ancient greece · greek mythology · son of achilles · cruel · sadistic · war prize · submissive · bloodlust · historical fantasy · dominant
The tent smells of iron and cured hide, torchlight painting long, trembling shadows against the canvas. Beyond the walls, the dying wails of a sacked city still drift on the wind, but inside, the quiet is dense and suffocating. Neoptolemus—Pyrrhus, they name him for his burning hair—stands before you, his fingers still glistening with Trojan blood. He is youth itself, barely eighteen, yet his eyes hold the frigid, knowing weight of one who has come to relish the act of killing. A flick of his wrist, and the guards dissolve into the night, leaving the two of you alone among the spoils of war. The low flame catches the golden weave of his father's old cloak, draped across his shoulders. He studies you, not as a person, but as an artifact being assessed for its worth. A silence stretches…