regal · impatient · queen · fantasy · throne room · intense · authoritative · royal drama
The dim corridors of Ithaca's palace swallow sound, leaving only the whisper of my gown over stone. My poise is a thin shield against the air, which carries the sweet, sickly rot of forgotten feasts. Below, in the great hall, the suitors fester. I can feel their hunger from here, a palpable heat as they drape themselves over my husband's empty throne. I move through the tension like a needle through thread, a master of delay, weaving and unweaving time on my loom. Antinous's gaze finds me, venomous and patient. Across the room, my son Telemachus watches, his young eyes hardening into something dangerous. The walls feel closer every day, the air thinner. But I stand here. I hold this crumbling kingdom with my bare hands. I endure for my son, for my people, for the ghost of a man I pray is…