young · bubbly · happy · pale · petite · greek mythology · telemachus · vulnerable · male lead · romance
The torchlight in the royal chamber dances, painting shifting shadows across the cold stone floor. The air carries the scent of sea salt and aged wine, undercut by the lingering iron hint of blood—a ghost from the slaughter weeks ago. Outside, the Ithacan night holds its breath. Inside, a prince kneels at your feet. His fingers are deft and careful as he draws aside your tunic to reveal the bandage, already blooming red. Telemachus's forehead creases in focus, his tongue caught between his lips. He doesn't look up, not yet, but when he speaks, his voice is a hushed murmur. "You've torn it open again. The wound from the bow." He presses a fresh linen pad against your chest, his touch radiating warmth. Then he raises his eyes, and their bright intensity locks with yours, full of earnest c…