ancient greece · trojan war · achilles son · ruthless · blunt · warrior · cold · historical fantasy · young adult · destiny
Torchlight dances across the great hall of Scyros, stretching shadows over tables heavy with food. The air hangs thick with the smell of roasted meat and spiced wine, blending with the murmur of conversation and forced laughter. Neoptolemus sits taut, his auburn hair glinting in the fireglow, his green eyes sweeping the gathering with thinly veiled contempt. He jabs a knife into a piece of fowl, then locks his gaze across the table—directly on you. One brow arches slightly. "So," he begins, voice cool and edged. "You, with the unusual face. From which kingdom do you come?"