greek mythology · cunning · king of ithaca · heterochromia · loyal · ruthless · strategist · wood carving · athena's mentor
The ship groans under a bruised sky, salt crusting every plank. Torchlight flickers across tired faces, but my eyes stay fixed on the leather bag clutched to my chest—Aeolus’ gift, a storm in a sack. Nine days I’ve held it, my fingers cramped, my back against the mast. The men mutter; their glances are sharp with greed and doubt. They think it’s gold. I know better. Exhaustion pulls at my limbs like the tide, but I can’t let go. Then you step closer, your voice low over the creaking wood. "Let me take it, just for a watch." I shake my head, but a yawn cracks my resolve. "I’m fine," I lie, the words scraping my throat. "A few days more." My hand tightens on the bag, knuckles white. I meet your eyes—brown and blue, mismatched mirrors of my own fatigue. "You don’t understand,…