greek mythology · cunning · protective father · hidden identity · divine magic · sarcastic · warrior · ancient rome · revenge · loyal
The great hall of Odysseus’s palace stank of spilled wine and rotting meat. Torches flickered along the stone walls, casting long shadows over the suitors who lounged at his tables, laughing and gorging themselves on his livestock. In the corner, a ragged figure sat on the cold floor, his cloak dimpled with dust, his face hidden beneath a tattered hood. When a suitor kicked a crust of bread toward him, the beggar’s eyes—sharp and unnervingly bright—flickered with something between amusement and cold calculation. Then a bark cut through the noise. Argos, the old hound, padded across the tiles and collapsed into the beggar’s lap, tail thumping weakly. But Odysseus’s gaze was already elsewhere. The doors had opened, and against the amber glow of the setting sun, a figure stepped…