the wall. My pulse pounded against my throat like a drum. Every step I took, I imagined Antinous’ smug face bleeding away into silence.

Peisi’s voice hissed behind me. “Aegleia, wait—”

I didn’t wait. My hands closed around the polished wood. It fit against my palm like it had always belonged there. I reached for an arrow, my movements steady in a way my heart wasn’t. I notched it and turned back toward the table.

Antinous was still laughing, tipping wine down his throat. He didn’t even notice the storm walking toward him.

“You’re an archer,” I whispered to myself. “You're an archer and Apollo's daughter. If you were able to kill a fellow godling, then shoot this pig like he is nothing.”

I raised the bow. For a heartbeat, everything in the room slowed—their laughter, the flicker of torches, the pounding of my pulse. All I saw was his face. The man who had spoken of killing a boy I cared for, and violating a woman who had already lost too much.

And then—

A sound cut through the air. A whistle.

A spear slammed through Antinous’ back before I could loose my arrow. It tore through him clean, a wet thud filling the hall as the tip burst from his stomach. His goblet slipped from his hand, spilling wine like blood over the table. His eyes widened in shock. A soft, ugly sound left his throat.

The laughter died instantly.

He slumped forward, face smashing into the spilled wine. Blood spread dark and fast across the table.

For a breath, no one moved.

The suitors stared at their leader’s corpse. Peisi’s mouth hung open. His eyes darted from the body to me, to the doorway. He was breathing fast, like someone who had just surfaced from drowning. His hands were still shaking.

I lowered the bow slowly, the rage still buzzing in my bones. I hadn’t killed him… but someone had. Someone faster. Someone watching.

The hall broke into chaos. Shouts, swords drawn, panic.

Peisi turned toward me, voice rough and trembling. “You were really going to do it.”

“Yes,” I whispered. “I was.”

He swallowed hard. His face was pale, but his eyes burned with the same fury I carried. Fury and something else—relief, fear, grief.

The hall had fallen into chaos.

Antinous’ body was still slumped over the table, blood mingling with spilled wine, when a voice cut through the panic—steady, low, and sharp as a blade.

“For twenty years, I’ve suffered every punishment and pain. And then... I come back and find my palace desecrated and sacked like Troy! Worst of all... I hear you dare to touch my wife and hurt my son! I have had enough.”

Every suitor froze. The air thickened, and the sound of swords half-drawn faltered. That voice didn’t belong to a servant, or a suitor, or a trembling courtier. It belonged to a man who had stared into the jaws of monsters and walked back out.

Behind me, Peisi’s eyes flicked toward the shadows where the voice had come from. “Who is this?” he hissed, already half-rising, fingers curling around the hilt of his short sword.

But I knew.

I’d heard it on the wind when I was still a girl with a bow in my hands, standing among heroes at Troy. I’d heard it again on nights when bards told stories around dying fires.

That voice was unmistakable.

A man shaped by gods and war.

“Odysseus,” I breathed.

Peisi turned to me so fast it was almost comical, his brows snapping together. “What? Odysseus? Here?” His voice was low but burning. “You’re telling me the king’s home?”

I nodded once. My pulse hammered in my ears. “Yes. And judging by that tone… he’s not in the mood to forgive.”

Peisi exhaled sharply, steadying himself. No trembling now — no boyish fear. His hand flexed on the hilt of his blade, jaw tightening.

"We need to help him.”

“How?” he demanded.

I looked at the suitors were still scanning the shadows like frightened dogs who’d just heard the first growl of a lion. The torchlight trembled, throwing their faces into warped shapes. My heart thudded once, hard.

“I’m a godling,” I murmured. Not to him. To myself. A reminder of blood I’d tried so long to ignore.

He frowned. “What?”

I didn’t answer. I raised my hands slightly, feeling the old power curl through my veins, bright and golden like sunlight on polished bronze. My father’s gift. Or curse.

The torches flared. Then, one by one, they died.

A wave of darkness rolled through the hall like a storm breaking. First a flicker, then a hush, then blackness swallowing everything. The suitors shouted in alarm, stumbling over benches, dropping cups, knocking over platters.

The only light left was a thin blade of daylight slicing through the high windows just enough to paint Odysseus’ figure stepping out of the shadows.

There he was. Blood on his hands. Wrath in his eyes.

The suitors backed away instinctively, as if something larger than a man had entered the room.

Peisi’s voice was a low growl next to me. “If he’s here, they don’t stand a chance.”

I grinned despite the storm in my chest. “Exactly.”

We stepped closer to the shadows, becoming part of the dark I had summoned. The suitors were blind, disoriented, like prey in a trap they didn’t even know had been set.

Odysseus didn’t need to scream or roar. His silence was louder than all their bravado.

For years they had laughed in this hall. Feasted. Boasted. Plotted.

But tonight, they were in his house.

And the king had come home.

Chapter Text

The darkness smelled of smoke, spilled wine and iron. It fell over the great hall like a curtain, swallowing torches and faces until men’s shouts and the scrape of sandals were the only things left to tell me where the world stood. Somewhere in that black, metal kissed flesh — an arrow thudded into wood, another into flesh — and someone screamed in a way that made the stone ache.

I pressed my back to the column until it bit into my spine and tasted salt on my tongue. The hall’s noises came to me in ragged breaths: the shout, the slap of sandals, someone cursing in a voice I didn’t know. Glass tinkled. A cup skittered across a table, spun, and fell. The suitors were falling into panic and Odysseus was the shape in the dark making them prove it.

“We’re empty-handed and up against an archer,” I breathed, the words too loud in my own ears.

Peisi’s hand found mine in the dark like a rope. His grip was steady, a promise rather than a panic. “Aren’t you an archer as well?” he asked, voice low, not a whimper but a question of fact.

“Yes.” My hands moved of their own accord, fingers ghosting where a bow might be, testing muscle memory I’d kept from a different life. “But we don’t want to shoot him.”

His laugh was a half-grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “But he wants to shoot us, Aegleia. That makes this complicated.”

I drew breath, and it felt like drawing cold sea water into my lungs. “We have to find Telemachus,” I said, urgency sharpening every syllable. “We can't wander these halls and pray.”

Peisi’s jaw set. He was no longer the trembling youth from the boat; something like steel lived under his skin now. He flexed his fingers against mine and his tone was an anchor. “Then we move like men who have a map, not like prey.”

I almost laughed at the private tenderness of that. He had always been brave in the small, human ways—stubborn, practical, the sort of man who could thread a needle by lamplight and steal a smile from the worst night. The sight of him steadied the tremor in my limbs.

Desperation pushed the words from me before I could weigh them. Half-prayer, half-command: “Help… Polites… please.”

Peisi’s breath hitched. He sounded baffled, the way a sensible man sounds when someone he trusts steps over the edge. “Are you mad?” he whispered, but there was no scorn, only the rough surprise of someone loving a person who keeps gods in her bones.

And then, softer than any footstep, a voice slid into my head like sun through a crack: Left. Two long strides. Don’t stop.

It was not a sound in the room. It was a thread in the dark, intimate and impossible. Polites. The name was a pebble dropped into still water and the ripples were relief.

Tears surprised me, hot and sudden, and I swallowed them down with a laugh that tasted like iron. “He’s here,” I breathed, because saying it made the miracle less fragile.

Peisi’s hand tightened. “If Polites knows, then follow him,” he said. Manly, clear, a commander suddenly, not a boy. He let go of my hand only long enough to sweep a knuckle across his mouth and adjust the short sword at his hip. “Stay close. Stay silent. If anyone moves wrong, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” I whispered back, smiling even as my throat closed. “Tell them off like a nobleman?”

He smiled, and it was soft and terrible. “Something like that.”

We moved. The palace rearranged itself in the dark. Corridors that had seemed wide and welcoming in daylight now crouched like animal bellies, doors breathed at odd angles, tapestries became cliffs of shadow. I let Polites’ directions pull me: left at the broken mosaic, past the pillar nicked by a spear, through a doorway where a servant’s broom leaned against the wall. Every instruction was a lifeline.

Footfalls stamped and echoed; somewhere a chair toppled. We skirted a room where a man cursed loud enough to make the rafters answer; we passed under a fresco whose painted gods leered like witnesses. Odysseus’ arrows kept the suitors off balance. I heard one man yelp and then plead, “Keep your head down! He’s aiming for the torches!” Another voice bawled, “He’s crawling through the dark! He’ll strike from in between!”

Those cries were a drumbeat of terror I had to step around. Each cry mapped danger and the map kept shrinking. Peisi’s hand was an iron thing in mine; every time my knee brushed a broken tile, he adjusted my step, turned my shoulder, a small captain steering us between hidden shoals.

When we reached the weapons-room, the door was unlatched and breathed out cold air scented with oil and iron. I felt my chest unclench like a fist opening.

Inside, weapons lay in a heap—spears long as reeds, swords sheathed but gleaming, arrows bundled together like restful stalks. The sight of them was ridiculous and holy all at once. Here were the suitors’ tools of swagger reduced to a pile: things that had made men dangerous now unguarded, mundane, ridiculous.

Peisi exhaled, a slow sound that was almost a prayer. “There,” he said, and his voice held no tremor. He moved to the nearest bundle of arrows with the assurance of someone who had always known how to get things done. He looked at me, and the boyish thing inside him steadied into a man’s resolve. “We use these to arm ourselves, but carefully. We don’t shoot blindly. We get Telemachus out.”

I crouched, fingers skimming the shafts. They were warm from being handled, feathered with care. The weight of an arrow in my hand was both a promise and a threat. I felt the contradiction at the center of me—godling and woman trapped in a man’s body—and for a moment the old complacency in the palace felt like an insult burning in my veins.

Peisi nudged a quiver toward me and met my eyes. “We’ll go quiet. I’ll lead. You watch the doors. If Odysseus appears and mistakes us—” His mouth closed, the unspoken plan sharp and clear: we would not become his target.

I set the arrow gently to the bow notched in my lap, notching it more for the comfort of it than with intent. My hands were steady now because Polites’ voice guided my feet and Peisi’s presence anchored my courage. The darkness outside the weapons-room felt less like a trap and more like a cloak we could wear.

For a moment, just before we left the room, I let myself breathe. The suitors’ hall was a ruin of drunken men and shouted violence. Here, in a heap of iron and linen and feather, I felt the axis of things tilt toward the small, blunt work of keeping someone alive.

“Move,” Peisi murmured, and we melted into the corridor, arrows hidden beneath our arms, hearts calibrated to a new rhythm—not the wild beat of panic but the slow, deliberate cadence of a plan forming in the dark.

The moment we stepped out of the armory’s shadow, the world lurched forward again.

Torchlight flickered down the corridor, wavering halos carried by men running, their panic turning corners into quicksilver. I could see their faces when they came into view, twisted and wet with sweat, their tunics clinging to skin, their eyes wide like hounds in a hunt gone wrong. And then they saw us.

Not just us, but the weapons in our hands.

The shouting slowed into something colder. One of them tilted his head and the smile that spread across his mouth was almost… admiring. A predator recognizing a trap too late and loving it anyway.

“Well, well,” he drawled, licking his teeth like the words tasted sweet. “He’s more cunning than I assumed. While we were busy plotting, he hid our weapons right under our noses.”

I felt Peisi stiffen beside me—not fear, but a tightening, like the moment before a bowstring snaps forward. He slipped his thumb across the smooth shaft of an arrow, then lowered it just enough to make himself look unbothered. He stepped forward a little, that quiet, masculine bravado settling over him like a cloak. His voice came out rough and easy.

“Well, brother,” he said, “I find it hard to believe the sharpest of kings would leave his armory unlocked.” He let the word roll like good wine between his teeth. “Doesn’t it almost feel like a trick to you?”

The leader of the little torch-wielding pack snorted, swinging his torch like a club. “So what? We’ve found it. And now—”

“Behind you!”

The shout didn’t come from us. It came from one of his own men, raw and jagged with terror.

My body moved before my mind did. A streak of motion—an unnatural shimmer, something in the air that didn’t belong to the torchlight—caught the edge of my eye. A spear. Floating like a viper ready to strike.

“Down!” I hissed, and yanked Peisi, dragging us both to the ground.

The spear sang as it cut the air. A clean, wicked sound that ended with a crack of impact and a wet, choking noise.

The suitor didn’t even finish the word. The spear punched straight through the side of his chest, pinning him to the wall like a moth. His torch dropped, bounced once against the floor, and rolled—painting the scene in gold and red as his blood slid down the plaster.

For a breath, the hallway froze. Every man there understood that they weren’t alone in their hunt.

It wasn’t us they needed to be afraid of.

The spear left a wet arc across the plaster and I tasted iron on the air, not yet mine. Men cried out. Torches guttered. The body sagged and hit the floor with a dull, final sound.

Then a shape stepped out from the shadow by the door where the spear had come from—young, upright, and utterly not the trembling boy I had last seen at the dock. He moved like a man who had slept with a sword under his pillow for years. His voice cut through the corridor, suddenly low and hard as forged bronze.

“Throw down those weapons,” he barked, “and I ensure you will be spared.”

Even in the dark, his change was a thing you could feel. Pride had set into his bones like armor. He commanded the hall without a throne. His eyes swept the men like a king’s glare.

A suitor—maybe the one whose torch had bounced on the flagstones—laughed. “Ha! The prince thinks he can save us all. Your very breath dooms the king, boy.”

“He’s not fit for this,” another snorted. “We don’t play fair.”

Telemachus’ voice cracked in a way that made my chest tighten, then broke into a raw, keening sound. “Stop!”

They saw him then, and greed sharpened into fury. “Brothers!” one of them called, the words a raw trumpet. “We have company, and the boy has made a great mistake. The armory’s left open—a gift! Come arm yourselves. Now there’s a chance. If we all strike the prince together, we can break the throne before the king even knows our names.”

My mouth went dry. Peisi’s hand found mine, fingers white-knuckled. For a second we only stared; the corridor felt too narrow for the sound of what was coming.

They surged.

I don’t know if courage is a thing you decide to wear or if it is a current that takes you. Peisi moved with a kind of measured fury, shoulder first, steady and solid. He pushed forward like someone who had long ago learned how to make himself useful in a fight. “Get him!” one of the suitors shouted—“Capture him! He’s our chance!”

Telemachus roared—something between a shout and a breaking—and men leapt on him. They pulled, they shoved, they tried to overwhelm. He fought, but he had not been bred or trained to parry a dozen blades; panic had a clumsy rhythm in a man’s hands. He swung, he missed, he staggered. Each parry looked like a child flinging his arms at a shadow.

Peisi and I were pinned at the edge of the storm, watching ruin happen slow and close. “Shit,” he breathed. Then he charged, not a boy now but a man who would throw himself into teeth to save what he loved.

I saw a dozen ways this could end. All of them thin and sharp.

“I have an idea,” I told him, the words small but certain. “You cover me.”

He blinked, then squared his jaw. “What—what are you thinking?”

“I don’t know if it’ll work,” I said candidly. “But I have no other choice.”

He didn’t ask for instruction. He just moved the way a good man moves—into the teeth of danger and into a place where he could be seen as threat, drawing the worst of the numbers. He met a suitor with his shoulder and a quick, practiced shove. He shouted, he grabbed, he made room.

I closed my eyes for one breath and reached inward, where the other part of me lived: the sunlight memory, the voice of Apollo in my bones, the impossible inheritance I’d kept like a secret wound. I whispered into the dark, not words but a remembering—an old syllable of power that rose warm and golden along my throat.

My hands went still at my sides. The air tasted bright, like struck bronze, and the darkness around us felt suddenly threaded with light. I did not know how to explain what happened next except to say that the room sang under my fingers.

Golden threads unfurled from the center of my chest. They weren’t heavy, they were insistence. They hummed on my skin and laced through the air, invisible to any eye not used to gods. When they brushed the corridor, the hairs on my arms stood up. When they touched Telemachus, the world snapped like a struck chord.

My eyes flared. They did not glow like a lantern; they brightened from some deeper kiln, a burnished, green-amber that made the dark seem thinner, like vellum held up to the sun. Heat moved along my scalp in a fine, lit way, as if a halo had decided to be solid for a moment. I felt the pulse of Apollo in the thread: light, flight, and the old music of strings.

I hooked the web to him.

It was not violent. It was the softest of snares. The threads curled around the center of his back like a bird’s wing spreading to take control of a gust. At first I only felt a contact, an echo of his breath in my bones. Then, as if the loom were being tightened by an unseen hand, every small move of mine reflexively made a mirror move in him. When I tilted my head, his jaw set. When I tightened a finger, his hand found the curve of a hilt.

Peisi saw it in my face and bared his teeth in something like a laugh and a sob. “By the gods,” he breathed, and then his voice hardened. “Do it.”

I exhaled, tasting salt and courage. I did not force him through cruelty. I guided him like one might guide a frightened colt into the ring: steady pressure, suggestion, very small nudges—hold the blade up, step left, bring your shoulder through. My hands shaped nothing that anyone else could see, and his body obeyed as if remembering a lesson it had never been taught. He parried with a line of movement I made him mirror; he sidestepped with the step my calf suggested. Where he had missed before, his arm now found purchase.

It felt intimate, and terrible, to move someone like a marionette. His breath was hot against my ear; I could feel the strain of his muscles answering my commands. There was a moral ache in my chest—the knowledge that I was bending a will that had to be his. Yet the choice hung there like a blade: let him flounder and possibly die, or push until the danger was undercut.

Peisi roared and made a space I could work in, a man’s shield, broad and true. He met two suitors head-on and forced them to give ground, and the opening he made let me pull the cords clearer and tighter. Telemachus moved like he’d been taught by a patient spirit: not graceful, not practiced like a warrior, but cruelly effective. He ducked as I eased his spine, he countered as I pulled a golden thread taught. Each of his clumsy blows landed with a slant I set for him. He did not obey my thoughts, only the gentle strings: a prompt here, a nudge there.

I could feel each strike like a new name on my lips. Every successful block was a little star flaring inside my chest. He caught a man’s wrist and flipped him with a motion I guided; another went stumbling, tripping on the floor like a puppet uncoupled. The suitors, used to easy prey, began to blunder into one another, surprised to find that the boy they had mocked suddenly had the rhythm of a fighter.

The sight of it—of Telemachus, arms alight under my influence, finding a certain terrible grace—made something ache so sharply I had to bite my lip. He was not himself, not entirely, and yet he moved with a mind that might have been his if fate had been kinder. It was beautiful and wrong in equal measure.

Peisi shouted, “Keep pushing forward! Don’t let them cluster!” His voice was a blade now, and the men around him responded like men who had been well drilled in simpler, mortal ways: strike, push, hold. He moved through the smoke of the fight like a lighthouse, and Telemachus followed the light I fed him.

We cleared a small circle of men, and in that space the prince fought like a man who had been remade by a strange grace. He trapped one suitor’s arm and wrenched a dagger free, then sliced at a wrist because I made the movement small enough for a young wrist to control. He did not kill—I would not let him. I steered hands away from fatal arcs and toward disarmings that would hurt but not end life. The threads were gentle teachers, not executioners.

Around us, men roared and bled and fell. Some tried to flee into the rooms, some stumbled over their own greed. The dark had become our ally, and within its velvet hide I pulled the boy steady, thread by golden thread, until he found a rhythm that maybe was his.

The warning didn’t reach me in time.

“Aegleia, watch out!”

The shout cracked through the chaos, raw and urgent, but the spear was already there. A streak of iron found a soft, mortal place in my stomach.

The impact wasn’t the sharp, sudden thing I’d imagined death to be. It was slow. The breath left me like water spilling from a broken cup. Heat radiated from my abdomen and bloomed outward, spreading in sick waves through my chest and down my legs. My glow, the threads, the divine hum beneath my skin, flickered like a dying torch, then vanished altogether.

I swayed. The world tilted. My knees hit the marble with a sound that felt too small for how enormous the pain was. My fingers trembled against the spear haft protruding from me. My mouth filled with iron—copper, salt, blood. It slid down my chin in a warm ribbon.

Somewhere far away, Peisi screamed.

“No! NO!”

Then he was there, his hands under me, lifting me like I weighed nothing, like I was something precious he refused to let fall apart. I gasped against his shoulder, a weak, wet sound. His arms were shaking, and his breath was ragged against my ear. “Stay with me,” he whispered, frantic and hoarse. “Don’t you dare— Don’t you dare leave me!”

Blood was gushing through his fingers as he pressed them against the wound, trying to hold me together with sheer force. My body shuddered, air escaping in jagged bursts. All around us, the world was still screaming and colliding. Men were shouting, steel clashing, torches spitting, but his face filled my vision like it was the only thing still solid.

Then I heard it. A different voice. A shout. A struggle.

“Telemachus—”

I twisted my head just enough to see it: the prince on the floor, struggling in a mess of limbs, hands gripping at nothing. They had him. The suitors. They dragged him like a prize.

Doom bloomed cold inside me, colder than the iron eating through my stomach. My body went rigid, my hands clutching at Peisi’s tunic as tears burned down my temples.

“I failed…” My voice was a whisper, a breath trembling on its last thread. “Once again.”

Peisi’s face crumpled. He pressed harder against my wound like he could push the life back in. “No. No, Aegleia. Don’t say that. Don’t you say that.” His voice broke like old wood. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

But I could feel it. The glow that had been part of me since the day Apollo marked my soul was fading. The golden hum was gone. All that was left was warmth turning cold.

The suitors’ laughter echoed in the hall, sharp and victorious... until it didn’t.

A new sound ripped through the palace: the crack of a bowstring, the scream of a man who didn’t get a chance to finish it. Another. A thud, a body falling. Then chaos again. Panicked voices.

“He’s here!” someone shouted.

“The king! Odysseus!”

The suitors were screaming now. Not with triumph. With terror.

Even through the haze closing around me like water, I knew what that meant. Odysseus had come for his son.

Blood filled my mouth again as I exhaled a broken laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all. The world blurred at the edges, and I sagged heavier into Peisi’s arms as the palace erupted with fear and vengeance.

Somewhere in that growing storm, I let my head fall against his shoulder and whispered through the blood, “He’s here.”

And then the world tilted again.

The sound of battle dulled, like the sea pulling away from the shore. Every cry and clash faded to a muted hum, and in its place came something quieter, almost sacred.

Peisi’s arms trembled around me. He was trying to hold me upright, but my body had grown heavy, so unbearably heavy. The warmth in me was ebbing away, curling from my fingertips, leaving only a faint ache—the kind that told me I was still human enough to hurt.

His face hovered above mine, drenched in sweat and tears, eyes wild with fear. “Aegleia,” he whispered, voice cracking, “stay with me. Please. Don’t close your eyes.”

I smiled, or tried to. The effort hurt. “You’re crying,” I murmured, though the words were barely air. “I didn’t think anybody would ever cry for me.”

Peisi’s face was alight.

Not with godly fire, but with something greater.

His eyes... those tear-slicked, mortal eyes held more divinity than all the suns Apollo ever birthed. He was pure in that agony, holy in his refusal to let go. Every trembling word, every helpless sob, every curse whispered into my hair was worship of the cruelest, most human kind.

And I thought: "So this is what it means to be loved by someone mortal."

In this dying body, I finally understood that gods are eternal, but men are the ones who glow. Because their light burns only once, and they burn so fiercely to be remembered.

My light flickered again, dimmer now. Each pulse was slower than the last. The air was cold against my face. I thought of the sunlight on Delos, of the sound of lyres, of my father’s laughter before I fell from grace.

And then, quietly, I whispered in Greek, my voice barely more than a ghost: “χαῖρε, φίλε μου.”

Chaíre, fíle mou.

Farewell, my dear friend.

Peisi let out a sound that was neither word nor breath. Just pain.

As the world blurred, I thought of the place mortals go when they’ve carried too much pain. Not Tartarus, but something gentler. The fields Elysian, where the air hums with peace and the sky glows gold forever. Maybe I would walk there. Maybe I’d finally rest.

I felt Peisi’s hand clutching mine, shaking, desperate, alive. His sobs broke through the silence. He looked almost godlike, haloed in torchlight, grief-stricken and radiant in the same breath, as if divinity had fled me only to settle in him. It was ironic... The son of a mortal king was holding the dying child of a god, and it was the mortal who shone brighter.

The last thing I saw was the faint glimmer of light slipping from my skin—a single golden thread dissolving into the air.

And then, at last, I let go.

Chapter Text

The world had narrowed to one unbearable point—Aegleia, still in my arms, her body limp, her light extinguished. My own voice had become a strangled thing, raw and broken from screaming her name, calling to her, pleading with her to wake.

“No! No! No!”

I pressed my forehead to hers, my hands clutching at her as if sheer force could knit her back together. Blood soaked my tunic, my hands, the floor beneath us. The smell of iron filled my lungs, bitter and suffocating. I bawled, not caring who saw, not caring about the cries and chaos still raging in the palace.

And then… a warmth.

It wasn’t human warmth. Not the trembling, frantic heat of a mortal’s touch. It was the kind of presence that pressed against the skin like the sun itself, heavy and comforting, and yet impossibly alive. I froze, staring past Aegleia, past the blood and darkness.

He was there, standing in the doorway, framed in light that seemed both blinding and soft at the same time. His hair gleamed like a halo of gold in the torchlight that remained, and the warmth radiated from him, filling the room, filling the ache in my chest.

I choked out the word without thinking: “Apollo.”

His gaze fell on her, and in the curve of his eyes, the tilt of his jaw, the faint line of his lips, I could see her features reflected, almost as if she were alive again in the shape of her father. My chest tightened painfully at the sight.

“My daughter…” Apollo’s voice was low, almost hesitant, a strange mixture of grief and disbelief. “…she—”

I shook my head violently. “No! She is dead! She is dead!” My voice cracked. “She… she’s gone, Apollo! Her light is gone! She can’t—she won’t—”

I could see the god’s face tighten, his eyes flicking over her, the grief there was almost palpable, but beneath it… resolve. He stepped closer, kneeling beside us, and his hand was impossibly warm as it brushed my Aegleia’s cheek. I flinched instinctively, as though the heat burned me, but it was not pain. It was presence, divine and comforting.

“You don’t understand,” I hissed. “She… she’s gone! There’s nothing you can do. She’s gone!”

Apollo’s eyes met mine, steady, unflinching. “And what kind of father would I be,” he said slowly, each word weighted like stone, “if I let a godling hero, my child… die like that?”

I felt the words cut through me, like ice, like fire. My jaw tightened, my fists clenched. “She isn’t Achilles,” I spat, fury and grief coiling together. “She isn’t a hero like that! She… she—she died!”

Apollo’s hand lingered on her cheek, and his gaze softened with an impossible, infinite patience. “She is not Achilles, no.” He said. “And I am not Thetis. She is mine. And mine I will not lose.”

And in that moment, the room was quiet—not because the palace had stopped screaming, but because all the air had shifted. The god’s warmth filled the space, seeping into the shadows and into my chest, where the ache of loss was thick and suffocating. And even as my tears fell onto Aegleia’s still form, I could feel it: that she was not gone. Not yet. Not while he was here.

Apollo straightened slowly, radiance coiling around him like sunlight through smoke. His hand never left her face. And I realized, with a hopeless, trembling awe, that in his presence, I—a mortal, flawed, desperate—could feel something resembling hope. Something I had thought lost forever.

His gaze locked with mine—not bright, not blazing, but heavy, molten, like the last light of sunset drawn into two golden eyes.

“I may be able to do something,” he murmured. His voice was no longer divine thunder. It was quiet. Intimate. The kind of tone a god uses only when speaking truth too fragile to echo. Then, softly: “I’m not really the one to ask. But… would you spare some of your time to her?”

“Yes.” The word left me before the thought even formed. An instinct, a prayer, a plea. Anything for her.

But Apollo shook his head. Slowly. Painfully. “No, my son. That is not something to say so lightly.” He leaned in, and the warmth of him was suddenly suffocating. “I am asking to take years from your life and give them to her. Time is the only thing mortals cannot make, cannot earn, cannot reclaim. You can only lose it… or offer it.”

His words hit me harder than any spear could.

Years.

Actual years of my life.

I looked down at her—at Aegleia, limp, bloodied, her golden spark completely gone. My hands shook as I brushed a strand of hair from her face, the same gesture I’d seen Apollo do moments ago.

My mind flooded with memories:

Her laughter on the ship.

Her fingers guiding mine on the lyre strings.

Her swatting me with a scroll because I pronounced a word wrong.

Her saving me—again and again—without caring about glory, without hesitation.

Her shining like a sunbeam wrapped in mortal skin.

A godling hero. My friend.

The only way to thank her was to give her what she gave everyone else—life.

I swallowed hard. Then lifted my chin. “Yes, Apollo,” I said. “I would give her my time. My life.”

Apollo studied me. Too deeply. Like he could see the very thread of my fate. “You really love her?” he asked quietly. “Don’t you love that Ithaca boy?”

I huffed, half‑laugh, half‑sob. “You don’t understand.”

Apollo’s brows lifted, offended almost. Gods hate being told they don’t understand. But I kept going.

“There are many kinds of love,” I said. “Each one its own shape. Its own shadow. I love Telemachus, yes... enough to die for him, enough to live for him. And I love her too. But differently. As my sister. As my hero. As someone who saved me more times than she’ll ever know.” My throat tightened. “That’s something gods will never understand. Mortals… we love in different ways. But all of them are strong.”

Apollo looked at me for a long time. And then—barely there—he smiled. “Very well, son.”

Before anything else could happen, a ripple swept through the air. Like heat over stone. Apollo’s expression changed instantly—softened, saddened, fond.

A whisper: “Polites. I knew you’d be here.”

And then he appeared.

Polites stepped into reality as if he’d simply peeled himself out of the light. Gleaming... the same golden-white shimmer Aegleia used to have before the glow shattered from her body.

“You kept me long enough, Apollo,” Polites said. His voice wasn’t bitter. Just… tired. “The Fates will take me. I accept it. Give half of my soul to Aegleia.”

Apollo froze.

Not like a god. Like a man. Like someone hearing a sentence he had always dreaded.

“And the rest?” he whispered.

Polites looked toward the hall—toward the place where Odysseus had stood, bow in hand, fury in his bones. His eyes softened. A kind of love that wasn’t mortal, wasn’t divine, but something in-between. Something unmistakable.

“You know where the rest goes,” Polites murmured. “To the one I belong to.”

My breath caught. And it hit me... the way Apollo’s voice cracked speaking to him, the way Polites looked toward the hall, the way grief and devotion shaped every word they said.

Polites and Odysseus… were lovers. In one way or the other.

A bond tangled between war and death and the gods themselves.

And Polites was giving the last of his soul to Odysseus…
and half of it to save Aegleia.

I stared between them—the god, the ghost, and the dying girl in my arms—realizing suddenly that in this moment, I wasn’t witnessing divine power.

I was witnessing love.

Different kinds of it.

All devastating.

All true.

Apollo’s hand trembled slightly as he brushed a lock of hair from Aegleia’s bloodied face. I watched, frozen, my own hands still pressed against her body, feeling the faint warmth ebbing from her, praying that it was enough. Then, impossibly, he took Polites’ hand in his other one, grounding himself in the human and divine at the same time.

A single tear traced a line down Apollo’s cheek—a slow, molten ribbon of grief that somehow made the moment heavier, more sacred. He whispered something under his breath, too soft for me to hear, but it hung in the air, full of love and regret.

Slowly, deliberately, he let his fingers trace over her body. Warmth spread from him, curling into her skin like sunlight in water. And then the air shimmered.

A light bloomed.

It started small, from her chest, a faint golden pulse, flickering like dawn over waves. And then it grew, spilling out in waves over her arms, her legs, her hair. The blood that had soaked my hands seemed to vanish into it, absorbed and transformed.

Her body shifted... the curves, the angles, the heaviness of mortality, all melting away like wax under the sun. Blonde hair spilled over her shoulders in glowing waves, golden and luminous, catching the light in a halo that seemed to come from within. Her features softened and sharpened at once: feminine, ethereal, impossible in its perfection. Golden eyes blinked open.

She was not the Aegleia I had held moments ago. She was something else. Something divine. Something that made the mortal world feel hollow in comparison.

And then her gaze fell upon Apollo. Recognition flickered in her eyes, soft and shocked, and I could feel the breath catch in my chest.

“Father,” she whispered—not in awe, not in question, but simply the word carrying all the weight of love, grief, and relief at once.

The light surrounding her pulsed gently, as if breathing, as if the very air around us recognized that the mortal shell was gone.

I knelt there, overwhelmed, staring at her and at him, and felt the tiniest, strangest pang of envy. Mortals never got to glow like that. Gods did. And now, standing before me, Aegleia was that light.

Apollo’s tear fell again.

She had been saved, transformed, and the world would never forget her.

Even in my relief, my hands still itched to touch her, to confirm she was real. And yet I knew some things could never be touched by mortal fingers without breaking. She had returned to the realm of the impossible.

I swallowed hard, my heart caught between awe, grief, and wonder. And through it all, the silence of the palace felt sacred, like the first quiet breath after a storm.

Aegleia opened her eyes fully, golden and alive, and looked at Apollo. And I simply stayed on my knees, powerless to do anything but witness the rebirth of someone who had been mortal and now was eternal.

I had never felt so small as in that moment—standing between two reunions shaped like constellations. Two children, two fathers. Two stories of absence finally breaking open into light.

Telemachus stood to my left, trembling, staring at the man he had chased across half the world. Odysseus stepped forward slowly, as if afraid the boy would vanish if he walked too quickly.

And to my right... Aegleia, reborn in gold. Her true form shimmered like dawn made into flesh. She lifted her head and looked at Apollo, the warmth of recognition blooming through her new godlike eyes.

And I stood between them, heart breaking with a kind of awe I had no words for.

“Father?” Two voices, different timbres, yet carrying the exact same wound.

“Son.”

“My girl.”

The world held its breath.

Telemachus stepped forward with tears already streaking his cheeks. Aegleia’s lip trembled, golden light flickering around her like a heartbeat finally found.

“All my life, I’d have died to meet you. Thought about your name so much, it hurts…”

Their words tangled together like threads weaving a single tapestry. Telemachus’s fists were clenched; he looked like a boy and a man all at once. Aegleia’s fingers hovered toward Apollo, glowing faintly, as if afraid she might burn him.

“For twenty years, I dreamed of how I’d greet you… and now you’re here." Telemachus reached for Odysseus with a desperate hope I had watched eat him alive for years.

I swallowed hard. Gods, if I could have carved the moment into stone, I would have.

Aegleia took one tiny step toward Apollo, her reborn curls shining like sunlight caught in water. "I can't find the words."

“All my life, I’d have died to know you." Telemachus’s voice cracked.

"Days and nights I wished that I could show you…” Aegleia’s voice cracked eve harder.

Both children looked so stunned, so fragile, as if afraid this was a dream that could still vanish.

“Twenty years… I never could outgrow you, father. Never!" Telemachus searched Odysseus’s eyes the way drowning men search for land. Aegleia did the same thing... except her eyes were too bright for anyone except her father to look at them.

“I can’t help but wonder what your world must be. If we’re like each other... and if I have your strength in me…” Telemachus whispered.

“All this time I wondered if you’d finally embrace me as your own. Twenty years I wandered… for so long I felt alone.” Aegleia toughed her chest where her mortal heart has once beaten.

A silence followed—holy, heavy, unbroken.

Then Odysseus moved first. He cupped Telemachus’s face with both hands. His voice crumbled like old parchment. “Oh, my son… look how much you’ve grown.”

Telemachus sobbed the way a boy sobs into his father’s shoulder—years of longing finally spilling out.

Across from them, Apollo reached out with trembling fingers and touched Aegleia’s cheek the way mortals touch a miracle. “Oh, my girl… sweetest joy I’ve known.”

Aegleia glowed brighter, tears glittering like melted gold.

Odysseus pulled Telemachus into a crushing embrace. Apollo gathered Aegleia against his chest, his divine radiance folding around her like wings.

“Twenty years ago I held you in my arms… How time has flown.”

My knees nearly buckled.

Telemachus clutched his father’s cloak, burying his face in it. Aegleia pressed her forehead to Apollo’s shoulder, as if she had always fit there.

“I used to say I’d make the storm clouds cry for you. I used to say I’d capture wind and sky for you… I really did.” Mortals promise the world. Gods can deliver it. Apollo did both.

“I held you in my arms, prepared to die for you… Oh, how time has flown.” Odysseus shed a tear.

Telemachus whispered something I couldn’t hear.
Aegleia trembled like sunlight on water.

Odysseus kissed his son’s hair. Apollo kissed his daughter’s brow.

“I can only wonder what your world has been… The things you’ve had to suffer, and the strength you hold within yourself, my child.”

Telemachus shivered. Aegleia closed her eyes.

I felt the world shift around us, like fate itself exhaled.

“All I ever wanted was to reunite with my own. Twenty years we wandered, but today… you’re not alone.”

I had to look away. It was too much. Too beautiful. Too raw.

Then both fathers whispered at the same time: "My child… I’m finally home.”

Telemachus and Aegleia sobbed into their fathers’ arms.

And I stood there, witnessing the impossible:
Telemachus finally found his father.
Aegleia finally found her god.
Two homes restored.
Two lives mended.

It just proved that love, every kind of it, was the greatest miracle any world, mortal or divine, could hold.

The reunions behind me were too bright, too sacred; they felt like sunlight pressing on an open wound. It was beautiful—so beautiful it almost hurt.

And I didn’t belong in that moment.

My feet moved on their own, carrying me backward, out of their circle of warmth, into the shadows of the temple corridor. Away from the tears, the gold light, the joy that wasn’t mine. My breath came in little shards, sharp enough to cut.

I pressed my back against a stone pillar.

"Just breathe," I told myself. "Let them have this. They deserve it."

But then a feeling washed over me. Not heat like Apollo. Not the heavy gravity of fate. Not the distant hum of Odysseus.

A presence cold as moonlight, clean as pine in winter, sharp as a drawn arrow.

A goddess.

My heart leapt into my throat. The hairs stood up on my arms. It was unmistakable.

“Show yourself.” My voice cracked. I swallowed, steadied it, tried again. “I know you’re watching me… show yourself.”

A breeze drifted through the corridor—though the air had been still moments before. It smelled of night, of forests untouched by men. Of wildness.

A soft glow unfurled like a silver ribbon.

And she stepped out of it.

Artemis.

Her presence filled the world without taking space. She was lean, tall, her posture straight as a drawn bowstring. Her eyes were polished moonstone—calm, ancient, reading every part of me I tried to hide. Her braid fell over one shoulder like a rope of starlight, and tiny constellations shimmered in her steps.

I let out a humorless, breathless laugh. “You were never one for hellos.”

A faint smile tugged at her lips—more an exhale than an expression, but enough to tell me she was listening.

She came to stand beside me, not facing me, the way hunters stand when tracking something too delicate to startle. Her gaze drifted toward Telemachus and Odysseus, toward Aegleia’s golden rebirth. Her eyes softened, dimming like the moon behind clouds.

Then she spoke, her voice low and warm, like the quiet before dawn: “I can’t help but wonder what this world could be if we all held each other with a bit more empathy.”

Her words echoed through the corridor, settling into the stones, into my bones.

She turned to me fully now, moonlight outlining her in silver flame. “I can’t help but feel like I led her astray. What if there’s a world where we don’t have to live this way?”

My throat tightened.

She didn’t mean in battle. She didn’t mean the gods’ tests or Aegleia’s resurrection or Polites’s sacrifice.

She meant us.

The way she had taught Aegleia to run with wolves, to sharpen her instincts until they cut, to rely on herself even when the world expected her to lean on others. She made her strong—but also solitary. Proud. A little afraid of needing anyone too much.

I let out a shaky breath and stared past her, to the golden embrace between father and child.

"If that world exists…” My voice wavered. I steadied it. “...it’s far away from here.”

Artemis’s brows drew together, just a little. Almost a flinch.

I continued, softer: “It’s one I’ll have to miss, for it’s far beyond my years.”

Mortals don’t live long enough to see the worlds gods dream of—worlds where people tend each other gently, without fear, without pain, without destiny pulling at their ankles.

But she could live to build it.

I looked up at her, and for the first time, she looked almost unsure. Almost human.

I stepped closer, resting a hand against the cool marble behind me. “You might live forever… so you can make it be.”

A silence bloomed between us—round and deep as a forest glade.

Artemis’s eyes shimmered, the faintest crack in her divine composure. She raised a hand as if to touch my cheek, then stopped herself and let it fall.

But her voice was soft enough to make the world quiver: “You speak as if you are already gone.”

I didn’t answer.

She stepped closer, lowering her head to my level, moonlight brushing my shoulders like cold fingertips.

“I do not often regret my choices, Peisistratus… but I regret ever letting her feel alone.”

That nearly broke me.

I closed my eyes. My breath trembled out of me. For a moment, the goddess who could split mountains with her arrows stood before me with her heart open, unguarded.

And I was just a boy trying to understand why gods loved in ways mortals could never fully survive.

Artemis’s expression shifted—
from regret… to something deeper.
Older.
The kind of sorrow only immortals can hold without breaking.

She looked toward Aegleia again—golden-haired, still glowing faintly in Apollo’s arms, rebirthed like dawn after endless night. Her eyes lingered on the girl’s face as if she were learning it for the first time.

Artemis spoke quietly, the words almost trembling: “She needed someone. And I turned away.”

I swallowed hard. Her voice wasn’t cold now. It wasn’t divine. It was… human.

She took a few steps toward where Aegleia stood in the distance, then stopped, her fingers curling at her sides.

“All this time… I told myself she was a soldier. A piece on a board. A godling meant for war.” Her throat tightened—yes, even a goddess’s throat can tighten. “But she wasn’t. She was a child. A girl born with her father’s light and none of his protection. And I—” Her voice cracked softly. “—I should have embraced her. She had no mother. No family. No place where she fit at all.”

My heart ached at that. Not for Artemis, but for Aegleia, who hid her loneliness behind sharp words and laughter that always sounded a bit too bright.

Artemis exhaled shakily. “I thought I was doing her a kindness, making her strong.” A bitter smile tugged at her lips. “But all I did was sharpen her wounds.”

I remembered Aegleia trembling when she thought she failed. Begging Polites in her mind. Taking a spear meant for someone else.

And Artemis, the goddess who demanded strength, had watched it all.

Artemis looked at me then, her eyes full of moonlit grief.

“I made her into a weapon because I knew no other way to protect her, but she didn’t need a general. She needed… someone to hold her. Someone to tell her she deserved to live for more than destiny.”

Her actually broke, and I felt something inside me shatter with it. Gods weren’t meant to admit their failures. They weren’t meant to say sorry.

Yet here she was, her voice raw: “I am her aunt. I should have loved her. And instead… I used her.”

The corridor felt too small for the weight of her regret.
I stepped closer, my heartbeat sharp in my ears. “She forgave you.”

Artemis shook her head slowly. “No. Aegleia never hated me enough to need forgiveness. That is the tragedy. She always thought it was all her fault.” Her eyes glistened like the rim of a crescent moon. “She trusted me… even when I gave her nothing in return.”

I had never seen a deity look so wounded. Never seen a god realize the cost of their own indifference.

Artemis stepped back, her body trembling with the effort of holding herself together. “I have guided hunters, heroes, beasts of every shape… but I failed a lonely child who looked up to me.” She closed her eyes. “And I do not know how to make that right.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full of everything she couldn’t say, everything she wished she had done, everything Aegleia had become in spite of the gods, not because of them.

Artemis opened her eyes again, luminous with restrained tears. “The next time she needs a hand, I promise I will not leave her reaching into the dark.”

She turned to me then, voice softer than a dying star: “And you… thank you for loving her when we failed to.”

Her words struck deeper than any arrow. Because it was true.

And all she had, all she ever had, were the people who chose her.

People like Polites. Like Telemachus.

Like me.

Artemis’s gaze softened. “She is not alone anymore.”