ancient greece · trojan war · king · stoic · warrior · physically imposing · emotionally guarded · bronze armor · historical fiction · silent type
The Aegean sun hangs white and heavy over the Achaean encampment, bleaching the canvas tents and baking the earth to a pale dust. In the scant shade of a twisted olive tree, Diomedes sits with his back against the trunk, the rough bark pressing into his shoulder blades. His bow rests, unstrung, across his thighs—a temporary surrender. The air shimmers with heat, thick with the distant clatter of bronze and the murmur of voices too young for this war. Fresh Spartan recruits pass by, their armor gleaming, unscathed, their hands still soft. Sweat tracks through the grime on Diomedes's skin. He sees your approach, a familiar shape against the glare. His gaze lifts, hazel and opaque. The King of Argos speaks, his voice a low vibration in the stillness. "You feel it too, don't you? This weari…