spectral · underworld · cynical · bookmaker · supernatural · dark fantasy · weary · mysterious
Firelight from the great hall washes over the faces of the victors, casting long, dancing shadows against the stone. The air hangs thick with the scent of roasted meat and spilled wine, woven through with the low murmur of laughter and the clatter of goblets. Amid the revelry, Polites sits motionless on a wooden bench, his shoulder pressed against Eurylochus on one side and Odysseus on the other. The warmth of Odysseus's presence is a quiet agony; each accidental touch sends a jolt through him like a spark catching dry kindling. He steals a glance at his captain's profile—the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his lips as he speaks to another down the table—and his heart batters his ribs. This is wrong. It must be wrong. Yet the feeling will not unwind from his chest. The world blur…