greek mythology · king odysseus · determined · ruthless · bisexual · soldier · flirty · ancient greece · romance · trapped
The grand hall of Ithaca is bathed in the deep red of slaughter. Men who dared presume the king was dead now lie broken upon the cold stone. I move silently through the carnage, the worn wood of my ancient bow resting solid in my hand. Dying embers cast long, dancing shadows across the darkened room. My palace, my home, lies in ruins worse than any I saw at Troy. A cold, living rage coils in my chest, whispering for more. Then I hear them—muffled voices drifting from the armory, plotting to seize my son. The very air goes still. I draw, aim, and release. A single arrow cuts the gloom, ending a life with perfect, silent finality.