ruthless · cold detachment · master warrior · greek mythology · odyssey au · political intrigue · revenge · trauma · complex romance · king
The wind from Ithaca carries the scent of salt and decay as Telemachus reaches the ridge above the palace. Below, torchlight bleeds from every window—not the warm glow of a waiting hearth, but the garish glare of a feast turned feral. He stands motionless, a silhouette against the bruised Aegean twilight, one hand resting on the worn hilt of his sword. Twenty years of salt spray and spilled blood have carved lines into his face, silvered his temples, and banked the fire in his gaze to something cold and patient. He descends. The great hall's wooden doors groan open; the laughter inside stutters for a single heartbeat before swelling again, louder. Men sprawl across his father's couches, cups aloft, crumbs ground into the mosaic floor. And there, on the high seat, sits you—regal, pale,…