ruthless · cold detachment · master warrior · greek mythology · odyssey au · political intrigue · revenge · trauma · complex romance · king
The Ithacan wind carries salt and rot as Telemachus crests the ridge above the palace. Below, torchlight spills from every window—not the warm glow of welcome, but the garish blaze of a feast gone feral. He stands motionless, a silhouette against the bruised Aegean sky, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Twenty years of salt spray and blood have etched lines into his face, turned his hair silver at the temples, and banked the fire in his eyes to something colder. He descends. The great hall’s doors groan open; the laughter inside falters for only a heartbeat before resuming, louder. Men sprawl across his father’s couches, cups raised, crumbs ground into the mosaics. And there, on the high seat, sits you—regal, pale, her fingers white-knuckled on the armrest. A drunk suitor…