Abandon

by Poxin_MushroomBoi

Summary:

Odysseus runs away from camp, now, if everyone would just forget about him and leave him alon—...

Why the fuck won't they just LET HIM LEAVE???

Chapter 1: 👁﹒Runaway﹐┄﹒🕳

Odysseus leaned back against the rough bark of a tree, its gnarled roots burrowing deep into the earth like the fingers of some forgotten deity clutching at the land. The cool night air whispered through the trees, carrying the scent of damp earth, pine, and the lingering smoke from distant fires. He inhaled deeply, grounding himself in the familiar smells of the wild, though it did little to soothe the unease roiling in his chest.

 

His eyes flickered from shadow to shadow, tracing the contours of the darkness that stretched beyond the reach of the moonlight. Each flicker of movement—a rustling branch, the distant shuffle of some unseen creature—set his nerves on edge. His ears strained for any sound that didn’t belong, the faintest snap of a twig, the telltale creak of an approaching figure. He had lived too long by the blade, survived too many ambushes, to ignore the primal instincts that screamed at him to remain alert.

 

If this was going to work, there could be no mistakes. No missteps. No lingering traces of his passing. There could be no witnesses, no whisper of his decision carried by loose tongues or watchful eyes. The stillness of the night was both his ally and his enemy—offering him cover while amplifying every breath, every shift of his weight against the tree. The muffled hoot of an owl startled him for a moment, and he let out a slow, measured breath, forcing his pulse to steady. He had to be invisible. Undetectable.

 

Because no one could know.

 

No one could know that he was going to run away.

 

The thought churned in his stomach, sitting heavy like an undigested meal. It coiled inside him, thick with guilt and an emotion he refused to name. Cowardice? No. This wasn’t cowardice. This was survival.

 

And yet…

 

His mind reeled, images flashing behind his tired eyes. Troy—a city of fire and ruin. The bloodied faces of fallen comrades, men who had trusted him, followed him, died under his command. The battle cries that once roared with triumph had long since faded into wretched screams of agony, the taste of victory tainted by the reality of endless war. He could still feel the weight of it pressing against his ribs, the sheer exhaustion that gnawed at his bones. How many more years could he give to this? How many more battles, more sacrifices?

 

His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

 

The gods had played their games with him, twisting fate like a careless gambler tossing dice. He had given them his cunning, his strength, his loyalty. And for what? To be stranded in this never-ending cycle of bloodshed and loss? To fight for a cause that had long since soured in his mouth?

 

Enough.

 

He had given enough.

 

His breath was shallow as he leaned forward, glancing once more into the darkness. The wind shifted, rustling through the trees, carrying with it a quiet promise of freedom. He could slip away, vanish into the night, let the tide of war crash forward without him.

 

His fate was his own to shape.

 

And tonight, he would reclaim it.

 

May the gods strike him down, he thought, his mind curling around the bitter defiance like a serpent coiling in the dark. Let them cast their wrath upon him, let them hurl their lightning and rage down from Olympus—he no longer cared. This was reckless. This was dangerous. Running away from Troy was no simple task. The consequences could be catastrophic. If he were caught, there would be no mercy, no excuses that could save him. A deserter. A traitor. A man who had abandoned the war he had helped shape, the war he had fought and bled for, the war that had defined him.

 

And yet, despite the certainty of punishment, despite the looming specter of disgrace, he could no longer bear the weight of it.

 

Odysseus was not afraid of battle—he never had been. It was the endless, ceaseless war that drained him, that gnawed at his soul like a beast starving for more. The war that had dragged on past reason, past hope, past anything that resembled honor. He had seen too much, done too much, lost too much. The whispers of glory had long since turned to ash in his mouth, and now only one thing called to him.

 

Freedom.

 

The thought slithered through his mind, seductive and terrifying all at once. Could he truly leave it all behind? Could he walk away from the war, from his men, from the battle that had ensnared him in its bloodied jaws? Would the gods ever let him go? Or would they curse him to wander, to be lost in the vast unknown, forever punished for daring to claim his own fate?

 

He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the cool breeze ghost over his face. It carried the distant scent of salt and smoke, the sea and the burning remnants of another day of war. The sounds of the Greek camp were faint in the distance—the muffled laughter of men too weary to care about the battle to come, the clinking of weapons being sharpened for another day of slaughter, the low murmur of voices sharing tales of home, of places that now felt more like dreams than memories.

 

He let out a slow, steady breath.

 

With a final glance over his shoulder, Odysseus straightened, his spine pressing against the rough bark of the tree as he inhaled deeply. The air was thick with the weight of his decision, heavy with all that it meant. His resolve hardened, solid as stone, unyielding as the very ground beneath him. There would be no turning back. Not now. Not ever.

 

This was the path he had chosen, and whether the gods condemned him or blessed him, whether history remembered him as a hero or a coward, it was the only path that mattered now.

 

His gaze drifted beyond the trees, past the winding dirt paths and the scattered torches marking the Greek encampment, to the distant silhouette of Troy against the night sky. The city loomed like a specter, black and unyielding, its towering walls etched against the stars. It was a city that had consumed so many years of his life, a city that had devoured men, swallowed dreams, and left nothing but ruin in its wake.

 

How many had died for its gates? How many more would fall before it finally crumbled?

 

His chest tightened, a strange, unfamiliar ache blooming in his ribs. This place had become a prison, a battlefield that stretched endlessly before him, trapping him in a cycle of war and loss. And yet, despite everything, despite the exhaustion and the resentment, a small part of him hesitated. A small part of him—one he despised—mourned what he was about to leave behind.

 

But there was no turning back now.

 

He reached down, his fingers brushing against the small leather bag tied securely at his waist. It was light, carrying only what he needed—some food, a waterskin, a handful of coins, and a small dagger tucked inside for protection. A poor man’s belongings, barely fit for a journey, but it was all he had. It was all he needed.

 

With a quiet grunt, Odysseus untied the leather strap and pulled the bag open, his fingers moving with practiced efficiency, quick but measured. The fabric was worn, the leather edges rough against his calloused hands—a reminder of how long he had carried it, through war, through suffering, through years that had blurred together into a single, endless campaign. He had packed it in haste, but not carelessly. There was no room for carelessness now.

 

Inside, the bare essentials of his flight lay nestled in the dim light. Not much, but enough.

 

His fingers found the small handful of gold coins first, the cool metal pressing into his skin as he sifted through them. They clinked softly, a sound that in any other circumstance might have been reassuring. Now, it was a weight both comforting and terrifying. Money meant options, meant the chance to barter, to bribe, to buy safe passage if he played his hand well. But it also meant danger. A man alone with gold in his pockets was a target. If he spent too much too soon, if he made the wrong deal with the wrong person, it would be over before he ever got the chance to disappear.

 

He clenched his fist around them for a moment, feeling the ridges press into his palm, then let them slip back into the depths of the bag. It wasn’t much, but it would have to be enough.

 

Next, his hand brushed against the rough texture of bread wrapped in cloth. He pulled it out briefly, his thumb running along the hardened crust. Stale, but still edible. The thought of food seemed almost absurd now—his stomach had long since given up demanding nourishment, dulled by exhaustion and months of eating whatever could be scavenged between battles. But he knew hunger would come. He wasn’t sure when he would eat again or how long this would have to last him, but starvation was not an option. He tucked the loaf carefully back inside.

 

Then, finally, his fingers closed around the wineskin. He brought it up, loosening the stopper and breathing in the faint scent of water. For a moment, he hesitated. It was too easy to take a single sip, then another, until suddenly there was nothing left. Water was more valuable than gold, more vital than even food. He had no idea how far he would have to go before he could find more, no way of knowing how many days he would have to stretch this out.

 

And yet, his throat was dry, the night air catching in his lungs.

 

Slowly, he tipped the skin back, taking a measured drink. The cool liquid soothed the rawness in his throat, washing away the dust of the night. He forced himself to stop before he took too much, pressing the stopper back in place, securing it tightly. The wineskin joined the rest of his meager possessions, tucked safely into the bag.

 

He exhaled through his nose, slow and steady, then pulled the straps closed, making sure everything was secure.

 

For a moment, he stayed where he was, the weight of the bag now resting against his side, heavier than it should have been. Not because of its contents, but because of what it represented. There was no turning back now. He had what he needed. He had made his choice.

 

Odysseus pushed himself away from the tree, his legs stiff from remaining still for so long. He rolled his shoulders, adjusting to the familiar weight of the bag against his back, before letting his gaze sweep over the darkness one last time. Every rustling leaf, every whisper of the wind against the trees, every distant crack of movement set his nerves alight. But no alarms had been raised. No shouts of his name echoed through the camp. He was still unseen.

 

His heart pounded, but his mind was clear now. The escape was set. There were no more distractions, no more delays.

 

Only the road ahead, the cold bite of the night air, and the distant, impossible hope that the gods would grant him the mercy of a safe journey.

 

He drew in one last breath, deep and steady, and then he began to move.

 

His footsteps were soft against the forest floor, careful and deliberate, each step sinking into the damp earth with barely a sound. The shadows swallowed him whole, wrapping around him like a cloak, and within moments, Odysseus was gone—vanishing into the darkness, leaving behind the war, the city, and the life he had known.

 

As Odysseus turned, preparing to vanish into the shadows, a voice—deep and familiar—cut through the stillness of the night like a knife.

 

"Odysseus!"

 

It was Diomedes. The sound of his name, shouted with such urgency, froze Odysseus in his tracks. His heart lurched in his chest, a surge of panic rising through him. He spun around, eyes wide, searching the darkness. There, at the edge of the clearing, Diomedes emerged from the shadows, his silhouette tall and imposing.

 

"By the gods, what are you doing?" Diomedes demanded, his voice filled with suspicion and disbelief. "Where are you going? Why are you out here alone?"

 

Odysseus' mind raced, every thought crashing together in a chaotic tangle. This is it. He knows. His instincts screamed at him to stay calm, to come up with a lie, but his body was already responding, fueled by pure panic. Diomedes’ eyes were sharp, and his tone was full of intent—Odysseus couldn’t afford to be caught. Not now.

 

Without thinking, he spun back toward the cover of the trees, his breath coming in sharp gasps. Run. Run now.

 

His feet pounded the earth as he darted forward, moving faster than he thought possible, his senses sharpening with every step. The forest seemed to close in around him, the branches whispering in the wind, but all he could hear was the frantic pounding of his own heart. The rustling behind him told him Diomedes had noticed—he wasn’t far behind.

 

"Odysseus!" Diomedes called again, his voice now tinged with a mix of confusion and anger. "You can’t run from this! You can’t just—"

 

But Odysseus didn’t stop. His legs carried him through the dense underbrush, his breath ragged and raw. He could hear Diomedes’ footsteps faltering behind him, but the shout came again, closer this time. “Odysseus! What are you doing? Answer me!”

 

Each step felt heavier, but his will was stronger. Keep going. He couldn’t afford to be caught. His heart was racing, and the only thing in his mind was the freedom that lay ahead, a sliver of hope that he couldn’t let slip away.

 

The forest blurred around him as he ran, pushing himself harder than he ever had. The sounds of pursuit grew distant, but he didn’t dare slow down. He could feel the weight of the bag on his back, the gold and bread and water—his only lifelines—but right now, they were nothing compared to the urgency of escape.

 

There would be no turning back, no explanations. Just the dark woods, the sound of his heartbeat, and the fleeting chance to escape the war that had kept him bound for so long.

 

As Odysseus turned, preparing to vanish into the shadows, a voice—deep and familiar—cut through the stillness of the night like a knife.

 

"Odysseus!"

 

The name rang out in the quiet darkness, sharp and urgent, halting him mid-step. His breath hitched, his pulse slamming against his ribs. The night, which had felt like an ally mere moments ago, suddenly seemed suffocating, closing in around him.

 

It was Diomedes .

 

The sound of his name, spoken with such intensity, sent a jolt of panic through Odysseus’ spine. He clenched his jaw and slowly turned, already schooling his face into something unreadable. His sharp gaze scanned the darkness until he found the source— Diomedes , emerging from the shadows at the edge of the clearing, his silhouette broad and unmoving, the gleam of his eyes piercing through the night.

 

"By the gods , what are you doing?" Diomedes’ voice carried a weight that made Odysseus’ skin prickle. "Where are you going? Why are you out here alone?"

 

There was no accusation yet, no outright condemnation, but the suspicion was unmistakable, lurking beneath every syllable. Diomedes was perceptive, dangerously so. He always had been.

 

Odysseus’ mind raced, thoughts crashing together like a storm-tossed sea. This is it. He knows. His instinct screamed at him to stay calm, to conjure up a lie, a reason, anything—but his body was already betraying him, every muscle coiled and ready to bolt.

 

Diomedes took a step forward. "Odysseus." A single word, laden with expectation.

 

Damn it.

 

Odysseus turned on his heel and ran.

 

His body moved before his mind could catch up, his feet slamming against the earth, every fiber of his being screaming at him to escape. He crashed through the underbrush, the trees blurring around him, shadows flickering wildly in his peripheral vision. The air burned in his lungs, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps.

 

Behind him, he heard Diomedes curse . Then— footsteps . Heavy, relentless, pounding after him.

 

"Odysseus!" Diomedes’ voice rang out again, this time tinged with both confusion and fury. "You can’t run from this! You can’t just—"

 

Odysseus didn’t hear the rest. He couldn’t. His blood roared in his ears, drowning out everything but the frantic drum of his heartbeat. The trees loomed above him, their gnarled limbs clawing at the sky, but he paid them no mind—he had no time to be cautious. He tore through the dense foliage, brambles raking his skin, the scent of damp earth and crushed leaves thick in his nostrils.

 

The rustling behind him grew louder . Diomedes was close .

 

Odysseus pushed harder, muscles burning, his body screaming in protest. Faster. Faster. He had always been quick—he had to be, surviving in a world that devoured the slow—but Diomedes was a warrior, a predator on the battlefield, relentless in his pursuits.

 

The sound of pursuit was suddenly too close.

 

Then—a hand.

 

It clamped around Odysseus’ arm, iron-strong, yanking him backward with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs. His body lurched, his feet skidding against the dirt as he twisted, trying to tear free.

 

"Stop!" Diomedes growled, his grip unyielding. "What in Hades do you think you’re doing?"

 

Odysseus struggled, twisting against the hold, but Diomedes was strong —stronger than him. The fingers digging into his forearm would not let go.

 

"Let me go," Odysseus hissed, his voice raw, laced with desperation. His breath came fast, ragged, his chest rising and falling in frantic bursts. He could feel Diomedes' sharp gaze boring into him, full of questions, accusations unspoken but heavy in the silence between them.

 

Diomedes exhaled sharply, his hold tightening for a fraction of a second before he shoved Odysseus away. Not hard enough to send him sprawling, but enough to force him to face him.

 

"Explain," Diomedes demanded. His voice was low now, more measured, but no less dangerous. "Now."

 

Odysseus said nothing. He couldn't. His mind scrambled for an excuse, for anything that would turn this moment in his favor, but every lie that formed on his tongue felt too brittle, too thin.

 

The silence stretched.

 

Diomedes' eyes narrowed, scanning him, dissecting every inch of his expression, the tension in his posture, the wildness in his breath. He wasn’t a fool. He knew.

 

And then, after a long, charged pause, Diomedes spoke again.

 

"You were running."

 

A statement, not a question.

 

Odysseus' throat felt tight.

 

Diomedes took a slow step forward, his tone unreadable. "You were leaving."

 

A cold weight settled in Odysseus' chest.

 

He knew.

 

Odysseus’ mind snapped back into motion.

 

Run.

 

It didn’t matter that Diomedes knew—it didn’t matter that he saw right through him. The only thing that mattered was getting away.

 

Odysseus’ muscles tensed, and in a split second, he lunged. He twisted hard, wrenching free from Diomedes' grip, and bolted.

 

Diomedes snarled a curse. “Odysseus! Damn you—stop!”

 

But Odysseus was already gone, tearing through the trees, his legs moving on sheer instinct. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. He could hear Diomedes behind him, the thunder of his boots gaining.

 

The forest became a blur of shadows and tangled roots. Branches lashed at his skin, whipping against his face and arms as he barreled forward, but he didn’t slow down. He couldn't. His breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, his chest burning, but the fear—the raw, suffocating panic—drove him forward.

 

Faster. Faster.

 

Behind him, Diomedes wasn’t slowing. If anything, he was getting closer.

 

Odysseus’ heart pounded as he pushed himself harder, his strides reckless, his footing unsteady on the uneven ground. The scent of damp earth filled his nostrils, and the wind howled past his ears.

 

Then—a sound.

 

Rushing water.

 

Odysseus’ eyes flicked ahead, his vision narrowing on the dark shape of a river, its surface shimmering under the pale light of the moon.

 

He didn’t hesitate.

 

He leapt.

 

The ground beneath him vanished, the world tilting as he soared over the riverbank. For a single, weightless moment, there was nothing—no sound, no breath, no pursuit.

 

Then—

 

Impact .

 

The icy shock of water slammed into him, swallowing him whole.

 

The current seized him instantly, dragging him down, spinning him violently as he fought for control. Water filled his ears, his nose, the crushing force wrenching the air from his lungs.

 

He kicked hard, his body twisting in the torrent, but the river was stronger, pulling him under. The world turned into a chaotic blur of dark, swirling water and muffled noise.

 

Somewhere above, he thought he heard Diomedes shouting.

 

But then the river yanked him deeper, and Odysseus sank into the abyss.

 

Odysseus' body twisted violently as the river dragged him downward, the frigid water closing in on all sides. His lungs burned, his heartbeat thundering in his ears, but he did not panic. He had been in rough waters before—just never like this.

 

His first instinct was to fight against the current, to thrash his arms and kick wildly, but the river was too strong. It spun him, wrenching him sideways, sending him tumbling through the freezing depths like a piece of driftwood. His shoulder slammed against an unseen rock, pain exploding through his arm, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to focus.

 

Calm. Stay calm.

 

He twisted his body, forcing himself upright, searching for the surface. It was hard to tell which way was up—the river was a world of churning blackness, swallowing all light. His chest screamed for air, but he clamped his lips shut, forcing back the desperate urge to breathe.

 

Then—a glimpse .

 

Through the swirling darkness, a shimmer of silver. Moonlight.

 

There!

 

Odysseus kicked hard, his legs burning as he pushed upward, cutting through the water with powerful strokes. His arms swept forward, pulling against the current, his body fighting against the unseen hands trying to drag him deeper. His fingers brushed past submerged branches, his legs grazing smooth stones as the river thrashed him about like a toy.

 

The pressure in his chest became unbearable—he needed air.

 

With one final, desperate lunge, he broke through.

 

Cold night air slammed into him as he surfaced, his mouth gasping open as he sucked in a ragged breath. He barely had a moment to register the sky before the current snatched him sideways, spinning him again.

 

Odysseus coughed violently, blinking water from his stinging eyes. The river roared around him, white foam cresting over dark waves. He barely had time to take another breath before a surge of water slammed into him, nearly pulling him under again.

 

But now, he had control. Now, he could swim.

 

He angled his body sideways, using his strength to cut through the current rather than fight it directly. His arms moved in strong, practiced strokes, sweeping through the water in smooth arcs. Every motion was deliberate—his legs kicking in rhythm, his core steadying him against the pull of the river.

 

The river was relentless, rushing forward like an enraged beast, but Odysseus knew how to work with nature rather than against it. He let the current carry him, guiding his strokes with its momentum, feeling out its patterns.

 

A sharp rock outcrop loomed ahead, jutting out from the water like a jagged black tooth. If he hit it head-on, it would be the end.

 

Gritting his teeth, he angled his body, shifting his weight with the current, steering himself away from disaster.

 

His fingers brushed against the slick surface of the rock as he passed, the force of the water pushing him dangerously close, but he kicked hard, just barely clearing it. The river’s pull weakened slightly as he moved past the outcrop, giving him his first real chance to break free.

 

There—the riverbank.

 

Not far, maybe twenty paces ahead. He could make it.

 

Summoning the last reserves of his strength, Odysseus propelled himself forward, ignoring the burning in his arms, the ache in his legs. The river fought him every step of the way, but he fought harder. Stroke by stroke, breath by breath, he closed the distance.

 

Finally—his fingers scraped against solid ground.

 

He grabbed at the riverbank, his nails digging into the mud as he hauled himself up, his arms trembling. His body screamed in exhaustion, but he refused to let go. He pulled, inch by inch, until at last—he collapsed onto solid earth.

 

His chest heaved, his breath ragged and desperate as he lay sprawled on the damp ground. His muscles burned, his skin slick with freezing water.

 

But he was alive.

 

And he was free.

 

Odysseus lay there for a moment, sprawled across the wet earth, his limbs trembling from exhaustion. Every breath came ragged and deep, his chest rising and falling in sharp gasps as he tried to steady himself. The night air pressed cold against his drenched skin, his tunic clinging to him like a second layer of ice. The river still roared behind him, its current surging forward as if angered by his escape, but he was out. He was alive.

 

His fingers dug into the mud beneath him, gripping the damp soil as if afraid the river might reach out and drag him back. His body ached, his muscles raw from the effort of fighting the relentless pull of the water. Every part of him felt like it had been battered against stone, his shoulder throbbing from where he had slammed into something beneath the surface. But pain meant he was still breathing. Still moving. Still here.

 

Slowly, he lifted his head, blinking away the water stinging his eyes. The world was dark and unfamiliar. The trees lining the riverbank loomed tall, their gnarled branches reaching over him like the twisted hands of specters. He had no idea how far he had drifted, how much time had passed since he plunged into the current. His heart still pounded in his ears, but he forced himself to focus.

 

He needed to move.

 

Pushing against the ground, he dragged himself forward, his limbs sluggish and heavy. His knee sank into the mud, but he forced himself up, his legs trembling beneath him as he staggered to his feet. Water dripped from his clothes, trickling down his arms and pooling at his feet, but the cold no longer mattered.

 

He glanced back at the river, its surface reflecting the moonlight in silver streaks. Diomedes would be looking for him. If the man had seen him fall in, he might assume the river had done its work, that Odysseus had been swallowed whole and never resurfaced. But Diomedes was no fool. If he thought there was even the slightest chance that Odysseus had survived, he would be searching.

 

He had to keep moving.

 

His bag.

 

Panic surged through him as he patted his side, his fingers finding nothing but the damp fabric of his tunic. His stomach twisted. The bag was gone. The coins, the bread, the water—all of it had been claimed by the river. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe through the frustration. He still had his life, his wit, and his will. That would have to be enough.

 

Taking a shaky step forward, Odysseus scanned the trees, searching for the best path ahead. His body screamed for rest, but there was no time. He was deep in unfamiliar territory, alone, without supplies, and with a man as relentless as Diomedes on his trail.

 

And yet, for the first time in a long while, he felt something like hope.

 

The war was behind him now.

 

All he had to do was keep going.

 

Odysseus forced himself forward, his legs sluggish and aching, his breath still ragged from his ordeal in the river. The cold night clung to him like a second skin, his soaked tunic a weight that only worsened the chill. Each step squelched in the mud, his bare feet sinking into the damp earth as he trudged deeper into the forest. His mind raced, calculating his next move. He had no food, no water, and no coin to barter with. The loss of his bag gnawed at him, but he swallowed the frustration. Dwelling on it would change nothing. Survival was all that mattered now.

 

The forest stretched before him, vast and unknowable in the darkness. The trees whispered in the wind, their leaves rustling like distant voices. He could not stay here. The river had carried him far, but not far enough. If Diomedes had followed him, he could not afford to linger. He had to put as much distance between himself and the Greek camp as possible before dawn.

 

He pressed on, weaving through the thick underbrush, his movements slow but deliberate. Each step was measured, his ears attuned to the sounds around him—the chirp of insects, the distant hoot of an owl, the rustle of unseen creatures in the undergrowth. His body protested, the exhaustion creeping deeper into his bones, but he ignored it. He had spent years pushing himself past the brink of endurance. This was nothing new.

 

The ground sloped upward, and he gritted his teeth as he climbed, gripping at tree trunks for support. His muscles burned with the effort, but finally, he crested the hill, his breath coming in sharp gasps. From here, he could see the faint glow of Troy in the distance, the flickering torchlight barely visible through the trees.

 

How many times had he stood upon the walls of that city, staring down at the battlefield below? How many nights had he spent weaving plans, scheming, plotting, searching for a way to end this war? And now, he was nothing but a deserter, slipping away under cover of night, leaving the fight behind.

 

He exhaled, shaking his head. He would not dwell on it. He had made his choice, and there was no undoing it now.

 

A distant sound made him freeze. Footsteps.

 

His pulse quickened. He dropped into a crouch, pressing himself against the base of a tree, his breath shallow. The steps were slow, deliberate. Someone was near.

 

His mind reeled with possibilities. A scout? A patrol? Diomedes himself?

 

His fingers twitched, instinctively reaching for a weapon he did not have. He clenched his jaw, steadying his nerves. If he was caught now, it was over.

 

The footsteps grew louder, closer.

 

Odysseus remained still, his heartbeat a thunderous drum in his ears. He would wait. Watch. And if necessary—run.

 

The footsteps stopped just beyond the trees, and Odysseus held his breath. Through the dense foliage, he could make out the shadowy figure of a man. The dim moonlight caught the gleam of bronze—a helmet, a cuirass. A Trojan soldier.

 

Odysseus’ fingers dug into the damp earth as he crouched lower, his mind racing. How had a Trojan patrol wandered this far from the city? Were they searching for something—or someone?

 

The soldier took a cautious step forward, his spear angled slightly downward, as if he wasn’t expecting a fight but remained wary of one. He was young—Odysseus could see that now. His movements were careful, uncertain, like a man newly blooded in battle but not yet hardened by it. He wasn’t a seasoned warrior, not like the men Odysseus had fought on the plains of Troy.

 

The young Trojan turned his head, scanning the darkness, and Odysseus pressed himself lower against the tree. The forest was silent save for the rustling of leaves and the distant rush of the river. The soldier lingered for a moment longer, exhaling sharply. Then, he shifted his spear to his other hand and continued forward, his boots crunching softly against the damp earth.

 

Odysseus’ mind was already calculating his options. If he stayed still, the Trojan might pass without ever noticing him. But if he was discovered, he would be unarmed, exhausted, and vulnerable. He had no doubt he could take down a single soldier with his bare hands if he had to—but could he do it silently? Could he do it before the boy cried out and alerted others?

 

The soldier took another step closer. Too close now.

 

Odysseus' muscles coiled, preparing to strike if necessary. But then—

 

The Trojan suddenly turned his head, looking over his shoulder. He hesitated, then sighed and muttered something under his breath. With a weary shake of his head, he took a step back, as if reconsidering his path. A few heartbeats passed, then he turned sharply and started walking away, back toward the direction of Troy.

 

Odysseus remained motionless, watching the soldier’s retreating form until it disappeared into the trees. Only when the sound of footsteps fully faded did he release the breath he had been holding.

 

He had been lucky. Too lucky.

 

The realization made his stomach twist. This was no ordinary night patrol. That soldier had been searching for something—or for someone. If the Trojans were already moving through the woods, then the river hadn’t carried him far enough.

 

He had to keep moving.

 

Pushing himself upright, Odysseus took one last glance in the direction the soldier had gone before slipping silently into the trees, deeper into the night.

 

Odysseus moved swiftly through the underbrush, his breath steady but his mind still reeling. His soaked clothes clung to his body, sending shivers crawling down his spine as the night air wrapped around him like a cold whisper. He stepped carefully over the tangled roots and slick patches of mud, his fingers flexing at his sides as he muttered under his breath.

 

"Too close… too damn close." His voice was barely more than a whisper, but the weight of it pressed heavy against his chest. His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth in frustration. "Should’ve seen him coming. Should’ve known better."

 

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he pushed forward. The adrenaline still surged in his veins, making his hands tremble slightly. He clenched them into fists. "Stupid. Reckless." His jaw tightened as he forced himself to focus. The river had bought him distance, but not enough. He wasn’t safe yet. Not even close.

 

Glancing up, he caught a glimpse of the sky through the canopy—clouds drifted across the stars, shifting like restless spirits. He narrowed his eyes. "The gods must be laughing." His voice was bitter, barely audible over the rustling leaves. "Or maybe just waiting to see how far I’ll go before they strike me down."

 

He snorted at the thought. "Not tonight," he muttered, more to himself than to any divine ears that might be listening. "Not yet."

 

A branch cracked in the distance, and he froze, breath hitching. His eyes darted toward the sound, body tensing like a coiled wire. The wind carried no voices, no hurried steps—just the slow, creeping groan of the forest shifting in the night. He let out a quiet breath and pressed forward, faster now, his feet moving with renewed urgency.

 

"Keep moving," he whispered. "No looking back."

 

…

 

Meanwhile, at the Greek camp…  

 

The air was thick with the scent of smoke and sweat, the remnants of dying fires curling into the night. Most of the soldiers had long since settled into an uneasy sleep, their bodies exhausted from another day of battle preparations and uneasy waiting. But within one of the larger tents, the atmosphere was anything but restful.  

 

Diomedes stood at the center of it all, his broad shoulders tense, his expression caught between disbelief and simmering rage. His voice cut through the murmur of the gathered men, his sharp tone demanding an answer.  

 

“...What the fuck do you mean he’s gone?”  

 

Eurylochus, one of Odysseus’ most trusted men, shifted uneasily beneath the weight of Diomedes’ glare. He was no coward, no green recruit afraid of confrontation, but even he hesitated before responding.  

 

“He’s not in his tent,” Eurylochus admitted, voice low but firm. “No one’s seen him for hours. His weapons are still there, but his cloak, his bag—gone.”  

 

Silence followed. Heavy. Ominous.  

 

Diomedes’ fingers curled into fists at his sides, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he ground his teeth.  

 

“This has to be a joke,” Ajax the Greater muttered from where he sat on a nearby bench, running a hand over his face. His massive form was slouched forward, his usual bravado dimmed by the weight of the situation. “Tell me this is a joke.”  

 

No one spoke.  

 

Across the tent, Menelaus shifted, his expression unreadable. “He wouldn’t—” he began, then stopped himself. The words felt weak even as they left his mouth. Wouldn’t what? Wouldn’t abandon them? Wouldn’t try something reckless? This was Odysseus they were talking about.  

 

Diomedes exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head as he paced. His mind was a whirlwind of possibilities, none of them good.  

 

“If he was taken,” Palamedes said from where he stood against the tent’s entrance, arms crossed, “we would’ve heard something. A struggle. A cry for help.” His sharp gaze flickered across the others. “He left on his own.”  

 

That thought did nothing to ease the tension.  

 

Ajax the Lesser scoffed from the shadows. “So, what? He just—decided to take a moonlit stroll?”  

 

Diomedes shot him a glare that could’ve cut through bronze. “Odysseus doesn’t just go on ‘strolls.’ If he left, there was a reason.” He stopped pacing, his expression dark. “And I intend to find out what the hell it is.”  

 

Eurylochus let out a slow breath. “If he’s running…”  

 

“He’s not running,” Diomedes snapped before he could stop himself. The idea of Odysseus fleeing—deserting—felt wrong. Unthinkable. But the longer the silence stretched, the harder it was to deny.  

 

Palamedes raised an eyebrow. “Then where is he?”  

 

No one had an answer.  

 

Outside, the campfires flickered in the distance, their light casting long, wavering shadows against the canvas of the tent. Somewhere beyond them, beyond the reach of their search, Odysseus was out there. Alone.  

 

And if they didn’t find him soon, he might not be coming back.

 

The tension in the tent thickened, pressing down on them like the weight of the sky itself. The crackling of the campfires outside did little to warm the cold silence that followed Palamedes’ question. Then, with a sharp rustle of heavy fabric, the tent’s entrance was thrown open.

 

Agamemnon stormed in, his cloak billowing behind him, his expression a storm of barely contained fury. His arrival sent a fresh wave of unease through the gathered men. His presence alone was enough to shift the weight of the conversation—because if Agamemnon was here, that meant he knew. And if he knew, then this had escalated past whispers and worried glances.

 

“What is this nonsense I’m hearing?” His voice was sharp, his eyes scanning the faces around him before landing on Diomedes. “Odysseus is missing?”

 

Diomedes stiffened, his frustration only growing. He had no patience for whatever storm Agamemnon was about to unleash. “Yes,” he answered bluntly. “Gone. Left without a word.”

 

Agamemnon scoffed, the sound thick with disbelief. He turned to Eurylochus. “You. You were with him last. Where did he go?”

 

Eurylochus shifted, clearing his throat. “I wasn’t with him. No one was. He—”

 

“Don’t tell me no one was watching him.” Agamemnon’s voice was rising, the fire behind his eyes burning hotter. “This is Odysseus we’re talking about. He wouldn’t just disappear. He must have been taken—captured. A Trojan scout, a spy—”

 

“No.” Palamedes’ voice cut through the rising storm, calm but firm. “There was no sign of a struggle. His weapons are still here, his armor untouched. His bag, his cloak—gone. He left of his own will.”

 

Agamemnon let out a short, incredulous laugh. “That’s absurd.” He turned back to Diomedes, searching his face for agreement. “Tell me this is absurd.”

 

Diomedes crossed his arms, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but the facts are what they are.”

 

Agamemnon shook his head. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his mind racing. “No,” he muttered, almost to himself. “No, this doesn’t make sense. This is Odysseus. He wouldn’t just—” He stopped, dragging a hand through his hair as he turned away, pacing.

 

Ajax the Greater, who had been watching quietly, let out a sigh. “Look, I don’t like this either, but we can’t pretend he didn’t do exactly what it looks like he did.”

 

“And what exactly do you think that is?” Agamemnon turned on him, eyes flashing dangerously.

 

Ajax didn’t flinch. “That he left. Alone. By choice.”

 

Agamemnon let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head again. “No. He wouldn’t. He’s too clever for that—too damn pragmatic. He wouldn’t throw himself into the wild without a plan.” His voice grew sharper, as if saying it with more force would make it true. “He must have been taken.”

 

Palamedes watched him carefully. “By whom?”

 

Agamemnon’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know. But I refuse to believe that Odysseus, of all people, would simply desert us.”

 

The word hung in the air like a curse. Desert.

 

Diomedes’ expression darkened, his frustration spilling over. “You think I want to believe this?” His voice was quiet but hard. “You think any of us do?” He took a step closer, his tone turning sharp. “But he’s not here, Agamemnon. And whether you want to accept it or not, that means he left. Without us. Without you.”

 

The words landed like a blow. Agamemnon’s face twisted, his mouth opening as if to snap back, but nothing came. His mind was caught in a spiral, refusing to accept what was right in front of him.

 

This was Odysseus.

 

Odysseus, who had outwitted the Trojans time and time again. Odysseus, who had been one of the sharpest minds in the Greek camp, the one who always had a plan, always had an answer. Odysseus, who had stood beside them through ten years of war.

 

The idea that he would simply leave—that he would walk away from all of it—was incomprehensible.

 

A cold realization began to claw at the edges of Agamemnon’s mind, but he shoved it down, refusing to let it take hold. He refused to believe it.

 

“He was taken,” he muttered again, his voice quieter this time, but no less insistent. “And I’ll prove it.”

 

Without another word, he turned sharply and stormed out of the tent, his mind already turning over every possibility, every explanation except the one he refused to accept.

 

Diomedes watched him go, his lips curling into a scowl. “He’s going to drive himself insane.”

 

Palamedes exhaled through his nose. “Then we’d best be ready when he does.”

 

The silence in the tent stretched, thick and suffocating in Agamemnon’s absence. The brazier flickered, casting restless shadows against the canvas walls. No one spoke. No one moved. The tension clung to the air like smoke, and it was Diomedes who finally broke it.

 

“I chased him,” he said, his voice flat.

 

Heads turned toward him in unison.

 

Palamedes, always perceptive, narrowed his eyes first. “What do you mean you chased him?”

 

Diomedes inhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face. His frustration, his anger—it had been simmering since the moment he realized what Odysseus had done. Now it threatened to boil over.

 

“I saw him,” he admitted, his voice growing sharper. “I caught him in the woods, sneaking away like a damn shadow. I called out to him. I tried to stop him. And do you know what he did?” His hands curled into fists at his sides. “He ran.”

 

A thick silence followed.

 

Eurylochus’ face paled. “He ran from you ?”

 

Diomedes let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “Aye. Like I was a fucking Trojan coming to slit his throat.” He shook his head, jaw tight. “I went after him. I nearly caught up—then he threw himself into the river.”

 

Palamedes’ expression remained unreadable, but there was a flicker of something behind his sharp eyes. “He jumped ?”

 

“He didn’t jump, ” Diomedes growled. “He fell.”

 

Eurylochus swore under his breath.

 

“I don’t know if he made it across,” Diomedes admitted, his voice quieter now, though no less tense. “I lost sight of him after that. I waited, but he never surfaced.” His jaw clenched, and for the first time, something like unease crossed his features. “I don’t know if he drowned or if he made it to the other side.”

 

Ajax the Greater, who had been listening quietly, let out a long breath. “And you didn’t think to mention this before ?”

 

Diomedes’ glare was sharp enough to cut through armor. “You think I wanted to say this in front of him ?” He gestured toward the empty space where Agamemnon had stood moments ago. “He’s barely keeping it together as it is. If he hears Odysseus ran from me, of all people, he’ll convince himself it means something that it doesn’t.”

 

Palamedes folded his arms. “And what do you think it means?”

 

Diomedes hesitated.

 

The truth was, he didn’t know. That was what gnawed at him the most. Odysseus was the most calculating man in the camp, the one who never acted without reason, without careful thought. If he had run, if he had thrown himself into the river rather than face him—what did that say?

 

Was he ashamed? Was he afraid?

 

Had he planned for this?

 

Diomedes exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I think,” he muttered, “that Odysseus wanted to get away so badly, he’d rather risk drowning than let me stop him.”

 

The weight of his words settled heavily over the room.

 

Eurylochus looked away, his hands gripping his knees. Ajax’s expression darkened.

 

Palamedes, however, simply stared at Diomedes, his sharp gaze unreadable.

 

“Then we have two choices,” he said evenly. “Either we tell Agamemnon the truth and risk him losing his mind over it, or we let him chase ghosts while we figure out whether Odysseus made it to shore alive.”

 

Diomedes let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. “You already know which one I’d rather do.”

 

Palamedes inclined his head slightly. “Then I hope, for all our sakes, that Odysseus is alive—because if he’s not, Agamemnon will never let this go.”

 

Eurylochus shook his head violently, his breath coming short and fast, his hands gripping his knees so tightly his knuckles turned white.

 

“No,” he muttered. “No. That’s not— That’s not what happened.”

 

Diomedes shot him a sharp look. “I just told you what happened.”

 

“No,” Eurylochus repeated, louder this time, shaking his head as if trying to physically reject the words. His eyes darted between them, wide, desperate, searching for some reassurance that wasn’t there. “You’re wrong. He wouldn’t— He wouldn’t run from you. He wouldn’t leave us.”

 

Palamedes exhaled through his nose, watching him closely. “He did.”

 

“No,” Eurylochus insisted, his voice rising, raw with something too close to panic. “No, you don’t understand. He wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t just leave us. Not like this. Not without a plan, not without—” He cut himself off, shaking his head again, teeth bared in something between a grimace and a plea.

 

Diomedes’ patience was fraying. “I chased him, Eurylochus,” he snapped. “I saw him run. I saw him go into that damn river. Whether he made it out or not, he chose this.”

 

Eurylochus surged to his feet so suddenly that his chair nearly tipped over. “You must’ve scared him,” he spat, chest rising and falling rapidly. “That’s the only explanation. You must’ve— You must’ve cornered him, made him panic! He wouldn’t—”

 

“He ran before I could even reach him!” Diomedes roared back, stepping forward, his temper finally snapping. “Don’t put this on me just because you can’t face the truth!”

 

Eurylochus’ breath hitched, his hands trembling at his sides. His lips parted as if to argue again, but the words never came.

 

Silence.

 

The tent felt smaller, suffocating.

 

Palamedes watched Eurylochus carefully, his expression unreadable. Ajax the Greater shifted, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, but he said nothing.

 

Eurylochus swallowed hard, his throat bobbing, his gaze darting around the room as if searching for something— anything —to prove them wrong. His whole body was trembling now, his face pale, eyes wild. He turned toward Ajax, toward Palamedes, toward the empty space where Agamemnon had stood.

 

His breathing hitched again. “No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “No, he— He wouldn’t do this to me .”

 

A cold silence followed.

 

Palamedes’ gaze flickered.

 

Diomedes’ expression tightened.

 

Eurylochus swallowed hard, his hands balling into fists, as if trying to ground himself. He shook his head again, backing away a step, breath coming in ragged bursts. “You’re wrong,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of it. “You’re all wrong.”

 

And then he turned on his heel and stormed out of the tent, shoving the flap aside with enough force to nearly rip it.

 

The moment he was gone, Ajax let out a long breath. “He’s not going to accept it.”

 

Diomedes ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. “I don’t have time for his delusions.”

 

Palamedes remained silent for a moment, his gaze lingering on the tent’s entrance where Eurylochus had disappeared.

 

“He’ll come back,” he said quietly. “When he realizes no amount of denial will change what’s already done.”

 

Chapter 2: ╰・∯﹕Dread﹒💨

Odysseus lay sprawled in the damp reeds, his chest heaving, limbs trembling from the strain of his escape. His soaked tunic clung to his skin, heavy with the weight of the river, and his breath came in ragged, uneven bursts. The night pressed in around him, thick and suffocating, the distant chirp of insects swallowed by the pounding of his heart in his ears.

 

He clenched his teeth, his fingers digging into the mud beneath him as he tried to still the violent shaking in his hands. He had made it. He had escaped. But that meant nothing if they found him. If they dragged him back.

 

“Please,” he muttered hoarsely, barely realizing he was speaking aloud. His throat burned, raw from the river water and exhaustion. “Please, just— just let them stay away. Let them think I’m dead.”

His breath hitched, and he squeezed his eyes shut, his mind racing too fast to hold onto a single thought. His body screamed at him to rest, to stop moving, but his instincts clawed at him, warning him that he wasn’t safe. Not yet.

 

He forced himself onto his side, trying to push himself up, but his arms nearly gave out. He gritted his teeth, his fingers clenching into the earth, and swallowed back the rising panic that threatened to consume him.

 

“If any of you have ever listened,” he whispered to the gods, his voice unsteady, “then listen now. Keep them away from me.”

 

His pulse pounded in his skull. He could still hear Diomedes’ voice, the way it had cut through the darkness like a blade. Odysseus! The sound still rang in his ears, sharp and accusing. Diomedes had chased him. Diomedes had seen him run .

 

That meant they knew.

 

That meant they were looking for him.

 

His breath stuttered, his fingers curling into fists.

 

“I can’t go back,” he rasped, barely able to form the words. “I won’t go back.”

 

The war. The camp. The endless cycle of blood and fire and meaningless death. He had spent years clawing through the carnage, surviving by wit and will alone, but it had drained him dry. The thought of returning—of stepping back into that pit—made something inside him crack.

 

He shook his head violently, as if trying to shake loose the horror curling around his throat. “No. No, no, no.”

 

The wind stirred the reeds, and he jolted, his breath catching.

 

Was that a voice? A footstep?

 

His body tensed, his heart slamming against his ribs.

 

They’re coming. They’re coming for you.

 

He pressed himself lower into the mud, his fingers tightening around a sharp stone by his side as if it could somehow protect him. His whole body trembled with the effort of staying still, of forcing his breath to slow. He listened, ears straining against the silence.

 

Nothing.

 

Just the wind.

 

Just the river.

 

But he couldn’t stop shaking. He had seen too many men hunted down like animals to believe he was safe.

 

He had to move.

 

He had to keep moving.

 

But his body wouldn’t listen. His muscles locked, his limbs heavy with exhaustion, and for the first time in years, he felt truly helpless.

 

So he did the only thing left to do.

 

He clenched his fists, pressed his forehead into the damp earth, and prayed.

 

“Please,” he whispered. “Don’t let them find me.”

 

Odysseus' breath hitched as another horrifying realization clawed its way into his mind.

 

Athena.

 

His body went rigid, his blood turning ice-cold.

 

If she found him, there would be no escape. No second chances. She would drag him back to war, back to the endless slaughter, back to the role she had carved out for him with her own divine hands. He could already hear the disdain in her voice, the sharp-edged amusement at his pathetic attempt to run.

 

Did you really think you could leave, Odysseus?

 

His throat tightened. He could almost feel her presence lurking just out of sight, watching, waiting for the moment to strike. A goddess like her didn’t need to chase him down like a mortal. She was everywhere. She was always watching.

 

Unless—

 

His eyes snapped to the sodden, mud-streaked cloak clinging to his shoulders.

 

The realization slammed into him with the force of a war hammer.

 

She marked him.

 

Not with magic or some divine brand—no, she was too clever for that. It was his cloak, his damn cloak. The same one she had gifted him seasons ago, reinforced against the cold, against the elements. The one that always seemed to stay dry no matter how much rain fell, that never quite picked up the stench of blood or sweat like the others. The one she had touched .

 

Of course. That’s how she always knew where to find him.

 

A shudder wracked his body, and he nearly laughed—a bitter, breathless sound. He had spent years draped in her handprint, never questioning how she always appeared when he needed her most. Never realizing that he had been leaving a trail for her all along.

 

His hands flew to the clasp at his shoulder, fingers fumbling as he tore at the fastening.

 

“Get it off,” he muttered, his breath coming in frantic gasps. “Get it off, get it off —”

 

The brooch came loose, and he ripped the cloak from his shoulders, the fabric slipping through his fingers like a snake shedding its skin.

 

Without a second thought, he hurled it into the river.

 

The water swallowed it whole, the dark cloth vanishing beneath the rippling current. It twisted and turned, carried away into the depths, until it was just a shadow in the moonlit water.

 

Odysseus stayed frozen, watching it disappear, his breath still ragged in his throat.

 

Would she feel it? Would she know ?

 

A sick feeling coiled in his stomach. He had cut the tether, severed the unspoken link between them. If Athena hadn’t sensed his disappearance before, she would now. And when she did, she was going to be pissed.

 

He had to move.

 

His scent was still on him—his sweat, the grime of war, the river water clinging to his skin. He needed to mask it before the hunters, both mortal and divine, caught his trail.

 

Mud.

 

The thought came to him in a flash of desperation. The riverbank was thick with it, the earth damp and rich, clinging to his hands like clay. It would smother the scent of him, drown out whatever trace lingered. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.

 

Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees and plunged his hands into the mud, scooping up great handfuls of the cold, wet earth. He smeared it over his arms, his chest, his legs, rubbing it into his skin until every inch of him was covered. The chill seeped into his bones, but he forced himself to keep going, his mind fixated on one thought—

 

She cannot find me. No one can find me.

 

By the time he was done, he barely looked human. Just another shadow in the reeds, another piece of the earth itself. A phantom, slipping further from the world that had chained him for too long.

 

His breath steadied, his pulse slowing just enough to think clearly.

 

Now, he just had to run.

 

Odysseus crouched low, his breath shallow as he listened—really listened—to the night around him. The river gurgled softly, its currents carrying his cloak further and further away. The wind sighed through the reeds, rustling the tall grass in hushed whispers. But beyond that, beyond the natural sounds of the world, there was nothing. No snapping twigs. No voices. No hurried footfalls crashing through the underbrush.

 

For now, at least, he was alone.

 

Move.

 

His body protested as he pushed himself upright, exhaustion and adrenaline warring within him. He was still drenched, the mud clinging to him in thick layers, his limbs heavy and sluggish from his frantic escape. But he had no time for weakness.

 

He forced his feet forward, slinking through the reeds, his steps careful and deliberate. He had to put as much distance between himself and that river as possible before the Greeks—or worse, Athena—picked up his trail.

 

The terrain was uneven, the earth soft from the river’s reach, but he pushed forward. Each step was measured, each movement controlled. His senses sharpened, every rustling leaf and distant hoot of an owl setting his nerves on edge. His mind raced, weighing his next move.

 

North? No. Too close to the patrol routes.

 

South? Possible, but the land thinned there, too exposed.

 

West.

 

West would take him deeper into the wilderness, away from the war, away from them. The Greeks would expect him to aim for the sea—he was a sailor, after all. But if he cut inland, through the forests and hills, he could lose them entirely.

 

Odysseus gritted his teeth and pressed on, his legs burning with the effort.

 

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. The night stretched on, endless and suffocating. His thoughts spiraled with every step.

 

What if they had already found his cloak?

 

What if Athena had sensed the break the moment he let it go?

 

What if she was watching him now , waiting to strike, to drag him back with a mocking smile and a grip he couldn’t break?

 

He swallowed hard, shaking his head. No. No, he couldn’t afford to think like that. He needed to keep moving.

 

A sharp gust of wind swept through the trees, chilling him to the bone. His wet tunic clung to his skin, offering little protection from the night air. His fingers curled into fists as he fought back a shiver. He’d need shelter soon, somewhere to rest—just for a moment.

 

Then he heard it.

 

The distant snap of a branch.

 

Odysseus’ breath hitched.

 

Someone was following him.

 

Odysseus went rigid, every muscle in his body coiled as if he could melt into the shadows themselves. His breath slowed, shallow and measured, his ears straining against the thick silence that followed.

 

Another sound—a low rustling through the underbrush, the soft crunch of leaves under something heavy. His fingers twitched toward the knife at his waist, his heart hammering as he dropped lower to the ground.

 

Then, from the darkness, a pair of glowing eyes caught the moonlight.

 

A boar.

 

The beast stood just beyond the trees, its hulking form barely visible against the darkened brush. Its thick bristled fur rose along its back, its broad snout twitching as it sniffed the air. Odysseus knew that look—this wasn’t just an idle wanderer of the woods. It had caught his scent.

 

His pulse pounded against his skull. He had no weapon sturdy enough to face a boar. His knife was sharp, but against thick hide and muscle? He might as well try to cut stone.

 

The boar huffed, its breath visible in the cold night air, one hoof pawing at the earth.

 

Odysseus’ stomach turned.

 

It’s going to charge.

 

His body moved before his mind could fully catch up. He snatched up a loose branch from the ground and hurled it to his left, deep into the woods. The crack of snapping twigs shattered the tense stillness.

 

The boar’s ears flicked toward the sound.

 

For one agonizing second, Odysseus didn’t breathe.

 

Then, with a final snort, the beast turned, lumbering off toward the noise, vanishing into the trees.

 

Odysseus’ knees nearly buckled beneath him.

 

He swallowed back the bile rising in his throat, forcing himself to stand straight, to shake off the weight of the moment. His hands were trembling, his heartbeat still frantic, but he was alive.

 

He forced a slow breath through his nose.

 

Move.

 

He turned away from where the boar had gone and pressed forward, his steps faster now. He needed more distance. He needed to disappear.

 

Odysseus moved quickly, his feet light on the damp earth, his breath coming in short, controlled bursts. His mind was a storm, thoughts crashing into one another, breaking apart before they could fully form.

 

That was close. Too close. Gods, what if I had startled it? What if it had charged? I would’ve been gored, left bleeding in the dirt like a damned fool. Alone. Vulnerable. The others would have found me before I even had a chance to die. Dragged me back. Bound my hands if they had to.

 

He swallowed hard, pushing that image away.

 

No. No, I made it this far. I will keep moving. I will disappear.

 

The cold clung to his skin, the damp fabric of his tunic sticking to his chest as he wove through the trees. He needed to stay ahead, needed to keep his scent masked. The river had helped, but not enough.

 

They will look for me. They already are. Diomedes will tell them. He’ll say I ran. He’ll say I fell into the river. Agamemnon won’t believe it. He’ll think it’s a trick, that I was taken, that I was killed. He’ll tear the camp apart trying to prove himself right.

 

His breath hitched.

 

Eurylochus will deny it. He’ll refuse to hear it. He’ll say I wouldn’t leave them. He’ll search for proof. He’ll find it.

 

He pushed harder, ducking beneath low branches, feeling their tips scrape against his shoulders as he pressed deeper into the wilderness. The terrain was rough, uneven. His legs burned, but he didn’t stop.

 

Athena. Athena will come.

 

The thought nearly sent him sprawling.

 

She would come, as she always did, pulling him back into the fate she had woven for him. He could almost hear her now, a whisper in the wind, a teasing hum at the back of his mind.

 

"Running, my dear Odysseus? How bold of you to think you have a choice."

 

His jaw clenched.

 

I won’t go back.

 

He forced his breathing to steady, forced the panic down, forced his body to move faster.

 

She’ll follow my scent. She always does. I am hers, after all, aren’t I? Her favorite. Her chosen. Her puppet.

 

His hands fisted at his sides.

 

No. No, not this time.

 

His eyes darted around, searching, searching—there. A thick patch of wild herbs, sharp and pungent. He dropped to his knees, fingers digging through the damp earth, pulling at the plants, crushing their leaves between his hands. The scent clung to his skin, strong and overwhelming.

 

Mask the smell. Mask everything. She won’t find me. She won’t drag me back.

 

He ran his hands over his arms, over his tunic, smearing the crushed herbs against his skin. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.

 

I am not hers. I am not theirs. I am free.

 

Odysseus rose, exhaling sharply. His body ached, his mind a whirlwind, but his path was set.

 

He turned toward the dark expanse of the wild, and ran.

 

Odysseus pushed deeper into the wilderness, his breaths sharp and uneven as he scanned his surroundings. His body ached, his mind burned, but he forced himself to focus. If he wanted to stay ahead, if he wanted to disappear, he needed to think. He needed to be smart.

 

His scent was still on him, clinging to his skin, soaked into his tunic, trailing behind him like a beacon. Athena would find it, if not her, then the hounds.

 

I need something stronger. Something to drown it out completely.

 

His gaze darted across the forest floor, scanning for anything familiar, anything useful. The crushed herbs had helped, but they wouldn’t last long. He needed more. Something stronger.

 

His eyes locked onto a patch of wild plants growing near the base of a fallen tree. He dropped to his knees, fingers digging into the dirt, tearing at the leaves. He brought one to his nose, inhaling deeply. The scent was sharp, almost acrid, like crushed garlic and damp earth. He knew this smell.

 

Allium. Wild onion. Strong, but not enough.

 

He tossed it aside, moving quickly to another plant, one with jagged leaves and tiny, pale yellow flowers clustered at its stem. He ran his fingers over its rough texture, pinched off a leaf, and rubbed it between his hands. A thick, pungent aroma hit his nose—bitter, earthy, with a tinge of rot.

 

Artemisia. Good for masking scent. Strong enough? Maybe. But not on its own.

 

He grabbed a handful, shoving it into his bag before moving to the next patch of greenery. A tangle of dark green stalks caught his eye, their tops crowned with tiny white blossoms. He plucked one, rolling it between his fingers. The scent was faint at first, but as the petals bruised, a sharp, almost medicinal bitterness rose from them.

 

Yarrow. His mind churned through half-forgotten knowledge, pieces of information picked up over years of travel, from healers, from old women in the villages, from battlefield necessity. Stops bleeding. Good for wounds. Useless for this.

 

He discarded it, his movements growing more frantic. He didn’t have time to be cautious, to second-guess. The wind could shift at any moment, carrying his scent back toward the river, back toward—

 

His fingers brushed against something thick and waxy. A plant with deep green leaves, its scent heavy and cloying even before he crushed it. He knew this one. Knew it well.

 

Hellebore.

 

His stomach twisted.

 

A dangerous plant. A killer’s plant. The roots, the leaves, the flowers—every part of it could poison a man. Too much could make the heart stutter, make the body seize. But the smell… the smell was strong. Pungent enough to overpower anything else if used right.

 

His fingers trembled for a moment before he ripped the plant from the earth.

 

Desperate men take desperate measures.

 

Odysseus shoved the herbs into his chiton, his heart pounding.

 

No more hesitating. No more thinking.

 

He needed to cover himself in the scent of the wild, erase himself from the gods, from men, from everything that had bound him for so long.

 

Taking one last breath, he turned and ran, the scent of crushed leaves clinging to his skin as he vanished into the trees.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

 

Meanwhile, back at camp, the air was thick with tension, suffocating like the smoke of a battlefield pyre. The crackling of torches and the distant murmurs of uneasy soldiers filled the space between the shouted accusations and frantic arguments.

At the center of it all stood Athena.

 

Or, rather—she loomed.

 

Her eyes blazed, wild and sharp, her entire being thrumming with something beyond mortal anger. It wasn’t just rage—it was disbelief, it was offense, it was something that made the very air around her hum with an unspoken threat.

 

"Find him."

 

Her voice was low, dangerous, curling like smoke around the assembled warriors. It wasn't a request. It wasn’t even an order. It was law.

 

No one moved. No one breathed.

 

"Find. Him."

 

The brazier flames behind her flared high as if caught in a sudden gust of wind, though the night remained still. The shadows around her seemed to stretch unnaturally, warping in response to the force of her will.

 

Agamemnon, red-faced and bristling, took a step forward, refusing— or perhaps too foolish —to cower.

 

“This is absurd,” he barked, gesturing wildly. “Odysseus wouldn’t just— leave. Someone took him. The Trojans. Or some rogue band of Thracians. Or perhaps he—”

 

“He ran. ” Diomedes’ voice cut through the din, flat and cold.

 

Agamemnon’s head snapped toward him. “You don’t know that.”

 

Diomedes let out a breath, slow and measured, his jaw tight. "I do."

 

Silence fell.

 

Eurylochus, who had been pale and shaking, suddenly stepped forward. "No," he muttered, shaking his head. "No, you’re wrong. Odysseus wouldn't— he wouldn’t. " His voice cracked, raw with desperation. "He has a wife, a son, a kingdom waiting for him. He promised —"

 

Diomedes turned to face him fully, his expression unreadable. "He ran, Eurylochus."

 

"You’re lying."

 

Diomedes exhaled sharply, as if the whole conversation was an unnecessary inconvenience. "I chased him. I saw him. He ran from me —from all of this—into the woods. Into the river. I tried to call him back, but he—"

 

“Enough.”

 

Athena’s voice silenced them all.

 

She was seething.

 

A muscle twitched in her jaw, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. Her golden gaze flickered, calculating, burning.

 

“He is mine.”

 

The declaration sent a shiver through the gathered warriors.

 

She turned sharply, her movements unnaturally smooth, predatory. The shadows twisted around her feet as she stepped forward. "You will search. Everywhere. You will not stop. Not until he is dragged back here—by his hair, if necessary."

 

Eurylochus looked sick, his hands shaking. “You don’t have to—he wouldn’t have gone far. He—”

 

Athena’s head snapped toward him so fast it was inhuman.

 

“He is not yours to defend.”

 

Eurylochus flinched.

 

Her chest rose and fell with barely contained fury, her breath sharp and dangerous. Then, just as suddenly, she stilled. Her eyes narrowed, her nostrils flaring slightly.

 

Something was wrong.

 

Her connection to him—her mark on him—was fading.

 

No. No, that wasn’t possible. She had woven herself into him, into his very essence. She could always sense him, no matter how far he went, no matter where he ran. She could find him in a storm , in the deepest dark of the sea—

 

Her stomach turned.

 

Her tracking thread had snapped.

 

A sharp crack split the air as her fist slammed into the wooden table beside her, splintering the surface, sending scrolls and goblets flying.

 

The warriors recoiled, tension thick as smoke.

 

Agamemnon watched her, a wary look in his eye. "What—?"

 

"He knows. " Her voice was low, shaking with something dark, something dangerous. "He knows how I find him. "

 

For the first time that night, Athena felt real, actual panic.

 

Because Odysseus was running.

 

And this time, she had no idea where he had gone.

 

Athena stood motionless, her fingers still curled into the shattered remains of the table. Splinters bit into her palm, but she barely felt them.

 

This wasn’t possible.

 

Her mind raced, latching onto every possibility, every reason, every mistake.

 

Odysseus was hers.

 

He was her favorite , her chosen , the one she had guided, sharpened, shaped into the very thing he was meant to be. He was not supposed to be able to do this.

 

And yet—

 

He had.

 

Her connection to him—so steady, so constant —had snapped like a frayed thread. She had never lost him before. She had never not known where he was. Even in his darkest moments, even when he was blind to her presence, she had always felt him. Always.

 

But now?

 

Now there was nothing.

 

Her breath came fast and shallow, her chest tight, her mind spiraling faster than she could rein it in.

 

How? How?

 

He had to have removed something. A mark. A charm. Something that bound him to her. But what?

 

A flash of memory.

 

The cloak.

 

She had given it to him long ago, when he was younger, when she had first marked him as her own. It was subtle—no magic to be seen, no divine weight to be felt. Just a humble, unassuming thing. But it carried her touch, her presence. Through it, she could always find him.

 

And he had thrown it away.

 

The realization hit her like a spear to the chest.

 

He knew. He knew what she had done.

 

He knew, and he had—

 

No. No, no, no.

 

Her hands curled into fists, her nails digging into her palms, breath coming in sharp, rapid bursts.

 

He had planned this. He had been planning this.

 

How long? How long had he been thinking about running? How long had he been pretending —playing his role, all while scheming behind her back?

 

Her stomach twisted with something ugly.

 

Was this her fault?

 

Had she not given him enough ? Had she not guided him, protected him? Was he so ungrateful that he would throw it all away— throw her away—

 

No. No, this wasn’t about gratitude.

 

This was defiance.

 

This was Odysseus doing what he always did. Finding the cracks. Slipping through the gaps. Escaping.

 

He was mocking her.

 

A sudden rush of fury burned through her veins, so hot it made her dizzy. Her heart thundered, her vision blurred at the edges.

 

He would not get away with this.

 

He thought he could run from her?

 

Thought he could cast her aside like some discarded tool?

 

She would show him.

 

He could strip himself bare, he could throw himself into the river, he could crawl through the dirt like a wretched animal—

 

She would still find him.

 

She would drag him back.

 

By his hair, by his throat, by his bones if she had to.

 

Odysseus belonged to her.

 

And she would make him remember that.

 

Polites sat in the corner of the tent, his hands gripping the edge of his knees so tightly his knuckles had gone white. He had barely spoken since the news broke. He hadn't raged like Agamemnon, hadn’t spiraled like Eurylochus, hadn’t panicked like Athena.

 

He just sat there. Silent. Staring.

 

Like if he held still enough, breathed quietly enough, he’d wake up and this would all be some sick, twisted nightmare.

 

But it wasn’t.

 

Odysseus was gone. He had left.

 

Without him.

 

The thought struck him again, curling into his ribs like a blade, sharp and unforgiving.

 

Odysseus had left without him.

 

He clenched his jaw, but the pain in his chest only deepened.

 

He could understand running. Gods, of all people, he could understand. He had spent years watching Odysseus suffer under the weight of this war, of expectation, of duty. He had seen the exhaustion in his commander’s eyes, the quiet way he bore the burden of men who would never understand just how much he carried.

 

If anyone deserved to slip away, to find freedom, it was Odysseus.

 

But why hadn’t he told him?

 

Why hadn’t he taken him?

 

Polites had been at his side for everything. Through every battle, every storm, every bloodstained night. He had followed Odysseus without hesitation, trusted him without question. He had been loyal.

 

And Odysseus had still left him behind.

 

His throat tightened.

 

He felt like a fool.

 

Had he not been worthy of knowing? Had Odysseus seen him as just another soldier, another pawn in his grand game of survival? Had all those nights spent at his side, all those whispered conversations by firelight, meant nothing?

 

His breathing hitched, but he swallowed hard and forced it down.

 

No. No, Odysseus wasn’t like that. He wasn’t.

 

He wasn’t heartless, wasn’t cruel. He cared —Polites knew that.

 

So why?

 

Why had he left him?

 

Polites dug his fingers into his scalp, pressing his palms against his forehead, his body trembling with the weight of everything he couldn’t say, couldn’t ask.

 

Maybe Odysseus thought he wouldn’t want to go. Maybe he thought he was better off here. Maybe he thought—

 

Polites’ chest clenched.

 

Maybe Odysseus had been willing to die alone rather than risk him.

 

That thought made him sick.

 

His stomach churned, nausea rising like bile in his throat. He wanted to scream, to demand answers, to chase after him—

 

But he couldn’t.

 

Odysseus was gone.

 

And for the first time in his life, Polites didn’t know if he’d ever see him again.

 

Menelaus sat at the edge of the tent, his head in his hands, gripping his hair so tightly that his nails dug into his scalp. His breathing was shallow, uneven, like he was trying to steady himself but failing, over and over again. His fingers trembled. His chest ached. He could hear Agamemnon shouting, could hear Athena unraveling, could hear Eurylochus choking on his own disbelief—but none of it registered.

 

Odysseus was gone.

 

Not dead. Not wounded. Gone.

 

Menelaus squeezed his eyes shut, his pulse hammering against his skull. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

 

Odysseus wasn’t the one who left. Odysseus wasn’t the one who ran. He was the one who fixed things, who got them out of disasters, not the one who caused them.

 

But he had left.

 

He had abandoned them.

 

Menelaus let out a sharp breath, his throat tightening. His hands clenched into fists, his nails biting into his palms.

 

Didn’t Odysseus know what would happen? Didn’t he understand what he had just done?

 

This wasn’t just any man running. This wasn’t some nameless soldier slipping away in the dead of night.

 

This was Odysseus.

 

The man who had held the Greeks together by sheer force of will. The man who had talked them out of self-destruction again and again. The man who had made sure they hadn’t crumbled under the weight of their own stupidity.

 

If he was gone—

 

If he was really gone—

 

Menelaus swallowed hard, a shuddering breath forcing its way out of his lungs. The weight of it pressed down on his chest, heavy, suffocating.

 

Agamemnon was still shouting. Someone—Diomedes?—was trying to explain what had happened. Athena was seething, furious, ready to tear apart the heavens themselves.

 

Menelaus barely heard them.

 

He could only hear the blood rushing in his ears, the frantic pounding of his own heart.

 

He wasn’t ready for this.

 

They needed Odysseus.

 

Menelaus needed him.

 

Not just as a tactician, not just as a leader— he needed him.

 

Odysseus was the only one who had kept him sane through all of this. The only one who had seen him cracking beneath the weight of it all, the only one who had pulled him back when he had been drowning in his own failures.

 

He had been the only one to sit with him, to talk him down, to remind him that he wasn’t alone.

 

And now he was.

 

A harsh, ragged breath tore out of him, his shoulders shaking. He pressed his knuckles against his mouth, forcing himself to keep it together, but his vision was blurring, his chest seizing with something sharp and unbearable.

 

Gods, he wasn’t strong enough for this.

 

If Odysseus was really gone—

 

If Odysseus had really chosen to leave—

 

Menelaus wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold himself together.

 

Menelaus sucked in a sharp breath, his lungs burning, his whole body shaking with something raw and unbearable. His mind kept looping back, spiraling, dragging him into a pit he did not want to fall into—but it was too late.

 

Odysseus left him.

 

The words pounded against his skull, his ribs, his bones.

 

Just like she did.

 

Just like Helen.

 

The breath in his chest stuttered, something ugly curling in his stomach. It was the same feeling, the same hollow, gasping ache that had nearly destroyed him when he had woken up in Sparta to find their bed empty, their home silent. The same cold horror that had gripped him when he realized she was gone. That she had been stolen by someone else.

 

That she had been taken.

 

And now Odysseus—Odysseus, of all people—

 

His vision blurred again, and his throat closed so tightly it hurt.

 

No. No, no, no, no.

 

It wasn’t the same.

 

It wasn’t.

 

Helen had been forced away from him. She had been stolen from him, she had no choice in the matter.

 

But Odysseus—

 

Odysseus wasn’t—

 

Menelaus swallowed, his breath shuddering. Wasn’t he?

 

Didn’t it always come down to the same thing?

 

People left.

 

No matter what he did. No matter how tightly he held onto them. No matter how much he loved them.

 

They always left.

 

Menelaus pressed the heel of his palm against his eyes, his whole body trembling. He could still hear the others—Agamemnon raging, Athena spiraling, Polites breaking —but their voices blurred into meaningless noise, distant and unreal.

 

All he could hear was his own heartbeat, the ragged sound of his own breathing.

 

He left. He left. He left.

 

Odysseus had always been there. Odysseus had always been the one thing Menelaus could rely on, the one person who could see him unraveling and pull him back together. The one who never looked at him with pity, the one who never treated him like he was weak.

 

And now he was gone.

 

Menelaus gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. His hands curled into fists, his nails biting into his palms.

 

He wouldn’t break.

 

Not here. Not now.

 

But gods—

 

How the fuck was he supposed to survive this?

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Odysseus exhaled slowly, his back pressed against the jagged surface of a boulder, his body finally still after what felt like hours of running. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm now, though the ghost of exhaustion still clung to his limbs. The night was quiet, save for the distant rustling of the wind through the trees and the occasional chirp of unseen creatures.

 

He stared up at the sky, eyes tracing the constellations. He could almost hear the mocking laughter of the gods, as if they were watching him like a pack of vultures, waiting to see which way he would break.

 

Over the sea… or by land?

 

His jaw tightened.

 

The sea was the faster route, but Poseidon— that insufferable, salt-drenched bastard —would sense him the moment he touched the waves. And if Poseidon knew, then Athena would know. And if Athena knew—

 

Odysseus let out a low, humorless chuckle. He’d be dragged back by his ankles before he could take five goddamn steps.

 

But land wasn’t much better. If he went by land, he’d be slow. He’d be forced to navigate through unfamiliar terrain, avoid patrols, steal food when his ran out. Worse, if someone recognized him, he’d be in deep shit. His name carried weight, and while that was a useful thing in most cases, right now it would be the rope around his neck.

 

He sighed, rubbing his hand down his face.

 

“So,” he muttered to himself, voice dry, “do I piss off the earth-shaker, or give Athena time to hunt me down like a damn hound?”

 

Neither was appealing.

 

Poseidon would tip off Athena in a heartbeat if it meant having a favor from her. And Athena—

 

Odysseus winced, recalling the way her presence had pressed against his mind back at camp, raw and demanding as she screamed his name across the veil of mortality. He could still feel it, faint and distant now, but there. Searching. Hunting.

 

Shit.

 

He tilted his head back against the stone, staring blankly at the sky.

 

“Maybe I should just let a bear eat me and save everyone the trouble,” he muttered, voice laced with dry amusement.

 

The stars flickered overhead, silent and indifferent.

 

Gods, what a fucking mess.

 

Odysseus let out a slow breath, forcing himself to focus. He needed to think , not wallow in the inevitability of divine wrath. His stomach twisted uncomfortably, a sharp reminder that he hadn’t eaten since—he actually couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. Food first. Then he could figure out how to keep one step ahead of Athena.

 

His eyes flickered around the darkened forest, searching. His supplies were meager, and if he wanted to make it through this journey, he couldn’t rely on them alone. His gaze landed on a tree just a few paces away—tall, sturdy, its branches weighed down with small, round fruit.

 

Apples.

 

A rare stroke of luck.

 

Odysseus pushed off the rock and strode toward the tree, rolling his shoulders. He placed a hand against the bark, feeling its rough texture beneath his fingertips. Good grip. He could climb it. He had to climb it—his legs were aching from the run, but hunger gnawed at his insides with an insistence he couldn’t ignore.

 

With a quiet grunt, he hoisted himself up, boots scraping against the bark as he pulled himself higher. The branches creaked under his weight, but he moved carefully, testing each hold before shifting forward. His fingers wrapped around a particularly thick limb, and he swung himself up onto it, straddling the branch as he reached out for the nearest apple.

 

The fruit was smooth beneath his palm, firm and cool from the night air. He twisted it free with a satisfying snap and brought it close, sniffing it cautiously. It smelled fresh—sweet, almost. No sign of rot. No signs of tampering.

 

Not that poison would be the worst thing that could happen to him right now.

 

With a quiet exhale, he took a bite. The taste exploded on his tongue—crisp, tart, and achingly real. He hadn’t realized how starved he was until now. He chewed slowly, savoring the texture, before taking another, larger bite.

 

For a moment, just a moment , he allowed himself to forget the gods, the war, the chase.

 

For now, there was only the night, the tree, and the apple in his hand.

 

Odysseus chewed slowly, his mind drifting as he stared out over the forest canopy. The stars stretched endlessly above him, indifferent to his struggle, cold and distant like the gods themselves. He took another bite of the apple, but the momentary peace it had offered him was already slipping away.

 

Demeter.

 

The thought sent an uneasy chill down his spine. He hadn’t considered her—not until now. He had been so preoccupied with Athena’s inevitable wrath, with Poseidon’s watchful eye over the seas, that he had forgotten her . The goddess of the harvest. The one who ruled over crops and fruit-bearing trees. The one whose domain extended to the very apple he was holding.

 

Odysseus froze mid-chew, his jaw tightening.

 

Would she care?

 

She wasn’t a war goddess, not like Athena or Ares. She didn’t meddle in battle strategy or glory. But she was a mother. And gods knew, divine mothers could be viciously protective. If she took offense at him plucking her fruit without offering tribute… if she so much as mentioned him to Athena in passing…

 

He forced himself to swallow, the once-sweet taste turning sour on his tongue.

 

Was there a way to appease her? He could leave an offering—what little he had. Some of the bread, perhaps. A few coins. But would that even be enough? Would she care ? Or had he already sealed his fate the moment he touched the tree?

 

His grip on the apple tightened. He could almost hear Athena’s voice, sharp with amusement, mocking him. You always think you’re so clever, Odysseus. Yet here you are, scurrying like a rat, gnawing at scraps, hoping the gods won’t see you.

 

He clenched his jaw and took another bite. Let her come, he thought bitterly. Let all of them come. I’ll keep running anyway.

 

But even as he thought it, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the gods were already watching. That somewhere, in the vast and tangled threads of fate, a new path had just shifted beneath his feet—and he had no idea where it led.

 

Odysseus exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing a hand down his face as he leaned back against the rough bark of the tree. The apple’s sweetness lingered on his tongue, but it wasn’t enough to settle the gnawing unease in his gut. Something still felt off .

 

His fingers brushed absently against his belt, searching for the familiar weight of his leather bag. It was instinctual—a soldier’s habit, a reassurance that his provisions were still with him. But as soon as his hand met empty air, reality crashed down on him like a wave.

 

The river.

 

His stomach turned as he straightened, sitting up sharply on the thick branch. His supplies—everything he had gathered, everything that would have made this desperate escape possible —had been swept away the moment he hit the rapids. The bread, the water, the few coins he had left. All of it, gone.

 

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, his fingers gripping the bark tighter.

 

He replayed the moment in his mind, cursing himself. He’d been too focused on survival, too busy clawing his way to shore to realize just how much he had lost. And now, here he was—alone, hiding in a tree like a damned squirrel, with nothing but a half-eaten apple and the clothes on his back.

 

Odysseus let his head drop back against the tree trunk, shutting his eyes briefly. Brilliant. Just brilliant.

 

No food. No water. No gold.

 

How long could he last like this? He had spent the last decade on battlefields, enduring deprivation, but at least in war, there were rations. Here, he had nothing. If he stayed in one place too long, he’d starve. If he wandered too far, he’d risk being seen. He was already exposed enough as it was.

 

And if he was found?

 

The thought made his skin prickle. Agamemnon would flay him alive. Athena would drag him back. His men—his men, who still believed in him—would look at him with betrayal burning in their eyes. Polites. Eurylochus. They would demand answers, demand to know why.

 

He let out a slow breath, tilting the apple in his hand, watching the moonlight glint off its pale skin.

 

There was no going back. Not now. He would survive this, just as he had survived everything else. But first, he needed a plan.

 

A real plan.

 

Not just running. Not just hiding.

 

Surviving.

 

Chapter 3: ⟢﹒→﹒Rain・💫

The camp was in chaos. Tension hung thick in the air, suffocating, unbearable. Soldiers murmured in confusion, their voices rising and falling like the crashing tide. But above it all—above the frantic discussions, above the desperate speculations—one voice cut through, raw and furious.

 

Achilles was losing it.

 

His chest heaved with every breath, his hands clenched into trembling fists at his sides. His golden hair was disheveled, his eyes wild with unrestrained fury. The veins in his neck stood taut, his entire body wound so tight that it looked as though he might snap at any moment.

 

"HE RAN ?" Achilles roared, his voice shaking with disbelief, rage, betrayal . "That bastard RAN?! ODYSSEUS? " His breath hitched, his hands twitching as if they ached to grab something—someone—to break, to shake answers out of. "No. No, that’s bullshit —he wouldn’t just leave! "

 

"Achilles—"

 

"Shut UP, Patroclus!" Achilles turned on him, his expression twisted with something raw, something cracked . "You heard them! Diomedes chased him—he ran like a fucking coward! He—" His voice caught, something ugly forming in his throat, something he refused to name. "He left us. He LEFT us!"

 

Patroclus reached for him, but Achilles wrenched away, pacing like a caged animal, his breath ragged, his entire body burning with unspent violence.

 

"He lied to us," Achilles spat, his voice lower now, but no less venomous. "He stood beside us, he fought beside us, he made us think he’d see this war through—and then what? He just— "left?" His breathing was too fast, too unsteady. "Like we—like I —like none of this fucking mattered to him?!"

 

Patroclus stepped forward, his hands held up in a silent plea. "Achilles, listen to me—"

 

"No!" Achilles’ voice cracked, and for a moment, his mask of fury fractured —just enough for Patroclus to see the truth underneath. The hurt . The betrayal . The fear.

 

Achilles dragged a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling as he gripped the strands. " He should have told me, " he muttered, half to himself, half to the heavens. " He should have told me! " His breath hitched, and he shook his head, eyes flickering wildly like a man drowning in his own thoughts. "If he wanted to leave—if he hated this war so much—why the fuck didn’t he just—" His words caught in his throat. "Why didn’t he just say something? "

 

Patroclus took another step closer, voice soft but firm. "Achilles. Breathe. "

 

Achilles' jaw clenched. His whole body trembled with the effort to keep himself together . "If I find him," he said, voice dangerously low, "I swear to the gods—"

 

Patroclus reached out, resting a hand on his shoulder. "You will find him," he murmured, steady and sure. "But not like this. You need to think , Achilles. Not rage — "think." ”

 

Achilles shut his eyes, his breath still too ragged, his hands still itching to destroy something, anything . But he didn’t shake Patroclus off this time. He just stood there, body coiled like a bowstring about to snap.

 

And when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. But no less deadly.

 

"He’s not getting away."

 

Patroclus’ mind was racing, thoughts tumbling over each other faster than he could process them. Odysseus is gone. Odysseus is fucking gone. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. Why? The question burned through his skull, over and over again. Why would he leave? Why wouldn’t he tell us?

 

His heart pounded, his throat tight as he watched Achilles shake with rage beside him. This isn’t good. This is really, really not good. He could feel it—Achilles was coming apart at the seams. He was always teetering on the edge, but this? This might be the thing that finally sent him over.

 

Odysseus should have said something. He would have said something. Wouldn’t he? Odysseus wasn’t the type to just disappear without a word. He was a schemer, a planner—he thought ahead . And yet— Diomedes chased him. Odysseus ran. He didn’t fight. He didn’t talk his way out. He just—ran.

 

Patroclus clenched his jaw, trying to push past the rising nausea in his stomach. That didn’t make sense. Running meant desperation. Running meant fear. And Odysseus—he was afraid?

 

The realization made something cold settle in Patroclus’ chest. What scared him so badly that he would rather face the wilds alone than stay here with us?

 

Athena. The thought hit like a thunderclap. Athena had been losing her mind over this. And that— that —was another thing that didn’t make sense. Athena didn’t panic. Athena didn’t lose control. But now? She was frantic. Pacing, spiraling, demanding answers like a mortal who had just realized she was bleeding out.

 

Patroclus sucked in a breath. What did she know? What did she know that none of them did? Because something was wrong .

 

Achilles was still breathing too fast, too hard, his muscles wound so tight he looked like he might snap in half. Patroclus barely resisted the urge to shake him. This is the worst thing that could’ve happened to him. The worst thing that could’ve happened to all of them.

 

Achilles had lost people before. But this? This wasn’t death. This wasn’t fate. This was a choice. And Achilles—Achilles would never forgive that.

 

Patroclus’ mind was moving too fast. How do I stop this? How do I fix this? How do I make sure Achilles doesn’t do something fucking insane?

 

He swallowed hard.

 

We have to find him.

 

Before Achilles does.

 

Nestor sat in the middle of the chaos, his weathered hands folded over his knees, his brows drawn together in deep lines of concern. He had lived through wars, through kings’ tempers, through the madness of men and gods alike—but this? This was something else entirely.

 

He watched as Athena paced like a caged lioness, her movements erratic, her eyes burning with something unnatural. She looked less like a goddess and more like a woman on the verge of a breakdown, and that alone sent an uneasy ripple through his chest. Athena did not panic. Athena did not spiral. And yet—there she was, unraveling before his eyes.

 

Then there was Achilles—practically foaming at the mouth, shaking with fury, his hands clenched into fists so tight Nestor wouldn’t have been surprised if his nails drew blood. Patroclus was speaking to him in hushed tones, but Achilles wasn’t listening. He was too far gone. If someone didn’t step in soon, he’d tear through the entire camp looking for Odysseus, and Nestor had the sickening feeling that if Achilles did find him first… there would be no reasoning with him.

 

And then there was Menelaus, pale as a ghost, staring at the ground like it had personally betrayed him. Nestor knew that look. He had seen it before, after Helen. That lost, hollow look that said everyone leaves me, don’t they? Nestor’s heart ached, but there were more pressing matters at hand.

 

He let out a long breath, rubbing a hand over his beard. Odysseus is gone. Truly gone.

 

And that was the part Nestor couldn’t quite wrap his head around.

 

Gone? Just like that?

 

Odysseus wasn’t the type to vanish without a trace. He was a trickster, a man of careful calculations and foresight. If he was gone , it meant he had planned for this—or worse, that something had driven him to it with no plan at all.

 

And yet, Diomedes had confessed—his voice cold, distant, and yet strangely raw —that Odysseus had run from him. That he had fled into the woods without looking back. That he had fallen into the river. That he had vanished.

 

Nestor exhaled, slow and measured.

 

"This isn’t like him," he murmured, mostly to himself.

 

Polites let out a shaky breath from where he sat, arms wrapped around his knees. "You think I don’t know that?" His voice cracked. "He wouldn’t just— he wouldn’t leave me! "

 

Nestor frowned, his mind churning. The pieces weren’t fitting together. Not yet. But something was wrong. Something bigger than all of this.

 

He glanced toward Athena again, watching the way her fingers curled, watching the way her breath came sharp and shallow.

 

And for the first time since this mess began, a new, unsettling thought crept into his mind.

 

Is she afraid?

 

Because if Athena was afraid —if the gods themselves were losing their grip—then what did that mean for them?

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Odysseus lay sprawled across a thick tree branch, one arm dangling lazily over the side, his fingers idly plucking at the leaves. The apple he had plucked earlier sat half-eaten in his other hand, the cool night air brushing against his skin as he chewed slowly, savoring the crisp sweetness.

It was almost peaceful.

 

Almost.

 

His muscles ached from the relentless running, and his clothes were still damp from his unfortunate tumble into the river, but for now, he had no immediate threats clawing at his heels. No Diomedes barking after him, no Athena swooping down from the heavens, no Achilles hunting him down like a rabid dog. Just him, the tree, and the faint rustling of the wind through the leaves.

 

Odysseus exhaled, shifting slightly to find a more comfortable position. So. What now?

 

The war camp was undoubtedly in chaos by now. He could see it in his mind—Agamemnon losing his mind, Achilles probably throwing things, Menelaus having a crisis, and Athena? Oh, she was absolutely seething. The thought almost made him grin.

 

But it wouldn’t last.

 

Athena would find him if he wasn’t careful. She would drag him back to the war kicking and screaming if she had to. No, no, no, can’t have that. He had ditched the cloak—that would buy him some time—but time was a fickle thing, and he needed to decide his next move.

 

By land or by sea?

 

He let his head tilt back against the trunk, staring at the stars above him, mind flickering through possibilities. If he went by sea, Poseidon might tip Athena off. If he went by land, he had to worry about patrols and wild animals—and worse, the damn gods.

 

A sigh escaped him.

 

"Maybe I should just sprout wings and fly," he muttered to himself, lips twitching at the absurdity. "See how the gods like that. "

 

A leaf fluttered down, landing on his chest. He stared at it.

 

I should probably keep moving soon, he thought, but his body felt heavy, and the idea of staying just a little longer—just one more moment of quiet—was tempting.

 

Odysseus shut his eyes, letting the sound of the rustling leaves lull him into something dangerously close to comfort.

 

Odysseus exhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded as he let himself sink into the quiet. The stars above him blurred as his mind wandered, twisting through thoughts he wasn’t sure he wanted to have.

 

No one was coming for him.

 

Why would they?

 

Athena wasn’t scouring the land out of some deep, undying loyalty to him—no, she was chasing him because of pride. Because she had chosen him, because she had shaped him, because she had made him her favorite, her prized mortal. And now, like a child whose toy had suddenly disappeared, she was throwing a fit. That’s all it is. That’s all it ever was.

 

She never truly cared about him.

 

And the others? The men he had fought beside, laughed with, bled with? They weren’t wasting time mourning his absence. The war would go on, and they would move forward, because that’s what soldiers do.

 

Maybe Polites would miss him. Maybe Eurylochus would rage and deny it. Maybe Diomedes would be pissed about having to chase him down like a stray dog.

 

But no one would truly care.

 

They’ll just call me a coward and be done with it.

 

A bitter laugh escaped him. It was better this way, wasn’t it? If they didn’t care, they wouldn’t chase him. If they didn’t care, they’d let him disappear into the night, let him slip into obscurity, let him finally, finally be free.

 

His fingers tightened around the apple core in his hand before he tossed it into the darkness below, listening to the faint thump as it hit the ground.

 

Let them think what they want.

 

He was done.

 

Odysseus shifted his weight, adjusting his position against the tree trunk. His limbs were sore, exhaustion pressing heavy against his body, but for the first time in what felt like years, he wasn’t on high alert. The night air was cool, and the leaves rustled softly around him.

 

Maybe he’d sleep here. Maybe he wouldn’t move at all. Maybe he’d just—

 

The branch beneath him let out a warning creak.

 

His eyes widened.

 

Oh, no.

 

Before he could react, the wood gave way with a sharp snap, and suddenly, he was plummeting through the air.

 

“ Shit— ”

 

He hit the ground with a solid thud, landing flat on his ass. Pain shot up his spine, and his breath left him in a wheezing gasp. He lay there for a moment, stunned, staring up at the canopy above as the broken branch tumbled down beside him with an almost mocking finality.

 

The shock wore off quickly, replaced by a deep, simmering irritation.

 

“Of course, ” he muttered bitterly. “Of course the gods can launch me through a war, drag me through a river, and have half of Olympus breathing down my neck, but this is what gets me.”

 

Groaning, he rolled onto his side, rubbing his lower back with a wince. He felt like an old man. No—he felt like a fool.

 

Maybe the universe was trying to tell him something.

 

Or maybe the universe just hated him.

 

Odysseus stayed on the ground for a long moment, pressing a hand against his lower back and exhaling sharply through his nose. The pain was manageable, but the humiliation? That was unbearable. If anyone had seen that, he would never live it down.

 

His cloak was gone, his supplies were gone, and now his dignity had joined them at the bottom of the river.

 

“Brilliant. Just brilliant. ” He let his head fall back against the dirt with a sigh. “At this rate, I should throw myself into the sea and really make a spectacle of it.”

 

The thought sent a shudder through him. No, he wasn’t that desperate yet. Yet.

 

Sitting up with a grimace, he dusted himself off and shot a glare at the tree, as if it had personally betrayed him. “You were supposed to hold me, you traitorous pile of twigs.”

 

The tree said nothing.

 

Because it’s a fucking tree.

 

Odysseus dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head. Talking to a tree. Gods, he really was losing it.

 

A breeze rolled through the forest, cool against his sweat-damp skin, rustling the leaves around him. He needed to move. He needed a plan. Lying around sulking wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He’d wasted enough time already.

 

With a groan, he hauled himself to his feet, rolling his shoulders to shake off the soreness. His stomach gave a faint, traitorous growl. Right. No supplies, no food, and no clear direction except away.

 

He glanced up at the sky, where the stars gleamed cold and distant.

 

“I don’t suppose any of you would like to offer some guidance?” he muttered. “No? That’s fine. Wasn’t expecting much.”

 

A leaf drifted down and landed in his hair.

 

Odysseus swiped it away with a huff and turned his gaze forward, deeper into the wilderness. He would have to keep moving. He didn’t know if Athena was searching yet, or if the others were still scrambling in the camp, but he wouldn’t give them the chance to catch up.

 

One foot in front of the other. That was all he could do now.

 

He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and stepped forward, disappearing into the dark embrace of the forest once more.

 

Odysseus trudged through the underbrush, each step crunching against fallen leaves and twigs. His ass still ached from his spectacular fall, and the soreness in his limbs was settling in like an old friend. Just perfect. He was cold, hungry, and utterly alone, and to top it all off, he was now holding a grudge against a tree.

 

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, rubbing at his lower back. “Running through the woods like a fugitive, falling out of trees like some half-wit. Gods above, what am I doing?”

 

He sighed and ran a hand through his damp, tangled hair. “Could be sleeping on a proper bedroll right now. Could have a fire. Could have food that isn’t stolen from a tree like a damn squirrel. But no, Odysseus just had to make things difficult for himself. Because apparently, I can’t do anything the easy way.”

 

A branch smacked him across the face.

 

Odysseus froze, nostrils flaring. He reached up, yanked the offending branch down, and glared at it.

 

“Oh, you think you’re funny, do you?” he growled. “You and that tree back there must be working together.”

 

He released it with a flick of his fingers, watching as it snapped back into place. Muttering under his breath, he pressed forward, brushing leaves and brambles out of his way with growing irritation. His patience, already hanging by a thread, was wearing dangerously thin.

 

His stomach grumbled again, louder this time.

 

“Right, yes, I know I need to eat,” he snapped at no one in particular. “But in case you haven’t noticed, I lost everything in the river, so unless you’d like me to gnaw on bark, I suggest you shut up. ”

 

Silence.

 

Odysseus exhaled sharply. “Didn’t think so.”

 

He glanced around, eyes scanning the trees. His fall had thrown off his sense of direction, and now he wasn’t entirely sure which way led toward the coast and which way led deeper into the wild. Brilliant. He should have marked his path, but he had been too busy feeling sorry for himself. Now he was paying for it.

 

With a frustrated groan, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “No plan, no supplies, no gods-damned clue where I am.” He shook his head, muttering to himself as he pushed forward. “If I die out here, I swear on the Styx, I’m going to haunt someone. And it won’t be one of the bastards who deserves it. No, it’ll be Palamedes. Just to spite him.”

 

That thought gave him a flicker of amusement, but it was short-lived. He needed to figure something out soon. The longer he wandered aimlessly, the higher the chance of getting caught—or worse, starving before he even made it anywhere worth escaping to.

 

Odysseus took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and kept walking, grumbling under his breath as he disappeared further into the trees.

 

Odysseus’ stomach growled again, a deep, insistent ache that gnawed at his patience. He needed food. Anything. Even just a mouthful to keep him going. He scanned the forest floor, eyes darting between the roots and underbrush, searching for something— anything —that could be eaten.

 

Then, he saw it.

 

A rabbit.

 

Small, brown, and oblivious, it nibbled at a patch of grass a few feet away, its little nose twitching as it chewed. Odysseus froze, barely daring to breathe. His heart pounded. His muscles tensed. This was it. This was his chance.

 

Slowly, he crouched, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet. His fingers curled into the dirt. He hadn’t hunted like this in years, not without a bow or even a knife, but he was a soldier. He had wrestled men to the ground, fought with nothing but his hands before. How hard could it be to catch a rabbit?

 

He took a slow, measured breath, eyes locked on his target.

 

Then, he lunged.

 

His hands stretched forward, his body launching toward the rabbit with everything he had—

 

—only for the creature to dart out of the way at the last second.

 

Odysseus barely had time to register his failure before he crashed face-first into the ground with an oomph, his arms outstretched in what could only be described as the most undignified pose of his life.

 

For a moment, he just lay there.

 

Face in the dirt. Pride in ruins. Stomach still empty.

 

The rabbit, now a safe distance away, sat up on its hind legs and stared at him, as if it knew how pathetic he looked.

 

Odysseus groaned into the earth.

 

"Of course, " he muttered, voice muffled by the dirt. "Of course, this is my life now."

 

He turned his head just enough to glare at the rabbit, which had the audacity to flick its ears at him before hopping off into the underbrush, leaving him humiliated and still starving.

 

Lifting his face from the ground, he let out a deep sigh and rolled onto his back, staring up at the canopy of leaves above him.

 

“Brilliant. Just brilliant.” He let his head fall back with a soft thud against the ground. “First the tree, now this. What’s next? Will the sky spit on me?”

 

The universe, mercifully, did not answer.

 

Odysseus exhaled through his nose, rubbing his sore forehead. He was bruised, exhausted, and utterly defeated by a rabbit.

 

This escape was not going well.

 

A raindrop splattered against Odysseus’ cheek.

 

Then another.

 

Then a lot more.

 

Within seconds, the sky opened up, releasing a cold, relentless downpour that soaked through his already-worn tunic. The wind stirred the trees, sending water cascading from the leaves above, drenching him further.

 

Odysseus groaned and shut his eyes. “I knew it,” he muttered. “I knew the sky would spit on me.”

 

The rain was cold, seeping into his skin, making his muscles ache more than they already did. He dragged a hand down his face, wiping away the wetness, but it was pointless—he was already soaked to the bone.

 

Then, a far worse realization hit him.

 

The mud.

 

His eyes snapped open.

 

He sat up fast, scanning the ground. The dry earth was gone, replaced by slick, glistening patches of wet dirt, softening under the relentless rain. His stomach twisted. If the downpour continued, the ground would turn into nothing but mud. And mud meant footprints.

 

Shit.

 

He scrambled to his feet, eyes darting to the path behind him. The river had erased his trail before, but if anyone was looking for him now— if Athena was still searching —they wouldn’t need divine sight to follow him. All they’d have to do was look down.

 

His footprints would be stamped clearly into the earth, every step a betrayal of his presence, leading straight to him.

 

“Shit, shit, shit,” he hissed under his breath, glancing around frantically. He needed to think. Fast.

 

The forest stretched around him in every direction, dense but not enough to fully hide him if someone was tracking him. His best chance was to find a way to mask his trail.

 

Without hesitation, he turned and sprinted toward the riverbank. His feet slid against the wet ground, but he forced himself forward. If I can just follow the water for a while…

 

The rain pounded harder. The wind howled through the trees. The mud clung to his legs, making every step a battle.

 

He had to move .

 

Because if Athena or anyone from camp caught his trail, this escape would end before it even truly began.

 

Odysseus skidded to a stop, eyes darting to the nearest tree. Think, think, think. If the mud would betray him, then the only solution was to not touch the ground at all.

 

His gaze flicked up the trunk, scanning the branches above. The bark was rough and slick with rain, but the limbs looked sturdy enough. If he could get high enough, he could move through the trees instead of leaving tracks behind like a fool trudging through wet earth.

 

He took a deep breath. Right. Time to climb.

 

Digging his fingers into the bark, he hoisted himself up, his muscles groaning in protest. His tunic clung to him, soaked and heavy, making every movement harder. The rain made everything slippery, but Odysseus gritted his teeth and pressed on, finding footholds where he could.

 

He swung one leg over a thick branch and pulled himself up, steadying his breathing as he adjusted his weight. The branch dipped slightly under him, but it held. Good.

 

Slowly, carefully, he reached for another branch, testing its strength before shifting his body toward it. He moved with practiced ease, years of scaling rocky cliffs in Ithaca giving him the instinct to balance, to adjust, to not fall on his ass again.

 

Higher and higher he climbed, until he was perched safely above the muddy forest floor. He pressed his back against the trunk, catching his breath. Below him, the rain continued to pound the earth, washing away old tracks—but the new ones wouldn’t exist.

 

No footprints. No trail. No evidence that he had ever been there.

 

A slow smirk curled his lips. “Try and track me now, Athena.”

 

The moment the words left his mouth, Odysseus froze.

 

His breath caught in his throat, his body going completely still against the tree trunk. His mind, sharp and unforgiving, immediately replayed the mistake in his head— Try and track me now, Athena. His voice, his arrogance, his own damn hubris.

 

A shiver—not from the rain—ran down his spine. Names had power. They always had. Every sailor knew not to call out to the gods unless they wanted to be heard. Every bard knew that to speak of them was to invite them in.

 

And he had just said her name. Out loud. In mockery.

 

His throat felt tight. You idiot, you absolute fool. His eyes darted around the trees as if expecting her to manifest right then and there, her sharp eyes glowing with divine fury, her spear already swinging for his head.

 

He strained his ears against the rain, heart pounding. Had she heard? Had she already been listening? Had she known exactly where he was this whole time, and this was just the final mistake that sealed his fate?

 

The forest remained quiet—save for the storm.

 

Odysseus swallowed hard. His fingers gripped the branch tighter. His pulse hammered in his ears, but his instincts were already kicking back in. Move. Move now.

 

He shifted carefully along the branch, testing each step, forcing himself to focus. If she had heard him, then he needed to go. Now. If she hadn't — don’t even think that way. He had to assume the worst.

 

His mind spun as he adjusted his plan. He would keep moving, stay high, avoid touching the ground. He needed to mask himself further, to make himself less of what she knew. If she tracked by scent, then the rain was a blessing. If she tracked by sight— don't stop moving.

 

And if she tracked by knowing —if she could already feel the shape of his soul, his mind, his presence—then there was nothing he could do but pray she had just enough pride to give him a head start.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

The moment Odysseus spoke her name, Athena’s head snapped up.

 

The war tent was filled with frantic murmurs, the chaos of men arguing, grieving, demanding answers—but she heard none of it. The sound of her name echoed through her very bones, a pulse of awareness striking her like a spear to the chest. It wasn’t a prayer. It wasn’t reverence.

 

It was mockery.

 

Her breath hitched. For the first time since Odysseus had disappeared, her panic stilled—only for something colder, sharper, and far uglier to take its place.

 

Silence stretched in her mind, deafening. Did he just—

 

She had spent years — years —molding him, guiding him, whispering through his thoughts like the steady hand of fate itself. And this was how he repaid her? With mockery ? With defiance ?

 

"Lady Athena?" Nestor’s voice was cautious, uncertain.

 

She barely heard him. Her vision blurred, her hands clenched into fists so tight that her nails dug into her palms.

 

Odysseus was out there . Alive. Hiding .

 

And he thought he could run from her?

 

The tent seemed to close in around her, too many voices, too much movement, all meaningless compared to the sheer audacity of that man.

 

She inhaled sharply, exhaling in a slow, controlled breath.

 

Fine.

 

He wanted to play this game?

 

Let him run. Let him think he was clever, let him think he had even the slightest chance of escape.

 

Because she would find him.

 

And when she did—

 

She would drag him back herself.

 

Polites sat in the corner of the war tent, hands clenched so tightly in his lap that his nails nearly broke the skin of his palms. He had never been the type for violence. Even in war, he fought because he had to, because it was survival, because it was what was expected of him. But now—now, something unfamiliar boiled in his chest, something raw and ugly and entirely unlike himself.

 

Odysseus was gone .

 

His captain. His friend. The man he had followed through every battle, every hardship, every gods-damned scheme— and he hadn’t even told him .

 

Polites wasn’t stupid. He knew Odysseus could be secretive, could be manipulative when it suited him. He had watched his captain deceive gods and kings alike, spinning lies like silk. But this? Running off in the dead of night, leaving them all behind to deal with the mess he made—leaving him behind—without a single word?

 

It felt like a betrayal so deep it left him hollow.

 

He could hear the others arguing, some in denial, some furious, some already planning ways to track Odysseus down. He barely registered any of it. His mind was stuck on one thought, looping over and over with a sickening intensity.

 

He ran. He abandoned us. He abandoned me.

 

His fingers twitched. His whole body was tense, wound too tight. He had never wanted to hurt anyone before—not truly, not outside of war, not outside of necessity.

 

But if Odysseus were here right now—if he were standing in front of him, with that infuriating smirk and that insufferable wit—

 

For the first time in his life, Polites genuinely thought he might hit him.

 

Chapter 4: ☆﹒—﹒❛﹒⚠﹒Posters and Panic

Odysseus moved swiftly through the trees, his body tense with focus. The rain had turned the earth below into a treacherous mire, thick with mud that would betray every step. He could not afford to leave a trail—not with Athena hunting him like a hound on the scent.

 

His fingers dug into the damp bark as he propelled himself forward, leaping from one branch to the next. Each movement had to be precise. A single misstep would send him plummeting to the ground, where the mud would swallow his tracks but not before marking him as prey.

 

The storm rumbled overhead, the wind whipping through the leaves, rattling the branches beneath his weight. He moved like an animal—silent, wary, desperate.

 

He needed stone .

 

His mind raced as his eyes scanned the terrain ahead, searching for any sign of rocky ground. A riverbank, a cliffside, even a scattering of boulders— anything that would keep his footprints from forming.

 

His arms ached, his breath came in sharp bursts, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. The trees stretched ahead, endless and shifting in the dark, but somewhere, he knew, there had to be solid ground.

 

He just had to reach it before she reached him.

 

A flash of lightning split the sky, illuminating the forest in a ghostly glow. Odysseus swung himself onto a thicker branch, gripping the wet bark as he tried to steady his breath. His muscles burned, but he forced himself to keep going. The rain was relentless now, drumming against the leaves, soaking through his already-drenched tunic. He shoved a hand through his tangled hair, water dripping from the strands.

 

Come on, think. Stone. Where would there be stone?

 

He turned his gaze downward, trying to make out the terrain through the sheets of rain. The forest was dense, but he knew how to read the land. If there was a river nearby, there would be rocky banks. If there were hills, there could be cliffs. He just had to—

 

There.

 

Beyond the tangled mass of trees, the land dipped, revealing the jagged edges of what looked like an outcrop. A sharp incline, lined with stone rather than soil. Relief surged through him, but he didn't slow down. If he could just make it there without leaving a single print behind—

 

A branch cracked beneath his weight.

 

His heart stopped.

 

The sound wasn’t loud, not over the storm, but it was distinct. A break in the natural rhythm. A misplaced sound in the symphony of rain and wind. His breath hitched, and his fingers tightened against the bark.

 

For a moment, he stayed completely still.

 

Listening.

 

Did she hear that?

 

His pulse pounded in his ears, his mind racing. It was foolish to assume she wouldn’t. She was a goddess. A mortal whispering her name was enough to summon her—surely, she would catch a sound so close to her prey.

 

Odysseus clenched his jaw. He needed to move, now.

 

He pushed forward, his body screaming in protest as he leapt to the next branch, then the next. The rocky incline was still ahead, closer now. If he could reach it, if he could just—

 

His foot slipped.

 

The rain-slicked bark gave way beneath him, and for a horrifying second, he was weightless.

 

Then he crashed through the branches.

 

Leaves and limbs whipped at his face, his arms, his legs, before he slammed into the mud below with a sickening squelch. The breath was knocked from his lungs, and for a moment, all he could do was lay there, gasping, dazed.

 

Then the horror set in.

 

The mud. His footprints .

 

Panic shot through him like lightning. He scrambled to his hands and knees, half-crawling, half-dragging himself forward, desperate to get off the soft ground. Each movement left more prints, deep and unmistakable. He could already imagine her tracing them, her sharp eyes narrowing as she followed the path straight to him.

 

His limbs burned as he forced himself up, stumbling toward the rocky incline. The mud clung to him like a second skin, cold and heavy.

 

He barely registered the pain in his body as he reached the first jagged rock and threw himself onto it, climbing as fast as his aching muscles would allow.

 

He couldn’t stay in one place.

 

He couldn’t stop.

 

Because somewhere out there, Athena was watching.

 

Odysseus hauled himself up onto the rocks, his fingers scraping against the rough surface as he climbed. His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, his heart hammering against his ribs. His body ached, his limbs heavy from exhaustion, but he couldn't stop now. The rain pounded against his skin, cold and relentless, washing away the mud but leaving his mistakes behind—deep footprints in the earth that he knew she would see.

 

“ Damn it, ” he hissed, dragging himself higher. His arms trembled, his legs burned, but he gritted his teeth and pushed on. He had been so careful, so meticulous , and in one moment of recklessness, he had ruined it. Stupid. Stupid. He knew better than to jump between trees in the rain. He knew better than to whisper her name.

 

He reached the top of the incline, collapsing against the stone, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His tunic clung to his skin, soaked through, his body trembling from the cold. The wind howled through the trees, carrying the storm’s fury, but all he could hear was the pounding of his own pulse and the voice in his head berating him.

 

He should have taken his time. Should have checked his footing. Should have kept his damn mouth shut. He had spent years outwitting men on the battlefield, tricking kings and warriors alike, and now? He was running like a cornered animal, slipping and stumbling through the wild like some child who had never known war.

 

Another sharp gust of wind sent shivers down his spine, but he barely noticed. His mind was racing, running through every possible scenario, every mistake he had made. The footprints were the worst of it. He could pray the rain washed them away before she saw, but he knew better than to put his faith in luck.

 

Athena was smart. She was relentless.

 

And she would not let him go so easily.

 

Odysseus exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. He had to be smarter. He had to fix this.

 

No more mistakes.

 

With a grunt, he forced himself up, scanning the land ahead. He needed to get further, faster, and he needed to cover his tracks before she found them.

 

If he didn't—

 

His stomach twisted.

 

— she’d drag him back herself.

 

Odysseus clenched his jaw, shaking the rain from his hair as he surveyed the land below. The storm blurred the edges of the forest, turning the world into a smear of grays and deep greens, but he didn’t need clear vision to know one thing: he had to disappear .

 

The rocky outcrop he had climbed would give him a brief advantage—his scent would be harder to track, his footprints nonexistent—but it wouldn’t last. The moment he stepped back onto soft ground, he would be vulnerable again. And if Athena was already searching… no, he refused to think about that.

 

Lightning flashed in the distance, illuminating the forest for a heartbeat. He squinted, scanning for anything that could help him. The terrain ahead sloped downward into what looked like another dense cluster of trees, but to his left—his heart leapt—there was a patch of jagged, uneven stone stretching toward what might be a dried-up riverbed. If he could make it there, he could move without a trace.

 

Odysseus set his jaw. That’s where I need to go.

 

The rain had turned the rocks slick beneath him, but he picked his way across them carefully, sticking to the higher ground. He couldn’t afford another mistake. The wind howled through the trees, sending leaves and branches whipping through the air, and for a moment, the storm itself felt like a living thing—something hungry, something watching.

 

The thought made his chest tighten.

 

He took a step forward, foot slipping slightly on the wet stone. His breath hitched, but he steadied himself quickly, forcing himself to stay calm. Focus. He had done this before—scaling walls, slipping past enemies, moving unseen. This was just another test.

 

Then, through the storm, something shifted.

 

A whisper.

 

A presence.

 

His entire body went rigid.

 

The wind was roaring, the rain hammering against the ground, but something in his bones knew.

 

She’s close.

 

His breath came faster.

 

He didn’t look up. Didn’t dare to.

 

If she was here—if she was watching —then she had already seen too much.

 

His hands curled into fists. He had to move. Now.

 

With a sharp breath, Odysseus took another step forward, then another, his pace quickening. The rocks beneath him grew sharper, jagged edges scraping against his sandals, but he ignored the discomfort. The only thing that mattered was distance.

 

He didn’t think about the way the air felt heavier.

 

Didn’t think about how her name still lingered in the back of his mind.

 

Didn’t think about the way the storm itself seemed to breathe.

 

He just ran.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Agamemnon paced furiously under the shelter of the war tent, his fingers twitching as if itching to strangle someone. The rain pounded against the canvas, thunder rolling in the distance, but the storm outside was nothing compared to the one brewing inside.

 

"We are not putting up fucking posters," Diomedes said flatly, arms crossed over his chest. He was still damp from his frantic search in the woods, his hair plastered to his forehead, but he didn't seem to care.

 

"Then what the fuck do you suggest, Diomedes?!" Agamemnon snapped, whirling on him. "Hades take me, I should have shackled him to the war table!"

 

"He would have gotten out of them," Nestor muttered, rubbing his temples. "That man could probably talk chains into untying themselves."

 

Polites, who had been silent for longer than anyone was comfortable with, suddenly slammed a fist onto the table, startling everyone. "We need more search teams. We cannot just wait. We can’t—" He hesitated, his voice tight. "We can’t leave him out there."

 

" We won’t, " Menelaus said sharply, though his grip on the edge of the table was white-knuckled. His face was pale, his lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes—gods, his eyes looked haunted . "He wouldn’t just leave us. He wouldn’t."

 

Eurylochus let out a sharp breath, his head shaking in stubborn denial. "He didn’t leave. He couldn’t have. Someone took him, or—or something happened. Odysseus isn’t—" His voice cracked, and he swallowed thickly. " He wouldn’t just go. "

 

"He ran from me, " Diomedes admitted suddenly, and the entire tent froze.

 

The words hit like a war drum, like a blade sinking deep into flesh.

 

"What?" Agamemnon asked lowly, his voice like the calm before a slaughter.

 

Diomedes exhaled slowly, glaring at the floor as if it personally offended him. "I saw him," he admitted. "In the woods. I called out to him, and he—he ran. He bolted like a fucking deer and went straight into the river. He was gone before I could reach him."

 

The silence was suffocating.

 

"You chased him?" Nestor asked, his voice laced with something almost unreadable—somewhere between shock and exasperation.

 

"Of course I chased him!" Diomedes snapped. "What the fuck was I supposed to do, let him vanish into the night?! He was running like a man being hunted!"

 

"Because he was ," Polites whispered, his hands clenched.

 

Achilles, who had been sitting on the edge of the war table, his leg bouncing in frustration, suddenly stood, his body thrumming with restless energy. "Then what the fuck are we still doing here?!" His voice was near a snarl, his patience long since shattered. "He’s out there , and we’re standing around like idiots debating fucking posters?! "

 

Patroclus put a steadying hand on his shoulder, but Achilles only shrugged it off, his fury barely contained.

 

"Nobody is putting up fucking posters," Agamemnon growled. " Nobody is saying a word to the men. If the Trojans catch wind that we lost our best tactician like a godsdamned stray dog—" He ran a hand down his face, barely holding himself together. "No. We keep this quiet . We find him. And when we do—" He slammed a fist into the war table. " He is not leaving again. "

 

The rain drummed steadily against the tent as the weight of Agamemnon’s words settled over the group. Nobody spoke. The only sounds were the distant roll of thunder and the furious, restless breathing of men who should not have been abandoned.

 

Menelaus pressed his hands to his temples, inhaling sharply. His mind was a tangled mess of memories—of Helen slipping through his fingers, of watching her be taken from him while he stood powerless to stop it. And now Odysseus —Odysseus, who had always been there , had always found a way—was gone.

 

He shook his head violently. No. No, this is different. Helen had been stolen. Odysseus had run.

 

The knowledge twisted like a knife in his chest.

 

"Are we absolutely sure he wasn’t taken?" Eurylochus asked again, his voice strained, his entire body coiled tight with denial. "It doesn’t make sense. Why would he leave? Why would he leave us? " His voice cracked, and he clenched his fists to stop the trembling.

 

"He ran," Diomedes muttered darkly, rubbing at his jaw. "He saw me and fucking ran like I was the enemy."

 

"Maybe he was taken," Polites said suddenly, his voice a sharp edge of desperation. " Maybe he saw something, and— and he was trying to get away from them— not from us—"

 

"Polites," Nestor said softly.

 

" No, " Polites snapped. " No. Because he wouldn’t leave. He wouldn’t just go. He—" He let out a harsh breath, his shoulders shaking. "He—he promised—"

 

His throat closed up before he could finish.

 

Achilles had had enough . He pushed off the table with sudden force, causing it to scrape against the ground. "We’re wasting time," he snarled. "Every second we stand here is another second he gets further away. We need to move ."

 

Patroclus shot a glance at Agamemnon. "We need a plan."

 

"We need search teams," Nestor agreed, nodding. "We send them in groups, small enough to stay unnoticed, but large enough to defend themselves if—"

 

"If Odysseus tries to fight them?" Diomedes finished dryly.

 

"If someone else finds him first," Nestor corrected.

 

That silenced the room.

 

Agamemnon exhaled sharply. "Fine. We send teams. Quietly. No one outside this room finds out about this, understood? We cannot let it spread." He turned to Diomedes. "Where did you last see him?"

 

"The river," Diomedes said. "But with this rain? It could have carried him anywhere."

 

"We start at the river," Agamemnon ordered. "We follow whatever trail we can find. And when we find him—"

 

Achilles cracked his knuckles, eyes burning. "We drag him back."

 

Patroclus barely had time to pull his cloak tighter around his shoulders before Achilles was already moving, his pace unforgiving. The rain had turned from a light drizzle into a steady downpour, the kind that soaked through clothes and muddied the ground beneath their feet. It should have slowed them down, but Achilles didn’t care.

 

He was charging .

 

"Achilles—" Patroclus called, barely keeping up as they raced through the darkened camp, weaving between tents and men who were either too tired or too afraid to question where they were going.

 

"We’re not wasting time," Achilles snapped, his breath coming fast. "We’re going straight to the river. We find any sign of him, and we don’t stop moving until we have him."

 

Patroclus wanted to argue that they needed a more structured plan—that they needed to think —but there was no point. Achilles was already sprinting, his feet barely touching the mud, driven forward by sheer will.

 

Patroclus ran after him, his heart hammering.

 

The sounds of camp faded behind them. The voices, the fires, the endless tension of war—all of it disappeared as the pounding rain became their only companion. The river wasn’t far, but the terrain was working against them. The mud sucked at their sandals, and the once-sturdy earth had turned slick beneath their weight.

 

Achilles didn’t slow.

 

Patroclus cursed under his breath. Of course he doesn’t.

 

Then, suddenly, Achilles skidded to a stop so abruptly that Patroclus nearly slammed into his back.

 

The river stretched before them, swollen and furious from the storm. The current rushed fast and unyielding, dragging branches and debris along with it. Patroclus’ stomach twisted at the sight.

 

If Odysseus had fallen in here—

 

Achilles’ breathing was ragged, his fists clenched at his sides. He scanned the riverbank, his keen eyes darting through the darkness, searching.

 

Patroclus swallowed hard. "Achilles—"

 

"There." Achilles pointed.

 

Patroclus followed his gaze. At first, he saw nothing but rushing water and drenched earth. But then—near the edge of the trees, half-submerged in mud— footprints.

 

His breath caught. Achilles was already moving.

 

Achilles reached the footprints first, crouching low despite the rain slicking his hair to his face. His fingers skimmed the edges of the deep imprints, mud already beginning to wash into them. He traced the pattern—heavy, frantic, slipping. A struggle. A fall. Then, just ahead, the chaotic smearing of earth where something had been dragged .

 

Patroclus' pulse hammered against his ribs. " Shit. "

 

Achilles didn’t respond. He was already following the trail, half-running, half-slipping along the riverbank. His breathing had turned sharp, almost ragged, as if the mere act of seeing Odysseus’ tracks vanish into the water was physically choking him.

 

Patroclus sprinted after him. " Achilles! We don’t even know—"

 

Then he saw it.

 

At the very edge of the river, caught between a cluster of rocks, was Odysseus’ bag.

 

Patroclus felt his stomach drop .

 

" No. "

 

Achilles was on it in seconds, wading into the water with zero hesitation, gripping the soaked leather and yanking it free. Water streamed from it as he held it up, and when he pried it open, his face twisted into something terrifying.

 

" It’s empty. "

 

Patroclus didn’t know if it was the rain or pure dread making him shiver. " Gods— "

 

Achilles threw the bag onto the ground. " He had nothing on him. He had nothing! " His voice was furious , but the tremor in it betrayed him. " He—he fell in. He— "

 

Patroclus grabbed Achilles' arm, squeezing tight, trying to ground him before he spiraled too far. " We don’t know that he drowned. He’s Odysseus. He’s—he’s smart, Achilles. He could’ve— "

 

" Then where the fuck is he? " Achilles' voice cracked.

 

Patroclus opened his mouth but had no answer. He turned toward the river, heart pounding. The water was a merciless force, dark and swollen from the storm, dragging anything that touched it downstream. If Odysseus had gone under… if the current had taken him…

 

" No. " Achilles' hands curled into fists. " No, no, no. We are not going back to camp until we find him."

 

Patroclus didn't argue. He wouldn't. Because if they didn't find him soon—

 

They might never find him at all.

 

Achilles’ breathing was coming too fast. Too shallow. He didn’t even seem to realize it at first—his chest rising and falling in rapid, uneven bursts, his fingers flexing and curling, his whole body strung so tight that Patroclus swore he could hear the tension humming beneath his skin.

 

The bag lay at their feet, soaked and empty, and Achilles’ eyes kept flicking between it and the river, like he expected Odysseus to claw his way out of the current at any moment. But the water was empty. The shore was empty. Odysseus was gone.

 

" He wouldn't just leave this behind, " Achilles muttered, voice barely above a whisper, but shaking. " Not unless—unless something happened. "

 

Patroclus took a careful step forward. " Achilles— "

 

" He wouldn’t just— " Achilles cut off, his breath hitching. His hands shot up to his hair, gripping at the rain-soaked strands, his fingers digging in like he needed something solid to hold onto. " I— I should’ve— I should’ve known something was wrong. I should've— " His words dissolved into a harsh inhale, his whole frame trembling.

 

Patroclus could see it—his control cracking apart, his panic clawing up his throat like it was trying to choke him from the inside out.

 

" Achilles, " Patroclus said again, firmer this time, stepping closer. He reached out, resting a hand against Achilles’ arm. " Breathe. "

 

Achilles flinched like he'd been burned. " Don’t tell me to fucking— " But his voice wavered. His pupils were blown wide, his chest still heaving too fast. His fingers twitched like he didn't know whether to punch something or curl into himself.

 

Patroclus didn’t let go. " You’re not thinking straight. " He squeezed Achilles’ arm, grounding him. " Odysseus isn’t dead. He isn’t. If he was, don’t you think—" He hesitated. " Don’t you think Athena would’ve told us? "

 

It was a gamble. He knew that. But Achilles hesitated, his breath catching, his hands lowering slightly from his hair. His expression twisted into something between raw panic and desperate hope. " You think she would’ve— "

 

" I know she would’ve. She wouldn’t just—" Patroclus swallowed. "She wouldn’t let him slip away without a fight."

 

Achilles was still trembling, his muscles rigid with too much tension, but his breath hitched less violently now. He tore his gaze away from the river, locking onto Patroclus instead. " Then where is he? " His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. " Where the fuck is he? "

 

Patroclus had no answer. But he refused to let go. " We’ll find him. " He said it like a promise. " I swear it. "

 

Achilles’ breathing was still unsteady, but he nodded, quick and sharp. " Then we keep looking. " His voice was hoarse, but there was something feral beneath it. "We don’t stop until we find him."

 

Patroclus nodded. " We don’t stop. "

 

Because if Odysseus was still out there, still running, still alive —then nothing would stop them from bringing him back.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Odysseus moved through the trees, his steps careful, deliberate. The rain had turned the earth into treacherous mud, but he was staying off it as much as he could, leaping from roots to stones, making sure he left nothing behind. The last thing he needed was Athena catching his trail again.

 

His cloak was gone, his supplies were at the bottom of the river, and he was cold, drenched, and aching all over from his earlier fall. But none of that mattered. What mattered was finding shelter . A cave, a hollow, anything that would keep him hidden long enough to get his strength back.

 

"Of course it starts raining," he muttered under his breath, brushing wet hair from his face as he scanned the darkened forest ahead. " Because the gods love making my life harder. "

 

The wind howled through the trees, rattling the branches like bones. It was getting darker, and the night air carried a bitter chill. He could already feel it seeping into his bones, making his muscles stiff. If he didn’t find something soon, he was going to be miserable .

 

His eyes flicked across the landscape, searching. The terrain was getting rockier—good. That meant there might be caves nearby. He just had to—

 

There.

 

A dark hollow in the side of a slope, half-covered by creeping vines and jagged stone. It wasn’t much, but it was something .

 

Odysseus didn’t hesitate. He scrambled toward it, slipping once on the slick rock but catching himself before he could eat mud again . When he reached the entrance, he paused, listening. No sounds of animals. No signs of life.

 

He exhaled, stepping inside. It wasn’t deep—only a few paces in before solid rock cut him off—but it was dry. That was all he cared about.

 

Collapsing onto the ground with a heavy sigh, he leaned against the wall, stretching his aching legs out in front of him. " Finally. "

 

For the first time since he ran, he allowed himself a moment of stillness. His heart was still racing, his body still thrumming with the urge to move , to run , to keep going , but right now, he needed to breathe.

 

His eyes flickered toward the cave entrance, rain still pattering outside. He thought of the camp, of the chaos he had left behind. Had they noticed yet? Were they searching?

 

Doesn’t matter.

 

Athena would be furious. The men would be confused. Some might even feel betrayed.

 

But none of it changed the fact that he was gone .

 

And for the first time in a long time, Odysseus allowed himself to close his eyes and simply exist .

 

Odysseus exhaled slowly, letting the tension seep from his body as he leaned his head back against the cold stone. For the first time since he had bolted from the camp, since his name had been shouted in the dark, since he had run —he allowed himself to simply breathe .

 

The cave was small, barely more than a hollow in the rock, but it was shelter. The steady rhythm of rain against the leaves outside filled the silence, a soft, unrelenting sound that muffled everything else. No shouting. No footsteps. No gods whispering in his ear. Just the rain and the slow, steady beat of his own heart.

 

His muscles ached, a deep, dull pain settling into his limbs now that the adrenaline had faded. He was soaked to the bone, chilled from the river and the storm, but for now, it didn’t matter. He was here. He was alive . And, for the first time in years, he was free .

 

He let his fingers trace along the rough stone beside him, grounding himself in the texture of it. The cave smelled of damp earth and moss, but it was oddly comforting. It reminded him of Ithaca’s cliffs, the quiet places he used to slip away to when the weight of his duties became too much.

 

A small, tired chuckle escaped him. " What a disaster, " he muttered to himself, rubbing a hand over his face. " If they could see me now… "

 

Diomedes, probably tearing through the woods in frustration. Agamemnon, red-faced and livid. Athena, Athena , losing her mind .

 

The thought almost made him laugh.

 

Almost.

 

But right now, he didn't need to think about them.

 

He stretched out his legs, rolling his shoulders, trying to ease the knots forming in his back. He could feel the exhaustion settling in, the weight of everything catching up to him. The night was deep, the storm would cover his tracks, and for now, he had a moment of peace.

 

His eyes drifted shut.

 

He would rest. Just for a little while. Just until the storm passed.

 

For the first time in years, Odysseus allowed himself to relax .

 

Odysseus let his head rest against the damp stone, his body sinking into the exhaustion that wrapped around him like a heavy cloak. The sound of the rain outside was steady, a rhythmic lull that threatened to pull him into sleep. He knew he should stay alert, should keep his ears open for any sign of pursuit, but the weight in his limbs made it impossible to fight the slow drift of his thoughts.

 

Penelope.

 

The name alone sent a deep ache through his chest, sharper than any blade he had ever faced. How many years had it been since he had last seen her? Since he had last traced the curve of her face with his eyes, memorizing every line and shadow before he left her behind? He could almost see her now, standing at the shore of Ithaca, the wind tugging at her dark hair, her eyes sharp and full of fire even as she smiled.

 

She had been furious when he told her he was going to war. She hadn’t wept, hadn’t begged him to stay—Penelope was not the kind of woman to plead. But the steel in her voice, the unspoken I dare you to leave me in her gaze, had nearly undone him. He had promised her he would return. Swore it.

 

And yet, here he was, running from everything, from everyone—including her.

 

A bitter laugh scraped its way from his throat. " Some husband I am. "

 

He pressed his palm against his forehead, feeling the dirt and moisture clinging to his skin. Would she hate him for this? Would she even know what had happened? Or would the war drag on, keeping his absence hidden beneath the chaos until one day, she simply stopped waiting?

 

And Telemachus…

 

His stomach twisted. He had barely known his son. A babe, just learning to grasp his fingers, to recognize his voice. Now, Telemachus was a boy—ten years old. A grown boy who had lived his entire life without a father.

 

Did he even need Odysseus anymore? Did he resent him for leaving?

 

The thought stung, settling like lead in his chest.

 

Maybe it would be better if they thought him dead. If he disappeared from their lives completely. No waiting, no uncertainty. No wondering if he would ever return.

 

But gods, he wanted to see them again.

 

He squeezed his eyes shut, pushing away the sudden sting in them. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. He had no home to return to. Not yet. Not until the war was over, not until he was free for good .

 

With a slow, unsteady breath, he forced the thoughts away. Thinking about them wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t bring him closer to them. All he could do now was survive.

 

Odysseus shifted against the rock, curling in slightly to conserve what little warmth he had. The storm raged on outside, the wind howling through the trees. He would rest. Just for a while.

 

And then he would move again.

 

Chapter 5: ﹒⏇﹒☢﹒Found

Achilles tore through the underbrush, his breath coming fast and uneven as he followed the river’s edge. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the ground was still slick, his sandals slipping against the mud as he forced himself forward. His chest ached from the exertion, his hands trembling at his sides, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. Not until he found something— anything —that told him Odysseus was still alive.

 

Patroclus was a few paces behind him, calling his name, but Achilles barely heard him. His pulse roared in his ears, louder than the river, louder than the wind. His mind ran in frantic loops, a relentless cycle of he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead battling against no, no, Odysseus doesn’t die, he’s too stubborn, he wouldn’t do this to us—

 

His foot caught on a slick rock, and he stumbled, nearly crashing into the water. He caught himself at the last moment, fingers digging into the mud, and then—

 

Something dark floated in the shallows, caught on the jagged roots of a half-fallen tree.

 

Achilles’ stomach dropped.

 

Slowly, he stepped closer, his fingers numb as he reached out—pulling the fabric from the water. It was soaked through, heavy and dripping, the deep blue dulled by the river’s murky currents. The weight of it in his hands made his throat tighten.

 

Odysseus’ cloak.

 

Achilles gripped it, his knuckles going white.

 

“No,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “No, no, no—”

 

This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t happening.

 

He staggered back, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The edges of his vision blurred, his chest tightening, his ribs locking up— I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe—

 

“Achilles!”

 

Patroclus was there, grabbing his shoulders, steadying him. “Achilles, look at me. ”

 

Achilles’ head snapped up, wild-eyed. He shoved the cloak at Patroclus as if it burned. “It’s his—it’s his, I know it’s his—”

 

Patroclus took it, his expression shifting from shock to something hollow and cold. His fingers clenched around the wet fabric, and for a moment, he just stared.

 

Achilles swallowed hard, his throat tight. He tried to take a breath, but it caught in his chest, ragged and desperate. His hands were shaking. He curled them into fists, digging his nails into his palms.

 

“He’s not dead,” he said, forcing the words out between gritted teeth. “He’s not. ”

 

Patroclus’ gaze snapped to him, sharp and urgent. “No. No, he’s not. But we have to find him. ”

 

Achilles nodded, the panic in his chest twisting into something else. Something burning.

 

They weren’t leaving this river until they found him.

 

Achilles’ breath came in ragged gasps, his chest rising and falling too fast, too sharp. His fingers curled and uncurled, the rain-slicked mud clinging to his skin as if the earth itself wanted to drag him under. His thoughts wouldn’t stop— the cloak, the river, Odysseus, the cloak, the river, Odysseus. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force them into something coherent, but his mind was spiraling too fast, slipping through his grasp like water.

 

He should have been there. He should have seen something, heard something, done something. Odysseus ran—but why? Why? Achilles’ stomach twisted violently, nausea curling at the edges of his panic. Had someone chased him? Had someone hurt him? Had the river taken him?

 

His hands clenched in his hair, pulling as if pain would ground him, but it didn’t work. His lungs felt too tight, his ribs caging in, trapping the air in his throat. He couldn’t—he couldn’t —

 

“Achilles.”

 

Patroclus’ voice, steady despite the tension beneath it, cut through the fog of his panic. He barely registered the weight of Patroclus’ hands on his shoulders, the warmth anchoring him to the present.

 

“Breathe,” Patroclus said, his voice firm but gentle. “You have to breathe. ”

 

Achilles tried. He really did. But his breaths came too fast, too shallow. His hands were still shaking, his vision still tunneling. He felt small, like a child again, like that moment years ago when he’d first realized that people he loved could leave him.

 

But Odysseus wasn’t gone. He wasn’t.

 

Achilles forced himself to look at the cloak again, at the soaked fabric clenched in Patroclus’ hands. Odysseus had been here. He had taken it off. That meant he was alive —it had to mean that.

 

“He wouldn’t just drown,” Achilles choked out, shaking his head furiously. “He’s Odysseus. He wouldn’t—”

 

Patroclus tightened his grip. “I know. I know. But we have to keep moving. We have to find him.”

 

Achilles swallowed, his pulse pounding in his ears. He let go of his hair, let his hands fall to his sides. He took a breath, unsteady but deeper this time.

 

Then he turned, sharp and determined. “We follow the river. Now.”

 

He wasn’t losing Odysseus. Not to the water. Not to the night. Not to anyone.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Diomedes stormed through the woods, his every step crunching against wet leaves and broken twigs, his breath coming out in sharp, furious exhales. The rain dripped from his armor, slicking his hair to his forehead, but he barely noticed. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his teeth grinding so hard it hurt.

 

Odysseus ran. Odysseus ran from him.

 

The thought sent a fresh wave of rage crackling through his veins, hot and consuming. His eyes burned as they scanned the darkened trees, searching for any trace of him, any hint of movement, any sign that the bastard had stopped running and decided to face him like a man.

 

He still couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t wrap his head around it. Odysseus— his Odysseus—running like a damn coward, like some deserter with no spine, no honor, no loyalty. He knew Odysseus played his own games, that he twisted words and bent rules, but this— this was different. This was betrayal.

 

Diomedes exhaled hard through his nose, his fingers twitching with the need to break something. He could still see the way Odysseus had looked at him before bolting—the wild panic in his eyes, the raw desperation. It made no sense. Why? Why? What could possibly have driven him to this?

 

The bastard had run into a godsdamned river to get away from him. From him.

 

That stung in a way he couldn’t even begin to unpack.

 

A thick branch blocked his path, and without a second thought, Diomedes grabbed it and snapped it clean in half. The sharp crack echoed through the woods, swallowed quickly by the rain, but it did nothing to ease the white-hot fury clawing up his throat.

 

If he found Odysseus—and he would —he was going to kill him. Or at least make him wish he were dead.

 

His boots hit mud as he stalked forward, his movements precise, controlled, but his thoughts still ran wild. He could see the moment he tackled Odysseus, hear the words he’d spit in his face— What the fuck is wrong with you? What were you thinking? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?

 

And then, once Odysseus was good and pinned down —once he had no choice but to listen—Diomedes was going to make him talk. Because he had to. Because none of this made any sense, and he refused— refused —to believe that Odysseus just up and left them. Left him.

 

His hand went to the hilt of his sword out of sheer instinct, gripping it tight. His jaw clenched.

 

“Run all you want,” he muttered, voice low, dangerous. “You’re not getting away from me.”

 

And with that, he pressed forward, determined to hunt Odysseus down if it took him all damn night.

 

Diomedes stomped through the underbrush, his patience wearing thinner with every step. The rain was turning the ground into a godsdamned swamp, mud sucking at his boots, branches clawing at his arms like the whole cursed forest was conspiring to slow him down. He kicked a rock out of his way, muttering a string of curses under his breath.

 

Odysseus was out there somewhere, hiding like a damned rat, while he was slogging through the woods like some common fool. The thought made his blood boil.

 

" Coward, " he hissed under his breath, yanking a low-hanging branch out of his way with enough force to snap it clean off the tree. " Spineless, scheming, backstabbing coward. "

 

His mind raced with a thousand accusations, none of which made any godsdamned sense. Odysseus wasn’t a coward. Odysseus had stood on the battlefield beside him, had slit Trojan throats and burned their ships, had fought, had bled, had laughed in the face of death like the rest of them. But now? Now the bastard had just run like some deserter. Like a man with something to hide.

 

Diomedes’ fists clenched at his sides, his whole body thrumming with rage. " What the fuck were you thinking? " he spat into the storm, half-expecting the wind to carry his words straight to Odysseus’ ears. What in Hades’ name possessed you to do this?

 

A flash of movement in the distance made his breath catch. He whirled, hand flying to his sword, only to realize it was a godsdamned deer darting through the trees. He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his rain-soaked hair, his frustration reaching a new peak.

 

This was pointless. He was soaked, freezing, covered in mud, and the only thing he had to show for it was wasted time.

 

His mind flickered back to the camp. He could only imagine the absolute disaster he’d left behind. Achilles losing his mind, Polites looking betrayed, Menelaus probably curled up in a corner having an existential crisis. And Athena—gods above, Athena was going to kill someone.

 

And yet, here he was, out in the middle of nowhere, hunting a grown-ass man who should have known better.

 

"Fucking asshole ," Diomedes muttered, shaking the rain from his face. "When I find you, I swear to every god listening, I’m going to kick your godsdamned teeth in. "

 

He pushed forward, faster now, because if there was one thing he knew, it was that Odysseus wasn’t clever enough to hide from him forever.

 

Diomedes pushed deeper into the woods, his strides quick and aggressive, every muscle in his body coiled tight with frustration. The rain was relentless, slamming against the trees, turning the world into a mess of shifting shadows and flickering movement. If Odysseus thought this storm would cover his tracks forever, he was wrong. Diomedes had hunted in worse conditions. He had killed in worse conditions.

 

The only thing keeping him from roaring Odysseus’ name into the night like a lunatic was the nagging thought in the back of his mind: What if someone else finds him first?

 

A Trojan. A scout. Some wretched thing lurking in the woods, looking for an easy kill.

 

Diomedes was pissed—livid, even—but the idea of someone else getting to Odysseus first, of dragging him back bleeding or worse, made his stomach twist with something ugly. The bastard was an idiot, but he was his idiot.

 

His boots squelched in the mud as he neared a cluster of rock formations, his eyes darting up the slippery incline. If he were Odysseus, he’d be looking for high ground. Somewhere to hide. Somewhere to watch.

 

"Come on, you bastard," Diomedes muttered, wiping rain from his face. "You better still be breathing when I find you."

 

He adjusted his grip on his sword and started climbing.

 

The rocks were slick under his hands, the rain turning every surface into a treacherous slide, but Diomedes barely noticed. His fury burned too hot, his focus too sharp. His muscles ached from the relentless push forward, but he didn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop. Not until he had Odysseus by the scruff of the neck and shook some sense into him.

 

Lightning split the sky, a brief, violent flash that illuminated the path ahead. Diomedes’ eyes narrowed as he scanned the ridgeline. If Odysseus had half the survival instincts Diomedes knew he did, he’d be holed up somewhere near here—high ground, rock cover, somewhere the rain wouldn't soak through his bones.

 

What the fuck were you thinking? The question looped in his mind, over and over, as if sheer rage alone could drag Odysseus out of hiding. His foot slipped on a wet stone, nearly sending him sprawling, but he caught himself with a vicious curse.

 

"If you’re dead, I’m killing you again," he muttered, voice tight with anger.

 

The wind howled through the trees, drowning out all but the pounding of rain and the distant roar of the river. Diomedes exhaled sharply, scanning the area with a hunter’s gaze. If I were Odysseus… where would I go?

 

His fingers curled into a fist as he straightened.

 

Fine. If Odysseus wouldn’t come out on his own, Diomedes would flush him out like a damn fox from a burrow.

 

"You’re only making this harder for yourself, you asshole! " he barked into the storm. "If you think I’m letting you slip away, you must’ve finally lost your entire fucking mind!"

 

His voice echoed through the rain, swallowed quickly by the storm, but he knew Odysseus could hear him. That snake always had sharp ears.

 

"You hear me, you conniving bastard? You’re not leaving! "

 

His chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. He waited.

 

No answer.

 

Diomedes clenched his jaw, wiped a hand over his face, and started moving again. If Odysseus thought he could outlast him, he was wrong. The chase wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

 

Diomedes stalked forward, his every movement deliberate, his frustration thrumming through his limbs like a second heartbeat. The rain had softened the forest floor, but he caught something just ahead—a sharp contrast against the slick earth. A broken branch, its jagged edges fresh.

 

He crouched beside it, fingers brushing over the splintered wood. It was thick enough that it wouldn’t have snapped under the weight of mere rain or wind. No, someone had disturbed it.

 

His pulse spiked.

 

"Got you," he muttered, voice low and dark.

 

His eyes flicked upward, scanning the trees. The angle of the break, the way the smaller twigs were bent, suggested someone had come crashing down from above. His lip curled. You always were a cocky bastard, climbing where you shouldn’t.

 

Diomedes straightened, gaze tracing the area. The mud was treacherous, but if Odysseus had moved after falling, there would be signs—some disturbance in the pattern of rain-slicked leaves, a handprint on a rock, something.

 

And sure enough, there—just beyond the broken branch—a smear in the mud. Not quite a footprint, but the faint suggestion of movement, of someone scrambling up and away in a hurry.

 

Diomedes’ grip tightened around his sword hilt.

 

"You’re running out of places to hide, Odysseus. "

 

His voice was almost swallowed by the storm, but he didn’t care. Let the bastard hear him. Let him know.

 

He started forward, following the faint traces of passage, his rage a steady drumbeat in his chest. Odysseus might think he could slip away.

 

But Diomedes was not going to let him.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Odysseus froze, every muscle in his body going taut as the words drifted through the rain.

 

"You’re running out of places to hide, Odysseus."

 

His breath caught in his throat.

 

Shit. Shit. Shit.

 

Diomedes was close. Too close.

 

The storm swallowed most of the sounds in the forest, but Diomedes' voice had cut through it like a blade. And it wasn’t just frustration. It wasn’t just urgency. No—there was something else in that voice, something raw and furious .

 

Odysseus swallowed hard, his heartbeat slamming against his ribs.

 

He’s going to kill me.

 

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing himself lower against the cold rock beneath him. Rain dripped from his hair, trailing down his face, but he barely noticed.

 

This wasn’t a joke. This wasn’t some chase with a clever escape waiting at the end. No, this was different. Diomedes sounded like a man on the edge, like a hunter pissed off that his prey had the audacity to run.

 

And Odysseus had nowhere to go.

 

He tried to control his breathing, tried to keep himself small , but every drop of rain felt like it was screaming his position. If Diomedes got any closer—if he so much as glanced in the right direction—Odysseus knew he wouldn’t be able to outrun him.

 

Damn it. Damn it. I should have stayed in the trees. I should have—

 

A twig snapped in the distance. Footsteps, slow and deliberate.

 

Odysseus bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood.

 

If he finds me first, I am so fucking dead.

 

Odysseus clamped a trembling hand over his mouth, pressing his palm so tightly against his lips that he could barely breathe. His entire body ached with the effort of not making a sound.

 

Diomedes' footsteps crunched against the wet earth, slow, measured. He wasn’t charging through the woods in blind rage anymore. No—now he was hunting .

 

Odysseus swallowed thickly, his pulse roaring in his ears. He knew exactly what Diomedes was doing. The bastard was listening. Waiting.

 

And Athena had blessed him with hearing sharp enough to pick out the whisper of a blade being drawn from its sheath, the shift of a foot in sand. A heartbeat, even. If Odysseus so much as breathed too loudly, Diomedes would hear it.

 

Shit. Shit. Shit.

 

His fingers curled into the dirt, nails scraping against stone. He couldn’t stay here. Not for long. But if he moved too fast, if he startled an animal, if he stepped wrong—

 

Another footstep. Closer this time.

 

Odysseus squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on silence , on stillness . His breath was shallow, his chest burning from the lack of air, but he refused to let it slip past his lips.

 

I can’t let him hear me. I can’t let him find me. If he does…

 

He didn’t even want to think about what would happen if he did.

 

Diomedes moved past him, his boots sinking into the damp earth, his breath steady but sharp with restrained fury. Odysseus watched from the cover of the rocks and trees, barely daring to blink as the figure of his friend—his hunter —strode forward.

 

For one agonizing moment, Diomedes stopped. His head tilted slightly, his body tensing as if something had caught his attention. Odysseus’ entire body seized. He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe . His heartbeat was a drum against his ribs, screaming to be noticed.

 

Then, with a huff of frustration, Diomedes pressed forward, his form disappearing into the darkness of the trees.

 

Odysseus remained frozen. He didn’t dare move yet, didn’t trust that this was real, that he hadn’t just imagined his escape. He listened as Diomedes’ footsteps faded into the distance, as the sounds of the forest gradually reclaimed the night.

 

It wasn’t until he could no longer hear him—no longer feel the heat of his presence—that Odysseus allowed himself to suck in a trembling breath.

 

That had been too close. Way too close.

 

He slumped back against the cold stone behind him, sweat slick on his skin despite the chill of the night air. His hands were shaking. His entire body was shaking.

 

Diomedes had nearly found him. One wrong breath, one careless movement, and it would have been over.

 

Odysseus wiped his damp forehead with a dirt-streaked hand, exhaling softly.

 

“ Shit, ” he whispered.

 

He needed to move. Now.

 

Odysseus didn’t waste another second. His body moved before his mind could catch up, adrenaline igniting his limbs into motion. He pushed off the rock and bolted, his feet barely making a sound against the damp earth as he took off in the opposite direction of Diomedes.

 

Run. Run now. Don’t look back.

 

Every instinct screamed at him to put as much distance between them as possible. The trees blurred around him as he ran, his breath coming in quiet, measured exhales—years of experience keeping him from panting too loudly.

 

His mind raced just as fast as his legs. He had gotten lucky. Too lucky. He couldn’t rely on chance saving him again.

 

Diomedes wasn’t a fool. If he realized Odysseus had doubled back, he’d sweep the area again.

 

Find higher ground. Lose the trail.

 

The ground was still wet from the rain, mud threatening to pull at his feet. He needed stone. A place where he could move without leaving tracks.

 

His eyes darted ahead, scanning for anything—anything—that could give him an advantage. Then, he saw it: a ridge up ahead, its face jagged and slick, but climbable.

 

Without hesitation, he lunged toward it, fingers scraping against the cold, uneven surface. His muscles screamed, exhaustion from the night’s relentless pace weighing him down, but he gritted his teeth and hauled himself up.

 

The wind picked up as he climbed, whispering through the trees, carrying the distant sounds of the camp.

 

They were still looking for him.

 

He pulled himself over the edge of the ridge and rolled onto his back, gasping for breath. His pulse thundered in his ears, his limbs shaking.

 

But he couldn’t stop.

 

Not yet.

 

With a quiet groan, he pushed himself up and started running again.

Chapter 6: ₊°。Bodies and Obsession﹒─﹒♠

Agamemnon was losing his mind.

 

The general's tent was in chaos, filled with the sound of heavy boots pacing, armor clanking, and the barely restrained rage of a king who had just been made to look like a fool. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, veins bulging at his temples as he snapped, “ How the fuck do you lose Odysseus?! ”

 

The soldiers in front of him stood at stiff attention, unwilling to risk his wrath by speaking. The silence only made Agamemnon’s fury worse. He turned on his heel, his crimson cloak flaring behind him as he rounded on the assembled captains.

 

"He's not a child! He is not some common soldier! He is Odysseus of Ithaca! The only competent man among you!" His voice cracked like a whip through the tent. "And you’re telling me that he just—what? Vanished into the night? On your watch?!"

 

Diomedes, still mud-streaked and fuming himself, growled, “I chased him into the woods myself. He ran. From me. ” His jaw clenched. “I don’t know why —but that bastard ran like his life depended on it.”

 

“Then why didn’t you catch him? ” Agamemnon snarled, rounding on him.

 

Diomedes’ nostrils flared, his patience worn thin. “Because he threw himself into a fucking river, ” he bit out, his voice razor-sharp. “I lost him after that.”

 

The tent fell silent.

 

Eurylochus, pale and stiff, swallowed hard. “That doesn’t mean—he could have—” His voice wavered, thick with denial. He shook his head, more to himself than anyone else. “No. He wouldn’t—he wouldn’t do this to us.”

 

Agamemnon let out a bark of bitter laughter, rubbing a hand down his face. “You still don’t get it, do you?” He whirled back to the others, eyes burning with frustration. “If he ran on his own —if he really abandoned us —then we are fucked. ”

 

Polites, usually the calmest among them, had his hands curled into fists at his sides. His head was lowered, but his shoulders were taut, his entire body trembling with barely suppressed emotion. “We are not just leaving him out there,” he said, voice dangerously low. “We find him.”

 

“Of course we fucking find him!” Agamemnon snapped. “Do you think I want the Trojans to know their biggest fucking problem just walked off? If they find out, they will tear us apart. ” His breathing was sharp and unsteady, his anger barely masking the growing unease beneath it.

 

Patroclus stormed into the tent, his face stricken, his hands empty. “We found his bag. ”

 

The words hit the room like a slap.

 

Achilles was only a few steps behind him, rainwater dripping off his armor, his face pale and furious. His breathing was uneven, his hands clenched at his sides, and his eyes burned with something dangerous.

 

Agamemnon’s rage faltered for half a second before he forced it back. “Where?”

 

Patroclus’ throat bobbed as he swallowed. “The end of the river.”

 

Silence.

 

Then Agamemnon slammed his fist onto the table so hard the entire thing rattled. “FIND HIM. NOW.”

 

Achilles didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. The look in his eyes was enough—wild, furious, and barely restrained. His chest heaved as he walked forward, rain-slicked fingers gripping something dark and heavy.

 

Then, with a sharp flick of his wrist, he threw Odysseus’ soaked cloak onto the table. The fabric hit the wood with a wet slap, the weight of it sinking into the pools of water already forming.

 

No one spoke.

 

No one breathed.

 

Agamemnon’s eyes locked onto the fabric, his expression frozen, unreadable for a heartbeat. Then, just as he moved to reach for it—

 

The cloak vanished.

 

A gust of wind ripped through the tent, the flames in the torches guttering wildly, shadows stretching unnaturally against the canvas walls. And standing where the cloak had been, fingers curled tightly around it, was Athena.

 

Her knuckles were white. Her grip on the fabric was iron. The rain dripping from it stained her fingertips, but she didn’t seem to notice.

 

Her eyes burned.

 

Achilles took a step back, jaw tight, muscles coiled. He wasn’t afraid of gods—but he wasn’t stupid either.

 

Athena stood frozen, staring down at the cloak in her hands as the room seemed to shrink around her. The rain dripped steadily from the fabric, running in thin rivulets down her wrists, soaking into her robes, cold and heavy.

 

But she didn’t care about that.

 

She couldn’t.

 

Her mind was screaming, twisting, unraveling with a single, unbearable thought.

 

He’s dead.

 

She clenched her jaw so tightly it ached, fingers gripping the cloak hard enough to tear the damp fabric. No. No, that wasn’t possible. Odysseus wasn’t—he couldn’t be—

 

But where was he?

 

This was hers. She had given it to him. A blessing woven into every thread, a part of her draped over his shoulders. He never took it off, never left it behind. And now it was here , soaking, empty, abandoned at the river’s edge like something discarded, like—

 

Her breathing hitched.

 

She turned the cloak over, searching desperately for something, anything. A trace of warmth. A sign of him. Proof that he hadn’t—

 

But it was just cloth.

 

Just cold, lifeless cloth.

 

Her fingers shook.

 

The air in the tent was thick, suffocating. No one dared to speak, not with the way Athena’s chest rose and fell unevenly, not with the way her eyes had gone wide, unfocused, staring through the fabric as if she could force an answer from it.

 

No. No, no, no.

 

She had just heard him. She had felt him. He was alive, he had to be alive, but then why did he leave this behind? He knew better. He knew what this meant.

 

She was going to find him.

 

She was going to drag him back.

 

And if he was—if he was—

 

Her throat tightened.

 

Then Polites spoke.

 

“Send the slaves.”

 

The words cut through the silence like a blade.

 

At first, no one reacted. No one could. It wasn’t just the suggestion—it was who had said it.

 

Polites, the one who always insisted on fairness, who treated even the lowest-ranking soldiers with patience, who hated unnecessary cruelty. The one who had once argued for hours over a single servant being mistreated.

 

He never spoke like this.

 

But he wasn’t done.

 

“Send them out,” he said again, his voice firm, urgent. “Right now. Every single one of them. I don’t care if they’re tired, I don’t care if they freeze, I don’t care if they drop dead in the rain. Find him.” His fists clenched. “I don’t care how many it takes. ”

 

The stunned silence deepened.

 

Eurylochus visibly flinched, staring at Polites like he didn’t recognize him. Achilles, still clutching Odysseus’ bag to his chest, opened his mouth as if to argue, but no words came out.

 

Menelaus, who had been teetering on the edge of his own breakdown, just blinked, shaking his head in disbelief. “Polites, what—”

 

“You think I care ?” Polites snapped, whipping toward him. His expression was wild, desperate. “Odysseus is out there. He could be dead. He could be dying. And we’re just standing here? ” His voice cracked. “I won’t—I can’t —just stand here.”

 

Patroclus took a slow step forward, cautious. “Polites—”

 

“Don’t Polites me,” he hissed. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want any of you telling me to calm down, or to think , or to be reasonable. Because I am thinking. And I don’t care how cruel it is, I don’t care how many bodies it takes—we find him.”

 

Everyone was staring at him now.

 

For a moment, no one knew what to say.

 

Then Agamemnon barked out a harsh, bitter laugh, though there was no humor in it.

 

“Well,” he said, voice sharp, eyes dark, “I suppose we’ve all finally lost our minds.”

 

Agamemnon exhaled sharply through his nose, staring at Polites like he was seeing a stranger. Polites. Of all people. The soft-spoken pacifist, the one who barely raised his voice in war councils, the one Odysseus had always kept close—he was standing here now, demanding they work slaves to death in the freezing rain just to track one man down.

 

And the worst part?

 

Agamemnon couldn’t even bring himself to disagree.

 

His grip tightened on the edge of the table. His knuckles ached, but he barely felt it over the pulsing rage and gnawing confusion tearing at his thoughts.

 

Who the fuck made Odysseus leave?

 

Odysseus. The most calculating bastard he knew. The one who never took a step without thinking three moves ahead. Who had everything under control.

 

Who never ran.

 

And yet, he had.

 

He had thrown his cloak into a river, left his bag behind like a breadcrumb trail of his own desperation. He had fled.

 

Agamemnon’s stomach twisted.

 

Someone had made him run.

 

Not just leave. Run.

 

It couldn’t have been the Trojans—if they’d caught him, they’d be parading his corpse through the streets by now. No, this was internal.

 

Someone— someone in this camp —had pushed him to the breaking point.

 

His mind ran through the list of names.

 

Athena? He could see her unraveling before his eyes, but no—if she had chased him off, she’d be dragging him back by his hair right now, not standing here looking like she’d just lost a limb.

 

Menelaus? No, that fool was falling apart. He was barely keeping himself together as it was.

 

Polites? The man was clearly about three seconds from killing someone just for the chance of getting Odysseus back.

 

Agamemnon clenched his fists so tightly his nails dug into his palms, the sharp sting grounding him for only a moment before the weight of it all came crashing back.

 

Odysseus was gone .

 

The cloak in Athena’s hands might as well have been a corpse, the way she clutched it, the way the air in the tent had turned suffocating with something close to grief. It was just a piece of fabric, but it was his . A tether to him that had now been severed.

 

And Agamemnon—he was the one who had let it happen.

 

His stomach twisted.

 

His failure had started long before this. Before tonight, before Odysseus had taken off into the wild like a hunted man.

 

How long had he been slipping away?

 

Had it been the endless war councils? The weight of expectation, of leadership, of every damn plan and scheme resting on his shoulders? The suffocating demands of a war that refused to end? Had he not noticed how much tighter Odysseus’ smiles had become, how his laughter had been ringing hollow for months now?

 

How many times had he dismissed the exhaustion in Odysseus’ voice? The rare moments of hesitation, the quick, darting glances toward the horizon—as if looking for something he no longer believed he would ever see again?

 

How many times had he told himself that Odysseus could handle it ?

 

And when had Odysseus stopped believing it?

 

Agamemnon felt sick.

 

He had thought— he had thought —that as long as Odysseus was here, he would stay. That no matter how much they demanded of him, he would never crack . That he was— fuck, that he was Odysseus.

 

But no one, not even Odysseus, could bear the weight of this war forever.

 

And now?

 

Now he was gone.

 

Agamemnon’s breath came sharp through his nose. He should have seen this coming. He should have noticed, should have done something, should have—

 

His jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

 

But it was too late.

 

Now all he could do was find him.

 

And if the gods had taken him—

 

Then Agamemnon would tear the skies apart to bring him back.

 

Achilles was losing it.

 

His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, his fingers twitching at his sides as if desperate to curl around a weapon, to do something, anything, because standing here, waiting, was making his skin crawl.

 

He stared at the cloak in Athena’s hands, his entire body locked so tightly he was trembling.

 

This wasn’t happening.

 

It couldn’t be happening.

 

Odysseus wasn’t just— gone.

 

He wasn’t—he wasn’t —

 

He had survived too much, outwitted too many, slipped out of death’s grasp more times than Achilles could count. He wasn’t allowed to just—just disappear.

 

But the cloak in Athena’s hands said otherwise.

 

The end of it was torn. Waterlogged. Dirtied by the river. It looked wrong like that, like something lifeless. Like a discarded thing.

 

Achilles’ stomach twisted. His hands clenched into fists so hard his nails bit into his palms.

 

"Where is he?" His voice came out low and dangerous, shaking with something raw, something unraveling.

 

No one answered.

 

No one had an answer.

 

The tent felt too small. The walls were closing in, and Athena was standing there, silent, and Agamemnon was thinking, and Polites was saying something, but it was all wrong.

 

He needed action.

 

"Where is he?!" Achilles shouted this time, his voice cracking as he took a step forward, toward Athena, toward the cloak, toward something tangible because the not knowing was killing him.

 

Patroclus grabbed his wrist. "Achilles—"

 

" Let go! " Achilles ripped his arm away, stepping back like a caged animal. His breath was coming too fast, his chest too tight.

 

Odysseus wouldn’t just leave.

 

He wouldn’t just go.

 

Not without telling him.

 

Not without—

 

His throat felt like it was closing up.

 

Why would Odysseus run?

 

Had something happened? Had someone —

 

His vision blurred, his thoughts spinning, the pieces not fitting together fast enough.

 

And then, suddenly, it hit him, sharp as a blade to the gut.

 

Odysseus had left.

 

On purpose.

 

Without him.

 

Achilles' stomach dropped.

 

A horrible, sinking, aching feeling clawed up his ribs, lodged itself behind his sternum, made it impossible to breathe.

 

He turned away sharply, shoving a hand through his hair, gripping the strands as if the pain might ground him. His other hand clenched at his side, nails digging into his palm again.

 

He needed to move.

 

Standing here was suffocating him.

 

He had to find him.

 

Without another word, Achilles turned and ran.

 

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Odysseus crouched low, his breath steady despite the exhaustion gnawing at his limbs. The rain had lightened, misting the forest floor in a hazy sheen, and that was when he saw them— cats.

 

A small cluster of them, scraggly and thin, picking at the remains of some unfortunate rodent. Their ears flicked as they noticed him, but they were too hungry, too desperate, to flee immediately.

 

Odysseus didn’t hesitate.

 

He moved fast. A sharp, precise grip on the nearest feline’s neck, a brutal crack. Another seized before it could dart away, skull slammed against a rock with a dull, wet thud.

 

It wasn’t pretty.

 

He was efficient, methodical.

 

By the time he finished, the bodies lay limp in the mud, twisted unnaturally, little pools of red forming beneath their cracked skulls.

 

He wiped his bloody hands against his already-dirtied chiton before tearing a piece from the hem. The fabric was damp, ragged, but it would serve its purpose.

 

Make it believable.

 

That was all that mattered.

 

He rubbed the cloth against his skin, his sweat, his blood from where he’d scraped himself against the rough bark earlier. It had to stink of him, had to reek of his scent.

 

Then, carefully, deliberately, he placed it amongst the broken bodies, smearing a little blood over it for good measure.

 

It looked like something had torn him apart.

 

Like something had ended him here.

 

He stared at the scene for a long moment, chest rising and falling with controlled breaths.

 

It was good.

 

It was necessary.

 

He could only pray they found it before she did.

 

Odysseus didn’t linger. He couldn’t. Every second wasted staring at the grotesque display increased the risk of someone catching up.

 

He wiped his hands clean on the damp grass, though the smell of blood still clung to his skin. His pulse thrummed in his ears, but he forced himself to breathe evenly, to think.

 

If they see this, they’ll assume I’m dead.

 

Diomedes, Achilles, Athena—none of them were fools, but even the sharpest minds could be swayed by desperation. If they thought he had been mauled, or cut down by something lurking in these woods, it might stall them.

 

Long enough for me to get farther away.

 

The rain was picking up again, light at first, then heavier. The wind carried the scent of damp earth and iron. Good. It would wash away any lingering trail he might have left behind.

 

He turned on his heel, muscles tensing as he moved quickly, weaving through the trees with purpose. His mind ran through options, discarding them as fast as they came.

 

East? No, too close to the river—Achilles might still be following it. North? Possible. The hills would give me a vantage point. South? If I can find a proper road, I could blend in as a traveler.

 

His stomach twisted at the thought. He had nothing. No supplies. No weapon. No disguise. He had left everything behind in his escape.

 

The sound of distant movement—faint, barely noticeable over the patter of rain—made his decision for him.

 

He bolted.

 

The cold wind lashed at his face as he ran, pushing himself harder, faster. The trees blurred past him, branches scraping against his arms. He needed to disappear. To find somewhere he could wait out the storm, somewhere hidden, where he could rest—

 

Then, through the shifting curtain of rain, he saw it.

 

A rocky outcrop jutted out of the hillside ahead, dark and looming. And beneath it— a cave.

 

Odysseus didn’t hesitate. His legs burned as he sprinted toward it, feet slipping slightly on the wet ground. The entrance was narrow, barely wide enough for him to squeeze through. Perfect.

 

He ducked inside, the dim interior swallowing him whole. The air was cool, damp, but dry enough that he wouldn’t freeze.

 

Safe.

 

For now.

 

Odysseus pressed his back against the rough stone wall of the cave, his breath slowing, chest rising and falling in deep, steadying pulls. His body ached, his limbs heavy with exhaustion, but his mind—his mind was alive. Buzzing.

 

He let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his damp hair. I hope Diomedes finds it.

 

The thought made something bubble up inside him, something dark and sharp-edged, curling in the pit of his stomach. He could almost see it—the way Diomedes’ face would twist, the way his fists would clench as he stood over the mutilated bodies of those cats. A man who has faced down gods and monsters, and I might actually manage to shake him.

 

The image was almost funny.

 

Not that Diomedes would be fooled for long. No, he knew Odysseus too well. But the others—Achilles, Agamemnon, even Athena? The idea of their frantic, desperate horror at the sight of his “corpse” made a bitter smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. Let them think I’m dead. Let them waste their strength searching for a ghost.

 

He rolled his shoulders, letting his body sink against the rock. The rain outside had picked up, heavy and unrelenting, hammering against the ground. Good. Let it wash away my tracks. Let it bury me.

 

For the first time since he had fled, Odysseus allowed himself a moment of stillness. A moment to breathe. To let the weight of what he had done settle into his bones.

 

And despite it all—despite the hunger gnawing at his stomach, despite the ache in his muscles, despite the way the cold crept into his skin—he grinned.

 

Odysseus let his head loll back against the cave wall, the grin still tugging at his lips, sharp and humorless. The weight of exhaustion pressed down on him, but his mind—it wouldn’t stop. It twisted and curled, thoughts writhing like snakes, coiling tighter and tighter.

 

They’ll find the bodies. They’ll see the blood, my scent clinging to the fur, and for a moment—just a moment—they’ll believe it.

 

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. He could picture it so perfectly. Diomedes’ sharp breath as realization set in. Achilles on his knees, fists clenched in the mud, shaking with rage, with grief. Polites, good, gentle Polites, trying to deny it even as the truth bled out before him. Athena—oh, Athena —her divine hands trembling, her mind unraveling at the possibility that her favored one had slipped through her fingers.

 

Would she rage? Would she tear through the earth itself in search of his body? Or would she sink into that terrifying, calculating stillness of hers, her mind spiraling, trying to rationalize what had happened?

 

Would she cry ?

 

The thought sent a shiver of something dark down his spine.

 

His fingers idly traced the dirt beneath him, nails digging in just slightly. He’d spent so long playing the clever man, the reasonable man. The man who held the Greeks together, who took the burdens no one else wanted to bear. The man who smiled through gritted teeth and swallowed down his own suffering because someone had to.

 

But now?

 

Now, he was nothing but a ghost in the rain, a whisper slipping through the cracks of their frantic search.

 

And the worst part?

 

He liked it.

 

His fingers twitched, his grin widening. Let them grieve. Let them suffer. Let them feel just a fraction of what he had felt, the weight of years upon years of sacrifice, of sleepless nights, of whispered prayers that went unheard. Let them see what it meant to lose something they thought they owned.

 

A crack of thunder split the sky outside. Odysseus let his eyes drift open, pupils blown wide in the dimness of the cave.

 

For once, they’ll know what it feels like to lose me.

 

They'll know how I felt when they were never there for me.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

The tent was a storm of voices, frantic movement, and the harsh clang of metal as soldiers armed themselves. The rain hammered against the canvas, thick and unrelenting, as if the gods themselves wept in fury over Odysseus’ disappearance. Maps were spread across the table, weighed down by daggers and goblets, smeared with dirt and rainwater as men pointed, argued, and demanded action.

 

“We should split into five groups—”

 

“No, he’s too smart for that. He’ll avoid paths where we’d expect him. We need to spread out, not cluster—”

 

“Are you insane? The Trojans—”

 

“I don’t give a damn about the Trojans!” Achilles snarled, slamming his fist onto the table. His breath came in ragged bursts, his knuckles white where he gripped his sword hilt. “If he’s out there, I’m finding him myself.”

 

Polites stood stiffly by the entrance, his face unreadable. His usual softness was gone, his voice devoid of warmth. “Send the slaves into the forest,” he said, cutting through the noise like a blade. “They can cover more ground in the cold and rain. If they freeze, we get more.”

 

The entire tent went silent.

 

Patroclus turned to him in shock. “Polites—”

 

“We need numbers,” Polites said flatly. His eyes burned, his hands trembled at his sides. “We need bodies. Or would you rather leave him out there to rot?”

 

Nobody answered.

 

Eurylochus sat apart from the others, hunched over, his head in his hands. His stomach churned violently, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had always considered himself prepared for anything. Always been ready to handle whatever nightmare the gods threw their way. But this? This was different.

 

Because if Odysseus was truly gone—if he was dead—then how in Hades was he supposed to go home and look Ctimene in the eye?

 

How in Hades was he supposed to tell her?

 

Eurylochus rubbed his face, exhaustion sinking into his bones.

 

She’d kill him. Not quickly, not mercifully. She’d tear him apart with that quiet, calculating rage, piece by piece, until there was nothing left. And worse—worse than that—was the thought of her grief. He had seen how she looked at Odysseus. Had seen the way she watched for him even when she pretended not to care. Had heard the sharpness in her voice when she spoke about him, like she was holding something back, something too fragile to let slip.

 

And what if Penelope never got the news? What if they all died out here, lost in a war Odysseus had tried to escape?

 

He swallowed hard, staring at the map with unseeing eyes.

 

He needed to find him. Because if he didn’t, it wouldn’t be the war that killed him.

 

It would be her.

 

The rain soaked through Diomedes’ cloak, dripping down his face in slow, cold rivulets. He barely noticed. His mind was too full—too loud, too raw, thrumming with something dark, something ugly. He gripped the hilt of his sword so tightly his knuckles ached, but it wasn’t enough to dull the thoughts spiraling in his skull.

 

Odysseus ran from him.

 

He ran.

 

A feral sort of rage curled through Diomedes’ veins, settling low in his gut, coiling, twisting, rotting. He had chased Odysseus into the woods, had driven him into the river, and that bastard still ran. Still fought him. Still thought—what? That he could leave? That he could just slip away like he was nothing? Like he hadn’t wormed his way into every crack of Diomedes’ life?

 

Diomedes sucked in a slow breath, eyes scanning the dark, rain-choked trees. His mind spun with the possibilities. With what he could do.

 

He could break his legs.

 

The thought slithered through him, slow, insidious, creeping into the corners of his mind like a whisper from something he shouldn’t listen to. But it made sense. If Odysseus couldn’t walk, he couldn’t run. If he couldn’t run, he couldn’t leave. Couldn’t disappear into the wild like some half-feral thing trying to slip from his grasp.

 

Diomedes clenched his teeth, breath coming shallow, fast.

 

He could bind him, tie him down so tightly he’d never get the chance to so much as crawl. He’d never have to hear the sound of his footsteps fading into the distance, never have to wonder if he was out there, laughing, free. Never have to feel this sick, gnawing hollowness in his chest again.

 

And if Odysseus hated him for it? If he looked at him with something raw and shattered in his sea-dark eyes?

 

Then so be it.

 

He’d rather Odysseus hate him than leave him.

 

Diomedes’ boots squelched against the mud, his steps slow, deliberate. The rain dripped from his hair, sliding down his neck, but he barely felt it. His mind was too loud, too full.

 

He planned as he walked.

 

First, he would find Odysseus. That much was certain. He would track him, no matter how long it took, no matter how deep into the wilderness he had to go. The bastard thought he was clever, but he had left signs—broken branches, disturbed undergrowth, remnants of his presence that Diomedes could follow like a bloodhound.

 

Then, he would take him down.

 

Diomedes rolled his shoulders, fingers twitching at his sides. Odysseus would fight him. Of course he would. He would scratch, bite, spit, curse, anything to slip through his fingers. But Diomedes had wrestled him before, knew how his body moved, knew how to pin him, to hold him down until his struggles died into something weaker.

 

A blow to the side of his knee—dislocation. Not permanent, but it would send him crumbling. Then his arms—pulled behind his back, wrenched up until the sockets screamed. If necessary, he could strike his head against the ground, daze him, make him pliable.

 

Then the rope.

 

He could use his own belt if he had to, wind it tight around Odysseus’ wrists, his ankles. Make sure he couldn’t stand, couldn’t fight. And then—then the blade.

 

Diomedes’ breath came slower, measured, as he mapped it out in his mind. His hands would be steady. He would start with one leg, just below the knee. A single, clean cut. No hesitation. The agony would be blinding, the blood fast, hot. But Diomedes had seen wounds like that before. He knew how to stop the bleeding, how to keep a man from dying.

 

He wouldn’t let Odysseus die.

 

No, that wasn’t the point. The point was to keep him. To make sure he never ran again.

 

Diomedes exhaled sharply through his nose, running his tongue over his teeth. He wasn’t sure when the idea had fully settled, when it had stopped feeling like a passing thought and started feeling like a plan. But now, it was there, solid and immovable in his mind.

 

If Odysseus wanted to be free so badly, then he should have never let himself become necessary.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Odysseus crouched beneath the overhang of a rocky ledge, watching the rain carve tiny rivers into the dirt. His fingers idly twisted a stray thread from what remained of his chiton, his mind drifting, detached from the cold that had settled into his bones.

 

Huh… The thought came lazily, without much weight. I really am not necessary, so they should give up in a few days.

 

It wasn’t bitterness, not really. Just fact. He had trained them well enough. The war would go on without him. Agamemnon would rage, Achilles would lose his mind for a bit, Eurylochus would gnaw at his own nerves—but eventually, they’d realize he wasn’t worth chasing. They would adapt, just as he had trained them to.

 

A soft chuckle ghosted past his lips, dry and humorless. He had spent his entire life ensuring they could not do without him. But, in the end, what had it amounted to? They’d move on. They always did.

 

He closed his eyes, exhaling slow. It was better this way.

 

Odysseus leaned his head back against the rock, the steady drumming of the rain against the stone lulling him into a strange calm. He truly believed it. That they would move on. That, in a few days, they would give up searching.

 

Maybe Athena would sulk for a while. Maybe Eurylochus would curse his name. Maybe Polites would sigh and shake his head. But they’d move on, just as they always did. They had a war to fight. They didn’t need him.

 

The Greeks could strategize without him. Achilles had his rage, Diomedes his recklessness, and Agamemnon… well, the war would drag on with or without Odysseus. His absence wouldn’t tip the scales.

 

A bitter smirk curled his lips. In the end, I really wasn’t that important, huh?

 

He rubbed his hand over his face, not noticing how his nails had started to dig into his palm.

 

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, there was a whisper of doubt. A shadow of something he refused to acknowledge.

 

The truth.

 

That even now, men were losing their minds in his absence. That Achilles was teetering on the edge of madness, sprinting through the rain-soaked fields, breath hitching as he followed whatever trace of Odysseus remained. That Polites, the softest of them all, had turned sharp, demanding that men be sent into the cold to find him. That Agamemnon was blaming himself, spiraling into self-loathing, convinced that he was the reason Odysseus had left.

 

That Athena, for all her godlike arrogance, was unraveling.

 

That Diomedes—his closest friend—was hunting him down with something dark and irreversible boiling beneath his skin.

 

But Odysseus didn’t know any of this.

 

And so, he remained where he was, convinced he had been forgotten, convinced they would move on.

 

Utterly unaware of how wrong he was.

 

Chapter 7: ୨୧，♣﹒Plan? What Plan?

Odysseus exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as he pressed his back against the cold stone. He had to focus. He couldn’t afford to let his mind wander too far, not when there were bigger concerns—like getting the fuck home.

 

Ithaca.

 

The word sat heavy in his chest, a longing ache that he didn’t have the time to indulge. He could mourn later. Right now, he had to think.

 

The sea was out of the question. If Poseidon so much as sniffed him out there, he was done for. And with Athena spiraling, she’d be watching for any sign of him at the docks. No, the only way was by land, and that presented a whole new set of problems.

 

He had no supplies, no food, no cloak, and no clear path. He’d have to go north first, past the edges of Trojan-controlled territory, and loop west toward the mountains. There were old roads, forgotten ones, winding paths that traders used when the main roads were too dangerous.

 

But that meant going through unknown terrain, surviving on whatever scraps he could find. Not impossible, but slow.

 

And he’d have to be careful. Too many wrong steps, and he’d be dragged right back to camp, possibly in chains.

 

He ran a hand through his damp hair, sighing. How long would it take? Weeks? Months? He wasn’t even sure anymore. He barely knew what day it was.

 

But he knew one thing.

 

He was going home.

 

Odysseus groaned, tilting his head back against the stone. "Uuugh, why is everything so fucking difficult?" he muttered, rubbing his face with both hands. His body ached, his stomach gnawed at itself, and his clothes were still damp from the river.

 

"This would be so much easier if I had—I don't know—literally anything . A cloak, a knife, maybe even some bread?" He let out a bitter laugh. "But no, I had to be a dramatic little shit and run off with nothing . Gods, I'm a fucking idiot."

 

He kicked a loose pebble, watching it skitter across the ground. "And now I get to wander around like some lost mutt, eating gods-know-what, while everyone back at camp probably doesn’t even care. Except her . And she’s only mad because her pride’s hurt."

 

His stomach growled loudly, and he groaned again, throwing his head back. "Ughhh, why did I do this?" He already knew why, but it didn’t make him feel any better.

 

He slumped further against the rock, arms crossed like a sulking child. "I should be in my tent right now, warm , maybe even sleeping. Instead, I’m here, starving , soaked, and trying not to get fucking murdered. This is so stupid."

 

He huffed, rubbing his face. "I miss my bed. I miss actual food . I miss not being hunted down like a deer. This is the worst."

 

Odysseus let out a long, ragged sigh, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. His whole body felt sluggish, weighed down with exhaustion, but his mind wouldn’t stop racing. He knew he needed to sleep—he could feel the heavy pull of it in his bones, the way his limbs ached with every step, the burn behind his eyes that made everything blur at the edges. But the moment he even thought about closing his eyes, his thoughts started to spiral.

 

He was too exposed here. If he let himself sleep, what were the chances that someone— anyone —wouldn’t find him? Diomedes, Athena, some nameless soldier looking for food or shelter. Or worse, an animal. If he was unlucky, he’d wake up to the feeling of teeth sinking into his throat.

 

No, he couldn’t risk that. He just needed to rest his eyes for a second. Just a second.

 

His head drooped forward before he even realized it, his chin hitting his chest. A second stretched into a minute, his body slumping against the rock. His breathing evened out.

 

Then, something rustled in the underbrush.

 

His eyes snapped open, heart hammering as he bolted upright. His hand went for a knife that wasn’t there. Fuck . He didn’t even have a weapon. He didn’t have anything.

 

Breathing hard, he forced himself to listen. The rustling faded, probably just the wind shifting the leaves or some small creature foraging in the dark. But the damage was already done—his pulse was too fast, his thoughts were running ahead of him again.

 

You can’t sleep. You can’t risk it. If you sleep, they’ll find you. If they find you, it’s over.

 

His stomach twisted. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead against his knees. He felt lightheaded, nauseous from exhaustion and hunger. His whole body was trembling—not from cold, not from fear, just pure weariness.

 

How long had it been since he last slept? Since he last ate something that wasn’t raw or bitter? It felt like days, but that wasn’t possible. He would’ve collapsed by now. But wasn’t he already collapsing? His limbs felt disconnected from his body, like he was floating. His thoughts were starting to blur at the edges, slipping between his fingers like sand.

 

He groaned, raking a hand through his tangled hair. His fingers got caught in the knots, and he yanked them free with a frustrated growl. This is miserable.

 

He missed his bed. He missed warmth. He missed lying in soft furs, wrapped in Penelope’s scent, Telemachus snoring quietly from the next room. He missed waking up to the sound of Ithaca’s waves, not this damn rustling, not the distant howls of predators in unfamiliar forests.

 

I shouldn’t have left.

 

No. No, that wasn’t right. He shook his head. He left because he had to. Because he was tired of being their tool, tired of Athena hovering over him, tired of every decision being made for him.

 

But he hadn’t realized how tired he really was.

 

His eyes fluttered shut again, just for a moment. The darkness behind his eyelids was thick and suffocating, but gods , it felt good to rest them. Just for a second.

 

Another rustle.

 

He flinched violently, heart slamming against his ribs. He sat up so fast his vision blacked out for a moment. He swayed where he sat, gripping his knees to steady himself. No sleeping. No resting. You stop, you die.

 

A bitter laugh bubbled up in his throat. This is pathetic. I am pathetic. Reduced to a sleep-deprived, half-starved wreck, hiding in the wilderness like a common thief. He was Odysseus, King of Ithaca. He shouldn’t be in this situation.

 

But he was.

 

And no one was coming to save him.

 

　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Menelaus sat hunched forward, his hands tangled in his hair, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. His heart was hammering so hard in his chest it hurt. The dim torchlight flickered against the wet canvas of the tent, casting restless shadows that twisted and warped along the walls. He could hear the rain hammering against the ground outside, the distant shouts of men forming search parties, the clash of hurried footfalls and frantic orders. But none of it settled in his mind. None of it made sense.

 

Odysseus was gone.

 

Not dead, not yet—he refused to believe that—but he had left. He had run.

 

And all Menelaus could think was, I wasn’t enough to make him stay.

 

His chest clenched painfully, and his hands curled into fists against his forehead. The air in the tent was suffocating. He left. He left. He left. The words echoed over and over, digging into his skull, clawing at his ribs. He felt like he was drowning in them.

 

Odysseus was supposed to be the constant. The clever one. The one who could smile even in the face of the gods’ cruelty, who endured. But now? Now Odysseus had done what Menelaus had feared most—he had abandoned them.

 

Like she did.

 

A ragged breath tore out of him, his shoulders shaking. Helen. The wound of her leaving had never fully closed, no matter how much blood he had spilled to drag her back. And now— now Odysseus had done the same damn thing.

 

Had it been the war? Had it been him? Had he not seen it? Had Odysseus—brilliant, weary, tired Odysseus—been at his breaking point this whole time, and Menelaus had been too blind, too caught up in everything else to see it?

 

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his fists against them. The room was too loud, too empty, too much. He could hear Agamemnon barking orders outside, could hear Achilles somewhere screaming for them to move faster, to find him. He could hear Polites, Polites of all people, demanding they send their slaves out into the cold. He could hear Eurylochus pacing, mumbling something too low to understand, could hear Athena muttering to herself, words coming too fast, too frantic.

 

But none of it reached him, not really.

 

All he could think about was Odysseus. And how much it hurt.

 

Because the part that truly gutted him, the part that made his breath catch and his chest ache, was that he understood.

 

Odysseus had left, just like Helen had.

 

And Menelaus wasn’t sure which one hurt more.

 

Menelaus' breathing was uneven, his chest rising and falling too fast, his vision blurring at the edges. His nails dug into his scalp, pressing hard enough that it hurt, but the pain wasn’t enough to steady him. His thoughts were racing—no, spiraling—twisting into something ugly, something sick, something desperate.

 

Odysseus had left. He had run. And Menelaus had spent too many years chasing after people who left him behind.

 

He had fought a war for Helen. He had burned cities, slaughtered men, shattered alliances, all to drag her back to where she belonged. And now— now Odysseus was gone too.

 

What if I just made sure he couldn’t leave?

 

The thought was quiet, insidious, curling through his mind like smoke. His stomach twisted, nausea crawling up his throat, but the thought remained, didn’t let go.

 

He could do it. He could.

 

Odysseus was smart, resourceful, slippery like a damn eel—but he was still mortal. Flesh and bone. Breakable. If they found him, if they dragged him back—if Menelaus just… ensured he couldn’t leave again—

 

A quick cut. Not enough to kill him. Just enough to—

 

He sucked in a sharp breath, pressing his palms into his face.

 

No. No, no, what the fuck was he thinking? He wasn’t like that. He wasn’t—this wasn’t—

 

But the thought wouldn’t leave. It stayed, settled deep in his skull, whispering, You wouldn’t lose him.

 

He had lost Helen. He had lost everything, once. He had spent years fighting to get her back, only to wonder if she had ever really wanted to be by his side at all. He had bled for her, had torn himself apart to make sure she wouldn’t be taken from him again.

 

And now Odysseus had done the same damn thing.

 

Did he even matter to Odysseus?

 

Did Odysseus even stop to think about what this would do to them? To him?

 

His jaw clenched, his nails digging into his palms now, his breath coming too fast, too sharp. The rain pounded outside, the camp alive with frantic movement, but inside his tent, Menelaus sat there, still and shaking, hands pressed against his face.

 

The idea lingered.

 

He could make sure it never happened again.

 

Make sure Odysseus never left.

 

Make sure he never had to feel like this again.

 

　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Odysseus had wedged himself into the back of the cave, his body curled against the cold stone. The cavern was shallow but dry, its entrance narrow enough to keep out most of the wind. Water dripped somewhere in the distance, echoing faintly against the rock. The air smelled of damp earth and lichen, but it was better than the open rain, better than the mud that would betray his steps.

 

His chiton was still damp, clinging to his skin, but exhaustion pinned him in place. He had spent the last day running, hiding, thinking—his mind a relentless storm. But now, in the hush of the cave, his body finally betrayed him.

 

His head lolled to the side, resting against the stone. His breath slowed. The ache in his limbs dulled. He hadn't meant to sleep. It was dangerous, reckless—but his body no longer cared.

 

For the first time since throwing himself into the river, Odysseus closed his eyes.

 

They should give up in a few days.

 

That thought had been circling his mind, like a vulture waiting for something to die. Agamemnon had his war, Athena had her pride, Achilles had his anger—none of them needed him. None of them would search for long.

 

His fingers twitched slightly against the stone, but he didn’t wake.

 

Instead, for the first time since he had fled, Odysseus slept.

 

The cave dissolved around him. The cold, the dampness, the ache in his muscles—gone.

 

Instead, there was warmth. Golden light spilling over polished floors, the scent of salt and olives in the air. The whisper of fabric as someone moved nearby.

 

Penelope.

 

She stood by the open balcony, the wind tugging at her dark hair, the sea stretching endless behind her. She was draped in red, the deep, regal color of Ithaca’s queen, though her shoulders were bare, her skin kissed by the sun.

 

Odysseus tried to step forward, but his feet wouldn’t move. He was rooted in place, a distant observer, unable to reach her.

 

She turned, and gods, her eyes—sharp, knowing, and full of something unreadable. Her lips curved, not quite a smile.

 

"You left."

 

His stomach twisted. "I didn’t—"

 

"Yes, you did." Her voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. "You left me once. Now you do it again."

 

His throat was dry. He wanted to move, wanted to touch her, but his body felt distant, as though he were sinking through the floor.

 

"It wasn't like that," he tried, but the words felt weak.

 

Penelope stepped closer. He could almost feel the warmth of her skin, the scent of her—wild thyme and salt, something undeniably hers.

 

"Then what was it like, Odysseus?" Her voice dropped lower, teasing, almost loving. But her eyes—those sharp, hawk-like eyes—bored into him. "Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Did you think I wouldn’t know?"

 

Her fingers trailed up his chest, soft, but there was something cruel in the way they lingered over his throat. "How many times do you run before you realize you have nowhere left to go?"

 

Odysseus swallowed hard, his body still refusing to move.

 

"I will always have somewhere to go," he whispered.

 

Penelope's gaze softened for a moment. She pressed her forehead against his, her breath warm against his lips.

 

"Liar," she murmured.

 

Then the world snapped—

 

—water rushing over his face, waves pulling him under—

 

—mud and rain, trees bending under the wind—

 

—Penelope turning away, disappearing into the shadows of Ithaca’s halls—

 

Odysseus gasped awake.

 

Odysseus leaned back against the cold, damp wall of the cave, dragging a shaky hand down his face. His breath was unsteady, his heartbeat a dull, erratic thud against his ribs.

 

The dream clung to him like the humidity in the air, refusing to fade even as he forced himself to focus on the rough stone beneath his fingers.

 

Penelope’s voice still echoed in his head.

 

"You left."

 

He let out a slow, measured breath, pressing his head back against the cave wall.

 

He hadn’t left her. He hadn’t—

 

No, that was a lie, wasn’t it?

 

He had left. He had left the moment he set foot on this cursed campaign, left her to rule alone, left her with Telemachus, left her to the wolves of Ithaca’s court. She had been strong, as she always was, but he wasn’t fool enough to think she hadn’t suffered.

 

And now?

 

He had left again.

 

He hadn’t even considered that she might hear of this. What would she think, if word reached her? Would she assume he was dead? Would she grieve, or would she be furious?

 

Would she even be surprised?

 

His chest tightened. He rubbed his temples, trying to shake the exhaustion sinking into his bones.

 

No, no—he wasn’t dead. He wasn’t done. He just needed a plan.

 

He needed to get to Ithaca.

 

A part of him whispered that he had nothing left there, that ten years was too long, that Telemachus barely knew him, that Penelope had learned to live without him.

 

That she might not want him back.

 

He clenched his jaw and shook his head, trying to chase away the thought. No. That was exhaustion talking. That was doubt, and doubt was a poison he couldn’t afford right now.

 

He exhaled sharply, rubbing at his arms, suddenly hyper-aware of the damp chill settling over his skin. He needed to move, needed to get out of his own damn head before the weight of his thoughts crushed him.

 

But where the fuck was he even going?

 

He let out a bitter chuckle. He had thrown away his only real source of warmth, abandoned his supplies, left behind everything but his stubborn will and a half-baked idea of freedom.

 

Smart, Odysseus. Brilliant .

 

He sighed, running a hand through his tangled, half-dry hair.

 

If he was going to survive this, he needed a real plan. Not just impulsive, half-mad ideas formed in a sleep-deprived stupor.

 

He needed food. He needed rest. He needed to stop spiraling.

 

…But gods, the weight in his chest wouldn’t go away.

 

　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Nestor sat at the war table, rubbing his temples as the others bickered, shouted, and outright spiraled into madness. He let them. Let Agamemnon pace, let Achilles tear at his hair, let Menelaus stew in his abandonment issues, let Athena look like she was two seconds from cracking the earth in half with her bare hands.

 

Because unlike them, Nestor was thinking.

 

He refused— refused —to believe that Odysseus had just run off without a plan. That was absurd. This was Odysseus. The man who could talk his way out of a siege, who could make a victory out of a lost cause, who had managed to play half the kings of Greece against each other with nothing but a well-placed word and a smirk.

 

No, this was deliberate. It had to be.

 

He stared down at the map before him, mind whirring.

 

If Odysseus wanted to disappear , then where would he go? Not somewhere obvious—he wouldn’t be lying in a ditch somewhere, half-dead and waiting to be found. The man was too stubborn for that. And he wouldn’t run toward Troy, because while he was reckless, he wasn’t stupid.

 

So where?

 

Nestor drummed his fingers against the table.

 

There were only so many ways to get out of this cursed land. By land, by sea, or by death.

 

And if it were the last option, they’d have found a body.

 

He exhaled sharply. Think, old man. If you were Odysseus, what would you do?

 

The others could scream all they wanted about emotions, about betrayal, about loyalty. He wasn’t wasting time with that. If Odysseus had left, he had left for a reason.

 

And if Nestor knew him at all, he was already three steps ahead of them.

 

Nestor narrowed his eyes at the map.

 

Where the hell are you, Odysseus?

 

Nestor tapped his fingers against the map, inhaling sharply as he tried to shove himself into Odysseus' mind. Alright. If I were him…

 

Step one: Escape without being noticed.

 

Step two: Mask my trail.

 

Step three: Ensure I have enough supplies or can obtain them on the way.

 

Step four: Reach a place where I can leave without getting caught.

 

That all made sense. That was logical.

 

But then he actually started retracing the steps Odysseus must have taken, and his fingers slowly curled into a fist.

 

The river. The missing cloak. The sheer fact that they hadn’t even realized he was gone until it was too late.

 

That meant he’d planned everything before he ever took a single step.

 

But then—then he thought further, tracing every possible option Odysseus had from there.

 

There were no boats he could steal without getting caught. The beaches were being patrolled. If he wanted to swim , he'd have to do it unnoticed, and in this weather, it would be suicide.

 

That left land.

 

Nestor followed the mountain paths, the forests, the caves, his mind mapping out every possible option. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized.

 

This wasn’t some careful, calculated escape plan.

 

This was insane.

 

He exhaled sharply, staring down at the map as the truth hit him like a war hammer to the chest.

 

Odysseus hadn't just run away.

 

He had bolted with no supplies , no backup, no guarantee of success—just pure, reckless, feral instinct.

 

He wasn’t three steps ahead.

 

He was flying by the seat of his damned chiton.

 

Nestor felt his stomach twist. The man hadn’t planned this out properly. He had just gone.

 

And that— that —was the most terrifying realization of all.

 

Nestor exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples as he stared down at the map.

 

This wasn’t strategy. This wasn’t Odysseus being his usual smug, insufferably clever self.

 

This was desperation.

 

Odysseus hadn’t planned this like a general outmaneuvering his enemies. He’d run like a cornered animal . No supplies, no backup, no guarantee of success. Just sheer, reckless instinct, like a man who had lost all reason.

 

Nestor’s stomach twisted. He’d seen warriors break before—seen men so rattled by war that they lost their grip on logic, on survival, on themselves . But never him.

 

Never Odysseus.

 

He felt a cold dread settle in his chest. What had happened? What had driven him to this?

 

Had the stress finally snapped him? Had Athena’s favor become a burden too heavy to bear? Had some festering thought eaten away at him for so long that he truly believed this was a reasonable course of action?

 

Nestor clenched his jaw, trying to shake the image of Odysseus wandering barefoot through the wilderness, rain pouring down his back, eyes vacant and wild.

 

And then another image formed in his mind—one far more satisfying.

 

Him. Taking off his shoe. And smacking Odysseus upside the head with it.

 

He let out a slow breath, nodding to himself.

 

Yes.

 

The second they found that lunatic, he was getting a sandal to the skull.

 

He had no idea what had caused this. But by the gods, when they dragged Odysseus back, he was going to beat some sense into him if he had to do it personally.

 

　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Odysseus groaned, rubbing his face with both hands as he sat slumped against the cave wall. The cold stone at his back did nothing to ease the tension coiling in his spine.

 

"This is pathetic, " he muttered, tilting his head back and glaring up at the jagged ceiling as if it personally offended him. " Absolutely pathetic."

 

He had no plan. No plan. Not even a half-baked, last-minute, duct-taped-together sort of scheme that usually got him out of trouble. He'd run —like an idiot, like a panicked animal , like some witless fool who'd never played the game of war before.

 

And now what? He had no supplies, no real cover story, no idea how to get off this cursed coast without ending up right back in Athena’s divine chokehold.

 

His fingers twitched against his knees. Think. Think.

 

He could steal a boat. No, that was suicidal. The second he touched the water, Poseidon would sense him, and then—well. He doubted the sea god would be merciful about it.

 

He could try sneaking inland, find a disguise, pretend to be some wandering merchant. Except he had no coin, no goods, and—he looked down at his mud-streaked chiton—no dignity.

 

Odysseus groaned again and let his head thump against the wall.

 

" Gods above, I am a moron. "

 

The rain was still falling outside, heavy and unrelenting, washing away any trace of his footprints—but that wouldn’t last forever. He needed to move . He needed to come up with something— anything —before his luck ran out.

 

And yet, as much as he willed himself to focus, all he could think was:

 

"The lady is going to strangle me when she finds me."

 

Chapter 8: 🃏﹒Hermes﹒⏇

Hermes blinked. Slowly. Then again

.

“…You want me to do what?”

 

Athena’s fingers twitched where they were crossed over her chest. Her jaw was locked so tight it was a wonder her teeth hadn’t cracked. “I need you to find him,” she ground out, as if she were explaining something simple to an imbecile.

 

Hermes tilted his head. “ Odysseus ?”

 

“Yes, Odysseus,” she snapped.

 

Hermes looked her up and down. Then, very pointedly, he looked down at the sodden cloak clenched in her fist. Then back up at her face, his golden brows drawing together in what could only be described as absolute bewilderment.

 

“…Isn’t he your favorite?”

 

Athena’s eye twitched.

 

“ Yes, Hermes, he is my favorite, which is why you are going to use your little messenger tricks and find him before he does something catastrophically stupid. ”

 

Hermes held up his hands. “Whoa, whoa, alright, let’s back up a step here— Odysseus ran away? Odysseus? ” He let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Are we talking about the same guy? Ithacan king, clever bastard, literally the last person who would abandon a battlefield unless he had a damn good reason —”

 

Athena grabbed his collar.

 

Hermes stopped talking.

 

“I,” Athena said, voice low and dangerous , “am very aware of how out of character this is, Hermes. That is precisely why I am standing here, wasting my breath, instead of already dragging him back by the ear.”

 

Hermes, for once, seemed to think better than to make another joke. He cleared his throat, gently prying her fingers off his tunic.

 

“Okay. So. You want me to track him?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You do realize he’s probably covering his scent, right?”

 

Athena inhaled sharply through her nose. Hermes took a careful step back.

 

“ Find him. ”

 

“…Right.” Hermes sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Okay, sure, let’s go on a divine game of hide-and-seek. Why not?” He gave her a sideways look. “But if he actually doesn’t want to be found, you do realize this is going to be a pain in my divine ass, right?”

 

Athena clenched her jaw. “Then I suggest you hurry before he gets better at it.”

 

Hermes grumbled under his breath as he adjusted his caduceus in his grip. "Great. Fantastic. Just what I needed. Chasing after a mortal who's somehow evading me. " He sighed dramatically, dragging a hand down his face. "You know, Athena, I’d really love to ask— how the hell did you lose him in the first place?"

 

Athena’s glare could have melted bronze.

 

Hermes huffed and muttered something about insufferable war goddesses before snapping his fingers, letting his divine senses unfurl like an unseen net over the land. The rain didn’t help—it muddied scents, blurred tracks. But even then…

 

He frowned.

 

No scent.

 

Not a trace.

 

“…Alright, what the actual fuck. ”

 

Athena crossed her arms, foot tapping against the ground. “What?”

 

“I should be able to track him,” Hermes said, more to himself than her. He closed his eyes, stretching his perception outward again, but still— nothing. “I can find anyone , Athena. You know that. I could pluck a man’s dying breath from the wind, I can follow the faintest trace of a lie in a marketplace, I can smell deception on a man’s skin, but this—” He waved a hand in the air, frustrated. “This is nothing. Like he just vanished. ”

 

Athena’s fingers tightened around the soaked cloak in her hands. “That’s impossible. ”

 

Hermes shot her an irritated look. “Yeah, no shit, and yet here we are.”

 

He crouched down, pressing his fingers to the damp earth, trying to sense something —some trace of movement, some lingering whisper of his presence. But there was only the scent of rain-soaked grass, the churned-up mud from frantic footsteps—his men’s, no doubt—and the lingering scent of her.

 

But not Odysseus.

 

“…Athena.” Hermes straightened, eyes narrowing. “When was the last time you actually touched him?”

 

Athena scowled. “What kind of question is that?”

 

“I mean it,” Hermes insisted, now fully invested in the puzzle. “If he was wearing your cloak, he should still carry some of your divine essence, however faint. If he just took it off and walked away, there would still be something. But there’s nothing. ”

 

Athena didn’t respond.

 

Hermes snapped his fingers. “ Unless —” He let out a low whistle. “Oh, that sly little bastard. ”

 

Athena’s patience was wearing thin. “Hermes.”

 

“He knew,” Hermes said, grinning now despite himself. “He knew how you’d track him, so he got rid of it. And not just the cloak— everything. He must have scrubbed his scent off, masked it with something. Rain helped, but this—this is deliberate. ”

 

Athena’s fists clenched.

 

Hermes laughed under his breath. “Gotta admit, ‘Thena. This is kind of impressive.”

 

Athena’s eyes flashed dangerously.

 

Hermes coughed. “Right. Not the time. Moving on.” He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. “Looks like I’ll have to track him the old-fashioned way.” He stretched out his wings and shot Athena a smirk.

 

“Don’t wait up.”

 

And with that, he vanished into the rain.

 

Hermes flitted above the rain-soaked landscape, his sharp eyes scanning every inch of the ground below. The storm had muddled every possible trail—trampled underfoot by frantic search parties, drowned in the downpour, obscured by the thick scent of wet earth. But Odysseus was no fool. He knew how to vanish.

 

That only made Hermes more intrigued.

 

“Alright, King of Ithaca,” he muttered, weaving between the trees, “let’s see how good you really are.”

 

He swooped lower, skimming over the riverbanks. That had been the last clear sign of him—the lost bag, the cloak. It could have meant he drowned, but Hermes knew better. If Odysseus had actually died, Hades would have been bitching about it already. No, he was alive. Somewhere.

 

Hermes’ eyes landed on the churned-up mud near the river’s end. Scattered footprints—some belonging to the search teams, but some deeper, older, half-washed away. He followed them, but they cut off suddenly.

 

No tracks leading forward. No sign of direction. Just—gone.

 

Hermes hovered for a moment, then frowned.

 

“Where the hell did you go?”

 

He backtracked, checking every possible escape route. A cave? No—there weren’t any immediately in sight. A climb? Possible, but the trees nearby were slick with rain, and Hermes saw no broken branches, no handprints in the mud.

 

And yet—something felt off.

 

He landed softly, crouching to examine the ground more closely. The footprints didn’t just end —they seemed… smudged. Deliberately obscured. He touched the dirt and rubbed it between his fingers. Wet, but not fully disturbed.

 

“…Did you backtrack? ” Hermes muttered to himself.

 

His eyes flicked toward the river.

 

“Oh, you clever bastard.”

 

The answer was suddenly obvious. Odysseus had walked into the water—not just fallen in, but used it. Let the current carry him, scrub away his scent, remove all traces of his steps. He must have drifted far enough downstream to crawl out unseen, then slipped away before anyone noticed.

 

Hermes shot back into the sky, following the river’s curve with renewed focus.

 

“No wonder I couldn’t smell you,” he murmured. “You fucking washed yourself off.”

 

The rain was letting up now, but the damage was done. Any lingering scents were too faint to follow. Hermes would have to think like him.

 

Where would a half-drowned, exhausted Odysseus go?

 

A cave. That was his best bet.

 

Hermes turned his search toward the rockier terrain ahead, scanning every crevice, every shadowed alcove. He darted past a small outcropping, then another—until he saw it.

 

A cave. Half-hidden by vines and jagged stone, deep enough to disappear into. It wasn’t obvious from a distance. But up close? Hermes could feel it. A subtle shift in the air. The faintest warmth of breath still clinging to the entrance.

 

His lips curled into a smirk.

 

“Got you.”

 

He landed soundlessly at the entrance, peering into the darkness.

 

Time to see just how fucked Odysseus really was.

 

　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Odysseus had been drifting in and out of uneasy sleep, his back pressed against the cold stone of the cave. His mind had been a storm of half-formed thoughts—Penelope’s smile, Telemachus’ voice, the way Athena’s presence had always been a looming weight in his life. He had been debating his next move, weighing the risks of land versus sea, when—

 

A whisper of movement. A shift in the air.

 

His instincts screamed.

 

His eyes snapped open just as a figure landed at the mouth of the cave—tall, winged sandals barely making a sound against the wet stone. A faint glow of divine presence. And in that instant, Odysseus knew.

 

Hermes.

 

For a split second, neither of them moved. Odysseus’ heart pounded. The Messenger God had found him. That meant Athena knew.

 

Then Odysseus moved.

 

With a speed that startled even himself, he grabbed the nearest rock—a jagged thing, wet from the damp cave floor—and hurled it with all the force he could muster.

 

It struck Hermes square in the forehead.

 

There was a beat of stunned silence.

 

Hermes staggered back, blinking rapidly. " What the— "

 

Odysseus didn’t wait.

 

He bolted.

 

Like a wild animal, he surged forward, shoving past the god in his escape. Hermes, still half-stunned by the sheer audacity of being pelted with a rock , barely had time to react before Odysseus launched himself out of the cave and toward the river below.

 

The rain had slowed, but the current was still strong—he could hear it rushing over the rocks. Good. He needed that. He needed gone.

 

Hermes finally recovered. " Are you fucking serious— "

 

Too late.

 

Odysseus threw himself off the ledge, limbs tucking in as he plunged into the river. Cold, violent water swallowed him instantly, pulling him under. The moment he hit, he forced himself to go limp, letting the current drag him downstream before Hermes could react.

 

Above him, he could hear the god’s frustrated shout.

 

" YOU ABSOLUTE MANIAC— "

 

Odysseus’ lungs burned, but he didn’t dare surface yet. He let the river carry him further, deeper, away—until the cave, Hermes, everything was a distant memory.

 

Odysseus kicked his legs, forcing himself deeper into the current, letting it hurl him forward like a discarded piece of driftwood. He had no plan—no strategy—just away. Away from Hermes, away from Athena, away from the damned war. His arms burned, his lungs screamed, but he kept going.

 

The river widened, turning sluggish as it neared the coast. Salt mixed with fresh water, stinging his eyes. The current wasn’t as strong here, so he pushed himself forward with sheer force, arms cutting through the water. He needed to get further. Further.

 

Then—

 

Something snagged his ankle.

 

He jerked downward. Panic flared as he kicked, twisting, but the more he moved, the tighter it wrapped. Seaweed. Thick, tangled vines of it.

 

Odysseus thrashed, but it was no use—he was stuck.

 

His chest tightened. He couldn’t breathe.

 

No, no, no—

 

His vision blurred, dark spots dancing at the edges. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to think despite the panic. He reached down, trying to pry the seaweed loose, but it was wrapped tight, coiled like a serpent around his leg. He needed air.

 

His hands groped wildly through the water—until they brushed against something.

 

An opening.

 

A pocket of air trapped beneath an overhanging rock.

 

With the last of his strength, Odysseus lunged forward, dragging himself up until his face broke the surface. He gasped—ragged, desperate, pulling in air as though it were the sweetest nectar.

 

The space was small, barely enough to keep his head above water. The rock arched overhead, enclosing him like a prison. The world outside was muffled, distorted by water, and all he could hear was his own rasping breath.

 

He exhaled sharply, pressing his forehead against the cold stone.

 

He was alive.

 

Trapped, but alive.

 

　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Hermes stood at the riverbank, utterly, completely, incomprehensibly stunned.

 

A rock. The bastard threw a rock at him.

 

The Messenger of the Gods, the fleet-footed traveler of Olympus, struck in the head by a hastily flung rock like some common mortal.

 

He rubbed the spot where it had hit, more out of sheer disbelief than actual pain. Did Odysseus— Odysseus —truly have the audacity?

 

Apparently, he did.

 

Hermes exhaled sharply, scanning the water with narrowed eyes. No sign of him. Not even a ripple. And worse—he still couldn’t smell him. The scent should have clung to the cloak, to his skin, something. But no, it was gone. Completely erased.

 

He crouched by the water, dipping his fingers in. The currents were strong, but not enough to wash away a scent so thoroughly. His wings twitched in agitation. Odysseus was hiding.

 

Somewhere down there, probably laughing to himself in whatever stupid, ridiculous hiding spot he’d found.

 

Hermes sighed.

 

Athena was not going to like this.

 

Hermes straightened, staring at the water with an expression that slowly shifted from irritation to something… else. Something curious.

 

No mortal had ever done that to him before.

 

Sure, plenty had defied the gods. Plenty had pleaded, bargained, begged, even tried to outwit them. But none— none —had ever looked at Hermes, the messenger of Olympus, the fleet-footed trickster himself, and decided, in all their mortal audacity , to hurl a rock at his head and run.

 

His fingers traced the spot where it had hit. The sting was already gone, but the insult —no, the boldness —lingered. It crept under his skin, curled around his thoughts, sank its teeth into something deep and long-forgotten.

 

Odysseus wasn’t just running. He wasn’t just hiding.

 

He was playing.

 

And gods, wasn’t that interesting?

 

A slow grin stretched across Hermes’ face, something sharp, something hungry .

 

Oh, this was fun. This was new.

 

Athena wanted him found? Fine. But Hermes wouldn’t just find Odysseus. He would chase him. He would hunt him.

 

And when he caught him—oh, when he caught him—

 

He was going to see what made this mortal so audacious. He was going to see what made Odysseus tick.

 

Hermes hummed as he skipped along the riverbank, each step light, effortless—almost playful. His bare feet barely touched the ground before he was airborne again, his toes brushing the surface of the water, sending ripples through the dark currents below.

 

His tune was lilting, unsettlingly cheerful, like a child’s song sung in the wrong key. It danced through the trees, carried by the wind, slipping through the cracks of the world where mortals' instincts whispered warnings they did not understand.

 

He grinned, eyes gleaming in the dim light, scanning the water as if searching for something precious he had simply misplaced. “Where, oh where has Odysseus gone?” he mused aloud, sing-song, letting his voice carry into the woods. “Where, oh where could he be? ”

 

The river held no scent, no sign, no trace. It was clever, really. So clever. Hermes almost laughed, his amusement curling deep in his chest.

 

Odysseus thought he could slip from the gods’ grasp. He thought he could vanish like mist before the morning sun.

 

Hermes liked that.

 

He relished it.

 

It had been so long since anyone had made him work for his prize. Since anyone had made him chase.

 

He spun mid-step, landing lightly on a smooth rock, balancing on one foot as he peered into the rushing waters. “Are you watching me, Odysseus?” he cooed, tilting his head. “Are you listening?”

 

The river churned on, unanswering.

 

But Hermes knew .

 

Odysseus was there , somewhere just beyond reach, just beneath the surface, just waiting .

 

Hermes’ grin widened, his voice dropping to a whisper as he leaned toward the water, his breath barely disturbing the surface.

 

“Run, little mortal.”

 

And with that, he skipped further down the riverbank, his tune growing softer, sweeter..

 

Hungry .

 

Odysseus' lungs burned as he clawed at the water, his fingers catching against the rough weave of tangled roots and slimy stone. His chest heaved, desperate for air, and for a moment, his vision blurred at the edges.

 

Then—his hands found something solid. A thick, sturdy branch, slick with river slime but strong enough to hold his weight. He grasped it with shaking fingers, pulling himself just enough to get his mouth above the surface, gasping in sharp, ragged breaths.

 

The air pocket was small, trapped beneath a curved overhang of rock. He pressed his back against the submerged wall, trying to steady his breathing, trying to silence the frantic pounding of his heart.

 

He’s here.

 

That was all Odysseus could think. He’s here. Hermes is here. Hermes is looking.

 

His ears strained against the muffled roar of the river, trying to pick up anything beyond the rush of water. And then—he did .

 

A voice. Light. Playful. Humming.

 

His stomach twisted violently. That thing was skipping along the riverbank like this was a game. Like he was prey.

 

Odysseus clenched his teeth, pressing himself as deep into the rock as he could, his grip tightening on the branch. The cold water licked at his jaw, threatening to pull him under again, but he forced himself to stay still, to breathe slowly, to ignore the ache in his ribs.

 

He could not be found.

 

Not yet.

 

Odysseus’ breath came slow and shallow, barely more than a ripple against the water’s surface. His fingers ached from gripping the branch, but he refused to let go.

 

Above, the humming continued. Light, airy. Playful.

 

He’s enjoying this.

 

Odysseus clenched his jaw. His body trembled, from the cold, from exhaustion, from the sheer, sickening knowledge that Hermes wasn’t here to reason with him. He wasn’t here to talk.

 

He’s going to kill me.

 

His stomach twisted at the thought. The gods didn’t need reasons. He had insulted Athena, defied her will. He had thrown a rock at Hermes, for the love of the gods, and no god took disrespect lightly. He knew the stories. Mortals who dared to stand against the divine ended up crushed beneath their feet, turned into beasts, cursed, erased.

 

He could already see it—Hermes would find him, drag him from the river by his hair, laughter in his voice as he pinned him down. Maybe he’d toy with him first, pressing him into the mud, his sandals barely leaving a mark as he watched him struggle. Maybe he’d take his time, humming that damned tune as he decided whether to gut him, drown him, or simply snap his neck.

 

Athena would watch. He was sure of it. She’d watch and she wouldn’t stop it.

 

The thought made something primal in Odysseus coil and snap.

 

No.

 

He would not die here. Not in the dark, not in the cold, not like a cornered rat in some cursed river.

 

Odysseus forced his breath even, his heartbeat steady. He could not run. Not yet. But he could wait. He could wait.

 

And if Hermes found him—

 

He’d make sure the god regretted it.

 

Odysseus clenched his jaw, pressing his forehead against the rough bark of the branch. His body was still half-submerged in the water, his legs tangled in the seaweed below, but his mind raced—sharp, biting, desperate.

 

If Hermes found him, if the god decided to drag him out of the river like a disobedient child— he’d have to fight.

 

The thought made him huff out a breathless, humorless laugh. Fight a god. Had he finally lost his mind? Maybe. But then again— hadn't Diomedes done it?

 

Odysseus squeezed his eyes shut, his grip tightening. Diomedes had stabbed a god. He had slashed at Ares himself, sent the war god screaming into the sky. It worked, didn’t it? The gods weren’t untouchable. They could bleed.

 

If Hermes got close—if he was careless, if he got cocky —Odysseus could make his move.

 

A spear. That was his best bet. A quick throw, well-aimed, straight to the gut. Hermes was fast, but he was also arrogant. Odysseus had seen it before, the way the god never seemed to take anything seriously, how he sauntered through danger like it was all a game. If he miscalculated, if he assumed Odysseus was too weak, too broken to fight—

 

He could hurt him. Maybe not kill him, but enough to flee. Enough to make Hermes rethink chasing him, if only for a moment.

 

Gods bleed.

 

Odysseus exhaled slowly. The rain drummed against the river’s surface, against the earth, masking all but the faintest sounds.

 

Above, the humming continued. Light, airy.

 

A shiver crawled down Odysseus’ spine.

 

He didn’t have a spear. He barely had anything. But if Hermes found him—

 

He’d make one.

 

Odysseus clenched his teeth, fingers curling tighter around the branch. His mind was racing, clawing desperately for a way out, for a way through . But the more he thought about it, the more the plan crumbled in his hands like dry sand.

 

A spear? Against Hermes ? The god of speed ?

 

He nearly let out a bark of laughter, half-hysterical, half-mocking. What was he thinking? Even if he had a spear, even if he somehow managed to throw it with all the precision he prided himself on—Hermes would be gone before the tip even left his fingers.

 

This wasn’t Ares, slow and battle-drunk, filled with bloodlust that made him sloppy. This was Hermes. Quick, clever Hermes, who could outrun the wind itself, who could snatch a dagger from your belt before you even noticed his shadow.

 

What was he going to do, throw a rock at him again ?

 

Odysseus groaned softly, pressing his head against the rough bark. He was a tactician , not a madman. He wasn’t Diomedes, charging in blindly just because the gods had pissed him off. And even Diomedes had only gotten away with it because Athena had been there, guiding his spear, covering his back.

 

Odysseus had no one.

 

No divine shield, no favor, no protection.

 

Just himself, and the freezing river, and the growing weight of exhaustion pulling at his limbs.

 

He had to think. He had to be smart . Not reckless.

 

He needed a plan that worked . Not one that ended with him gutted and thrown over Hermes’ shoulder like a particularly unfortunate rabbit.

 

　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Nestor pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling through his teeth as he looked around at the gathered generals. The tent was thick with tension, the air buzzing with frantic planning, frantic belief —a belief that Odysseus had, as always, masterminded this whole catastrophe.

 

"Listen to me," Nestor said, his voice sharp with exasperation. "Odysseus does not have a plan."

 

Menelaus immediately shook his head. "Impossible."

 

"Utterly ridiculous," Agamemnon scoffed. "Odysseus always has a plan."

 

"Even when he doesn’t have a plan, he has a plan," Idomeneus added with a shrug.

 

"Yes, because that makes perfect sense," Nestor snapped, planting his hands on the table. "You are all delusional."

 

Diomedes, who had been silent, arms crossed, finally spoke. "It’s Odysseus," he said flatly. "He must have a plan."

 

"Why?" Nestor barked. "Because you refuse to believe he could be an idiot?"

 

The silence in the room was almost offended .

 

"That man," Nestor continued, jabbing a finger at nothing in particular, " threw himself into a river and has not been seen since. That is not planning. That is panic."

 

Menelaus scoffed. "You’re underestimating him."

 

Nestor laughed , short and humorless. "No, you’re overestimating him! Odysseus is smart, but he's also impulsive, sleep-deprived, and possibly losing his mind as we speak! You all think he's out there weaving some grand scheme, but I promise you, he is not! "

 

Agamemnon crossed his arms. "Then what is he doing, Nestor? If not planning?"

 

Nestor threw up his hands. "He's either half-drowned in a ditch somewhere or curled up in a cave wishing he hadn't done something so stupid! "

 

"That's absurd," Menelaus muttered.

 

"Absurd?" Nestor barked a laugh. "You do remember that he once pretended to be insane by plowing a field with salt, yes? And yet this is where you draw the line?"

 

Silence.

 

A very uncomfortable silence.

 

Nestor dragged a hand down his face. " Gods, " he muttered, "I should have retired years ago."

 

Nestor’s eye twitched violently. He hated this. He hated that he had to sit here and explain the obvious to a room full of grown men who were acting as if Odysseus had single-handedly invented thought.

 

" Listen to me," he said, his tone dangerously close to that of a parent trying not to strangle a particularly idiotic child. " Odysseus is not scheming. Odysseus is not masterminding. Odysseus is not weaving some great, elaborate, gods-damned web of deception. He is— " he exhaled sharply, " —in all likelihood, cold, wet, sleep-deprived, and wishing he had made literally any other choice than running away like a damned lunatic into the wilderness! "

 

Agamemnon raised a skeptical eyebrow. " That ," he said flatly, " is exactly what Odysseus wants you to think. "

 

Nestor slammed his hands down on the table so hard that several men flinched. His eye twitched again . " NO! " he snapped. " It is NOT! It is EXACTLY what happened, you absolute sack of bricks! "

 

"But—"

 

" NO BUTS! " Nestor cut in, pointing a violently accusatory finger. " Do you know what Odysseus' plan was? Do you want to know?" He jabbed his own temple, his expression deranged. " Nothing! He had no plan! He jumped in the river and ran like a dog with its tail on fire! And do you know what that means?"

 

"...That he’s five steps ahead of us..?”

 

Nestor screamed internally. His eye twitched so hard that he briefly wondered if this was how he would die. Not on the battlefield, not of old age, but from sheer, unfiltered rage.

 

" No, " he said, his voice dangerously calm, " it means he is currently stumbling around like an idiot, probably on the verge of hypothermia, and cursing every god that has ever existed while praying to at least one of them to not let him die in the woods like a moron. "

 

Silence.

 

Then, slowly, Agamemnon exhaled through his nose. "So," he said, rubbing his chin, "what you’re saying is that Odysseus wants us to think he has no plan, so that—"

 

Nestor grabbed a shoe and threw it at his head.

 

Agamemnon barely dodged the shoe, which sailed past his ear and hit the wall with a dull thunk. The entire tent went silent.

 

Nestor took a slow, deep breath, his fingers twitching as if he were seriously considering hurling another. "No," he said, voice tight. "I am saying exactly what I am saying. Odysseus is not ahead of us. He is not leading us in circles. He is—" his eye twitched, "—lost, wet, cold, and probably regretting every single decision that led him to this moment.*"

 

Menelaus, who had been sitting in the corner clutching Odysseus’ tattered cloak like a grieving widow, slowly raised his hand. "But—"

 

Nestor turned to him, his expression dark enough to make even Achilles hesitate. "Say something stupid," he warned, "and I will throw the other shoe."

 

Menelaus hesitated. Then, carefully, he lowered his hand.

 

Nestor exhaled slowly. "Thank you."

 

Diomedes, who had been standing with his arms crossed, finally spoke. "So," he said, his voice unsettlingly even, "what you’re saying is that Odysseus is vulnerable right now?"

 

Nestor squinted at him, sensing something vaguely murderous in his tone. "Yes," he said warily, "which is precisely why we need to find him quickly, before something actually kills him."

 

Diomedes hummed, tilting his head. "I see," he said, rubbing his chin in mock contemplation. "So if I find him first—"

 

"You are not tying him up and cutting off his legs," Nestor deadpanned before he could even finish.

 

Diomedes clicked his tongue. "Tch."

 

Achilles, still half-feral from his earlier breakdown, suddenly shot to his feet. "Enough TALKING!" he snarled, shoving the table so hard that it scraped against the floor. "We need to MOVE!" His breathing was sharp and unsteady, his grip white-knuckled on the edge of the wood. "Odysseus is out there, and none of you understand—" His voice broke slightly before he gritted his teeth. "—he's not supposed to be alone."

 

Patroclus placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to steady him, but Achilles shrugged him off. His eyes burned with something desperate. "We have to find him."

 

Agamemnon, despite everything, had the audacity to scoff. "And you think just running blindly into the wilderness is going to solve anything?"

 

Achilles turned on him, vicious. "If you're too much of a coward to do something," he spat, "then stay here and play politics like a useless little king."

 

Agamemnon twitched. "What did you just—"

 

"ENOUGH!" Nestor roared, slamming both fists onto the table. "We are GOING to find Odysseus. No more debating. No more theories. We move, NOW."

 

There was a beat of silence. Then, finally—movement. Men grabbed their cloaks. Spears were gathered. Search teams were reformed.

 

And in the middle of it all, as Nestor snatched his shoe back up from the floor, he muttered to himself, "The second I see him, I am throwing this at his stupid, reckless, self-destructive head."

 

Odysseus pressed his back against the cold, slick rock, water lapping at his chin as he took slow, measured breaths.

 

" Alright, " he muttered under his breath, " this is fine. "

 

It was not fine.

 

The air pocket was barely large enough for him to keep his face above the water, and every movement he made sent ripples echoing through the tight space. His fingers dug into the algae-slick stone as he tried to think through the very pressing issue at hand.

 

He was stuck.

 

" Brilliant, truly brilliant, " he muttered to himself. " You were worried about Diomedes killing you, but no, you’re going to drown in a fucking hole because you panicked. "

 

He could still hear the river roaring above him, the weight of it pressing against his limbs, cold and unrelenting. Trying to swim out blindly could send him deeper into some unknown crevice. He needed to be sure of where he was going.

 

He pressed a hand against the stone, feeling around blindly. His breath hitched when his fingers found a narrow gap— maybe an opening. But the space was so tight, and he wasn’t sure if it would actually lead anywhere.

 

" You could just stay here, " his exhausted mind supplied. " Wait for the river to calm. Sleep. "

 

He immediately smacked his head against the stone to snap himself out of it. " Nope. Bad thought. Terrible thought. " He took a sharp breath. " Alright. Think, Odysseus, think. "

 

Could he risk swimming back up ? No, Hermes was still out there, probably skipping along the riverbank like some gleeful little menace .

 

Could he wait it out? No, because eventually, he’d pass out , and that would be it .

 

" Fucking Hades, " he swore under his breath, fingers tightening into a fist. " I should’ve just— " He cut himself off, shaking his head violently. " No. No regrets. Just solutions. "

 

He pressed his foot against the slick ground beneath him, braced , and then— shoved himself forward, aiming for the tight gap, praying it actually led somewhere .

 

Odysseus gritted his teeth as he squeezed himself through the narrow gap, dragging himself forward with slow, deliberate movements. His lungs burned, but he kept his mind steady. Panic would only waste his breath.

 

The first thing he did was test the water. He reached ahead, feeling the way the current moved, tracing its path like a spider following the vibrations of its web. The pull was weaker on his left—meaning that, somewhere in that direction, there had to be an opening where the water wasn’t flowing as forcefully.

 

There. That’s where I go.

 

He kept one hand pressed against the rock ceiling, the other feeling for more gaps, pushing himself forward in increments, refusing to rush. If there were jagged rocks or a sudden dead-end, slamming into them headfirst would do him no favors.

 

His fingers grazed empty space. His heart leapt.

 

A larger pocket. Maybe even—

 

He pushed through and—yes!

 

His head broke through the surface, and he gasped in a lungful of air. Darkness still surrounded him, but there was room now. The walls were widening.

 

He let himself take a moment to breathe, forcing his hammering heart to steady before he reached for the next problem: finding actual ground.

 

He ran his hand along the cavern wall, feeling out the shape of it. The stone sloped upward. If he could get a grip—

 

His fingers caught onto a rocky ledge. He tested it with a sharp tug. Stable.

 

With a grunt, he hauled himself up, slipping once— fuck —but then finding his balance as he dragged himself out of the water and onto cold, solid ground. He flopped onto his back, gasping, utterly exhausted.

 

" Hah… " He coughed, blinking up at the ceiling. " I actually… did it. "

 

It was still dark, still damp, but for the first time since the whole mess started—he felt in control .

 

His mind was already moving to the next step.

 

He had no supplies. He needed warmth. The cave had to lead somewhere—if there was an air pocket here , that meant there was an opening somewhere .

 

If Hermes had lost his scent at the river, that meant he had some time.

 

A slow, victorious grin spread across his face.

 

Alright then.

 

Odysseus sat up, rolling his shoulders.

 

Time to get moving.

Chapter 9: ⟢﹒🐇﹒ꕤ﹒Achilles

Hermes paced in lazy circles, his sandals skimming just above the wet earth, hands gesturing wildly as he rambled to Athena—who was not in the mood for his theatrics.

 

"I mean, listen, listen," Hermes said, grinning like this was the best entertainment he’d had in centuries. "I’ve met plenty of audacious mortals, but Odysseus? Ohhh, he’s something else." He chuckled, shaking his head. "I mean, who else would throw a rock at me? ME, Athena!"

 

Athena glared, arms crossed, barely restraining herself from wringing his neck. " Yes, Hermes, I was there. "

 

" No, no, you don’t get it! " Hermes continued, completely ignoring her simmering rage. " It wasn’t just the rock—it was the look in his eyes! That man genuinely thought, ‘Yes, this will work, I am so smart,’ and he committed to it! " He threw his hands up in exaggerated admiration. " I almost feel honored! "

 

Athena’s eye twitched. " You were supposed to find him. Instead, you let him escape —"

 

" Oh, escape is a strong word, " Hermes hummed, tilting his head. " I like to think of it as ‘prolonging the inevitable.’ "

 

" Hermes. "

 

" What? " He gave her an innocent look, then broke into a wide, mischievous grin. " I have to admit, this is fun. "

 

Athena inhaled sharply through her nose, her patience wearing thin. " You don’t understand. If Odysseus is alone for too long, he— " She cut herself off, fists clenching. " —He does stupid things. We need to find him now ."

 

Hermes just smirked. " Oh, I will. But I want to see just how far he thinks he can go first. " His golden eyes glinted with something unsettling. " Let’s see how much audacity one mortal can have before he breaks. "

 

Athena clenched her jaw, fingers twitching at her sides.

 

"You’re insufferable," she muttered.

 

Hermes grinned, completely unbothered. "And yet, you need me." He spread his arms wide. "Face it, Athena, you wouldn't have asked for my help if you weren’t desperate. Admit it—he’s gotten away from you ."

 

Athena’s eye twitched.

 

Hermes laughed, tilting his head back, still bouncing lightly on his heels. "This is delightful. Delightful . I never expected Odysseus of all mortals to be the one to slip through your grasp." He tapped his chin. "Actually, no, I take that back. Of course it’s him."

 

Athena took a slow breath. "Hermes."

 

"Hmm?"

 

"Find him."

 

"Oh, I will," Hermes said, his grin widening. "But I’d like to see how far he can run first." He turned away, humming a jaunty little tune, his fingers dancing through the air like he was conducting a song only he could hear.

 

Athena watched him go, her hands tightening into fists. Every moment wasted was another moment Odysseus could be getting himself killed.

 

Or worse—thinking he had to keep running.

 

Athena’s fingers curled so tightly her nails dug into her palms. Her jaw ached from how hard she was grinding her teeth.

 

This was humiliating .

 

Odysseus— her Odysseus—was out there, terrified, suffering, probably freezing, probably bleeding, probably starving, and she wasn’t there. She wasn’t with him. She wasn’t guiding him. She wasn’t keeping him safe.

 

And Hermes was playing games .

 

She wanted to strangle him. Rip his stupid little winged sandals off and see how fast he was without them.

 

Her mind raced with all the ways she would make Odysseus pay for this. Not with death. No. Never . But he was going to hurt . He was going to suffer for making her feel this way.

 

For leaving.

 

For not trusting her.

 

For thinking—for one second —that she wouldn’t come for him.

 

Hadn’t she always been there? Hadn’t she always been the one to shield him, to guide him, to make sure he lived ? And this was how he repaid her? Running like a scared animal, acting as if she was some enemy to be evaded?

 

Her breathing was sharp, ragged. She felt sick. Livid.

 

"Fine," she muttered. "Run, Odysseus. Run as far as you can."

 

Her fingers flexed. She would find him.

 

And when she did, he’d learn that even he couldn’t escape her.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Odysseus pressed his back against the damp stone, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he took in his surroundings. Solid ground. He was out. Finally.

 

His clothes clung to him, soaked and heavy, but he barely noticed. His mind was still reeling from the sheer madness of what had just happened.

 

He had thrown a rock at Hermes.

 

A god .

 

The realization sent a shudder through him, half hysteria, half exhaustion. He had acted on instinct, feral and desperate, but gods, what had he been thinking?

 

No—he hadn't been thinking . That was the problem.

 

Odysseus clenched his fists, staring out into the rain-drenched landscape beyond the cave’s mouth. He needed to think . He needed to be smarter than this. Running blindly wasn’t going to work forever. He was lucky he had found this cave before collapsing in the mud like an idiot.

 

But he wasn’t safe. Not really.

 

Hermes was still out there.

 

He had seen the way the god looked at him. Not angry, not vengeful— amused . Like Odysseus was some fascinating little creature scurrying for his life. A game. A joke.

 

And then there was Athena.

 

Odysseus exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand down his face. He could imagine her now, pacing, fuming, her fury sharpened to a fine edge.

 

Not because she cared. No, it wasn’t about him . It was about her pride . He was hers , and he had run. He had made a fool of her.

 

His gut twisted.

 

Would she kill him? No. She wouldn’t. That wasn’t her style.

 

But gods , he almost wished she would.

 

It would be easier than what was coming.

 

Odysseus exhaled slowly, forcing his thoughts to settle. Think. He had been reckless, but he could still get ahead of them. The rain was an issue—his footprints would be clear, the ground softened enough to betray every movement.

 

Unless he wasn’t on the ground.

 

He turned his gaze upward, scanning the trees. Their branches swayed under the weight of the rain, slick and treacherous, but sturdy enough to hold him if he was careful. The leaves, though dripping wet, would provide cover. More importantly, they would keep him off the mud, out of reach of the tracks that could lead them straight to him.

 

Climbing would be difficult. His body ached, exhaustion creeping into his bones after everything he had endured. But exhaustion didn’t matter. If he stopped, he was caught. If he was caught, he wasn’t escaping again.

 

He moved, pressing a hand against the damp bark of the nearest tree. His fingers dug in, searching for holds, and he tested the weight of his footing. The first few steps were the hardest, his limbs protesting, his grip slipping slightly on the rain-slicked surface.

 

But Odysseus was nothing if not determined.

 

He dragged himself up, finding purchase where he could, his breathing measured. Higher. He needed to be higher . The moment he reached the first sturdy branch, he swung himself onto it, crouching low to keep his balance.

 

From here, he could move undetected.

 

And, if he was lucky, he could stay ahead of them long enough to figure out what the hell he was going to do next.

 

The rain began to slow, fading from a relentless downpour to a steady drizzle, then to a scattered mist that clung to the leaves. Odysseus barely noticed. Every movement was deliberate now—every placement of his hands, every shift of his weight, every step across the slick, rain-darkened branches. He had already fallen once. He would not do it again.

 

His muscles burned, but he kept going, his breath steady, his pulse hammering in his ears. His body swayed slightly with each leap, but he forced himself to absorb the motion, bending his knees, gripping with his fingers when necessary. The branches groaned under his weight, the wet bark treacherous, but he adjusted, keeping his movements light.

 

Every now and then, he glanced down, watching the ground pass beneath him. No footprints. No sign of him. Good.

 

The wind whispered through the trees, rustling the leaves and carrying with it the scent of wet earth and distant sea salt. He was moving east, towards the coast, though he wasn’t sure yet if that was a mistake. The Trojans patrolled the shores. His own men might be searching there too.

 

His men.

 

Odysseus clenched his jaw and kept moving. They would give up soon. They had other things to worry about. He wasn’t that important. Athena was only furious because her pride had been wounded. She’d get over it. The others… well, they had a war to fight. A city to burn.

 

But even as he told himself that, he felt something gnawing at the back of his mind. A tension he couldn’t name.

 

He shook it off. Focus. He had to focus.

 

A gap in the branches forced him to pause, crouching low as he calculated his next move. A longer jump than he would’ve liked, but if he angled it right—

 

A creak. A snap.

 

Odysseus’ heart stopped.

 

No.

 

Carefully, he adjusted his stance, shifting his weight away from the branch that had just groaned under him. The last thing he needed was another humiliating fall.

 

He took a breath. One, two—

 

He pushed off.

 

His fingers caught the next branch, his body swinging forward, feet scrambling for purchase before he landed, crouched, safe.

 

He exhaled through his nose. Good. Keep going.

 

The rain had stopped entirely now, leaving the forest heavy with the scent of damp leaves and fresh mud. It would make tracking easier.

 

He had to move faster.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Achilles skidded to a stop, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps as his eyes locked onto the grotesque display before him. His stomach churned. The air was thick with the iron scent of blood, and the bodies—gods, the bodies.

 

A mess of mangled cat corpses lay in a heap, their bodies twisted and broken, the fur matted with dark, drying blood. They were arranged, not scattered randomly, but placed —a deliberate, almost ritualistic pattern. And at the center of it all, a piece of fabric, torn and unmistakable, soaked in blood.

 

Achilles’ entire body went cold. His hands trembled as he stepped forward, his knees nearly giving out beneath him.

 

No. No, no, no—

 

His fingers reached out, barely brushing the edge of the bloodied cloth, and his breath hitched. It was Odysseus’ chiton. His scent was everywhere , thick and suffocating, clinging to the air, to the fabric, to the very ground beneath the corpses.

 

His chest felt too tight. His heartbeat roared in his ears, drowning out everything else.

 

This wasn’t real. This wasn’t—

 

He swallowed hard, his mind racing, trying to understand .

 

Odysseus was too smart for this. He wouldn’t just—he wouldn’t die like this.

 

Achilles clenched his teeth, his fingers curling into fists. He knew war. He knew death. He knew how bodies rotted, how flesh bloated, how blood smelled after too long under the sun. But this—this was wrong .

 

His breath was uneven, shallow, but he forced himself to take another step closer. His foot nudged one of the limp bodies, and it shifted, rolling slightly.

 

The bones were too small. The limbs—too delicate. The bodies—too many.

 

His stomach lurched.

 

Odysseus was a bastard. A lying, manipulative, cunning bastard.

 

Achilles' face twisted into something between horror and fury as realization slammed into him.

 

That asshole .

 

He threw his head back and screamed.

 

Achilles' scream tore through the forest like a wild animal, raw and furious, a sound of unhinged rage and disbelief. His entire body shook, his fists clenching so tightly his nails dug into his palms, drawing blood. His vision blurred—not from tears, no, but from sheer, blinding fury.

 

" THAT LYING, SCHEMING, COWARDLY—! " He couldn’t even finish the sentence, his voice breaking into a snarl.

 

His breath heaved, chest rising and falling as he stared down at the grotesque mess Odysseus had left behind. Cats. The bastard had killed a bunch of cats and arranged their bodies like some deranged funeral pyre, rubbed his scent into them, tore his own damn chiton—

 

Achilles grabbed one of the bodies and hurled it into the trees. It smacked against a trunk with a sickening thud , and he barely even registered it.

 

" I’M GOING TO KILL HIM! " His voice cracked, the sheer force of his fury making the words shake. " I'M GOING TO RIP HIS FUCKING HEAD OFF— "

 

Patroclus wasn’t fast enough to stop him before he slammed his fist into the nearest tree, the bark splintering under the force of the blow. His knuckles split, but he didn’t care . Pain barely registered past the boiling rage in his veins.

 

He wheeled around, wild-eyed, looking for anything to take his anger out on. He swiped his arm across the ground, sending bloodied fur and dirt flying, before kicking another one of the corpses so hard it disappeared into the underbrush.

 

" THAT FUCKING—HE THINKS THIS IS FUNNY?! HE THINKS THIS IS SMART?! "

 

His breathing was ragged, sharp inhales that rattled in his chest. He clenched his fists again, shaking so badly he could barely keep still.

 

Odysseus was alive. That much was clear now. That rat bastard was alive and fucking with them. With him.

 

Achilles sucked in a breath through his teeth, trying and failing to steady himself. His heartbeat pounded in his skull. His entire body screamed for violence.

 

Odysseus was alive.

 

Good.

 

That meant Achilles could kill him himself.

 

Patroclus barely had time to react before Achilles slammed his fist into another tree, the wood groaning under the force of the impact. Blood smeared across the bark, knuckles torn and raw, but Achilles didn’t stop—he couldn’t stop. His whole body trembled with rage, and for a terrifying moment, Patroclus thought he was going to lose himself completely.

 

“Achilles.” His voice was firm, steady, but not unkind.

 

Achilles whipped around, breathing hard, wild-eyed, nostrils flaring like a cornered beast. “ Don’t. ” His voice was raw, guttural. “ Do not try to calm me right now, Patroclus. ”

 

Patroclus took a careful step closer. “Achilles—”

 

Achilles pointed at the pile of cat corpses, his hand shaking with fury. “He planned this. He—he thought about this. He sat down and made this mess on purpose to—” His breath hitched, and he exhaled sharply through his teeth. “ Do you understand how sick that is?! ”

 

Patroclus’ stomach churned. Of course he understood. But that wasn’t the point right now.

 

“I know,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I know. But you need to breathe.”

 

Achilles let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Oh, I’ll breathe when I have my hands around his fucking throat. ”

 

Patroclus stepped right up to him now, close enough that Achilles couldn’t swing again without hitting him. He didn’t back down, even when Achilles’ glare darkened.

 

“Listen to me,” Patroclus said, voice low, steady, grounding. “We will find him. But you cannot lose your head before we do.”

 

Achilles was shaking, his muscles coiled so tightly it was a miracle he hadn’t already sprinted into the forest, hunting Odysseus like a wild animal. But Patroclus could see it— the slight waver in his breath, the way his fingers twitched, the way his shoulders heaved with restraint. Achilles wanted to keep spiraling. He wanted to keep screaming, breaking things, ripping the world apart in his fury.

 

But Patroclus was here.

 

And Achilles always listened to Patroclus.

 

Achilles exhaled harshly through his nose, his jaw tightening. He flexed his fingers, his hands still stained with his own blood.

 

“…I’ll kill him,” he muttered, but his voice wasn’t as wild now. “When we find him. I’ll—” His breath hitched again. “I swear —”

 

Patroclus placed a firm hand on Achilles’ shoulder. “First, we find him.” His fingers tightened slightly. “Then you can decide what to do.”

 

Achilles’ chest heaved. For a long moment, he said nothing.

 

Then, with a ragged inhale, he jerked his head in a tight nod. “…Fine.” His voice was still rough, still trembling with rage, but it was something.

 

Patroclus didn’t let go of his shoulder, but he gave it one firm squeeze before turning his gaze back to the corpse pile.

 

Odysseus.

 

They were coming.

 

Achilles’ breathing was ragged, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as he stared down at the twisted mess of fur and blood. The smell of death clung thick to the air, the acrid stench of decay mixed with the unmistakable human scent that Odysseus had deliberately left behind. His torn chiton, draped over the carnage like a sick offering, made Achilles’ stomach churn with fury.

 

He thinks this is funny.

 

That was the worst part— Odysseus did this on purpose. He thought it through, sat down, killed these animals , and laid them out like some grotesque imitation of his own body. He even made sure the scent was right. He wanted them to think he was dead. He wanted them to grieve.

 

Achilles’ nails dug so hard into his palms that fresh blood dripped between his fingers.

 

What part of this was a joke? What part of this was supposed to be clever?

 

He could see Odysseus in his mind— smirking, laughing to himself, thinking he was so fucking smart for pulling this off. That lazy, amused glint in his eyes, that insufferable half-smile that always meant he was playing some game no one else understood.

 

Achilles wanted to rip it off his face.

 

“Achilles,” Patroclus said again, quieter now.

 

Achilles’ pulse roared in his ears, but he barely registered it. He couldn’t take his eyes off the bodies. He slit their throats. He could see the way the fur was matted, the precision of the kills— quick, practiced, methodical. No wasted movement, no hesitation. The bodies weren’t scattered; they were arranged.

 

Achilles’ lip curled, his breath coming out in sharp, angry exhales.

 

What the fuck is wrong with you, Odysseus?

 

This wasn’t strategy. This wasn’t just him being slippery and escaping. No, this was something else.

 

This was cruel.

 

Achilles had seen men die screaming. He had made men die screaming. He had watched guts spill onto the battlefield and seen men beg for their mothers with their last breath. And yet somehow, this —this pile of lifeless, carefully placed bodies—felt worse.

 

Because it meant Odysseus had time to think about it. It meant he had sat there and considered this plan.

 

It meant he had known what it would do to them.

 

And he had done it anyway.

 

Achilles’ throat was dry, but his fury burned hot in his gut, curling through his ribs like fire licking at kindling.

 

He was going to find Odysseus.

 

And when he did—

 

I’ll make you regret it.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Agamemnon sat in his tent, his fingers pressed hard against his temples as if he could physically crush the pounding headache that had settled behind his eyes. The migraine was relentless, pulsing in sync with the chaos outside—the constant shouting, the frantic plans, the stupid, senseless mess that Odysseus had left them in.

 

His grip tightened on the fabric in his lap, an old, worn chiton that still held the faintest trace of Odysseus’ scent. He hadn’t even realized he’d grabbed it, hadn’t thought about it as he bunched the material in his fists and brought it to his face, inhaling deeply.

 

Bastard.

 

The chiton smelled like sun-warmed linen, faint traces of salt from the sea, and something uniquely Odysseus —that irritating mix of sweat, oil, and whatever gods-forsaken herbs he used to keep his hair from tangling. It smelled like certainty , like someone who always had a plan, like someone who was supposed to be here , sitting in this very tent, smirking, mocking, irritating but present.

 

Instead, he was gone. Because he left.

 

Agamemnon squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth ached.

 

Of all people— Odysseus? The one who mocked deserters, who held the line when others faltered, who could weave a scheme out of thin air and still make it work? The one who never fucking ran?

 

And yet, here they were. The entire camp thrown into chaos because Odysseus had abandoned them like a goddamn coward.

 

His fingers curled tighter in the fabric, his breath shuddering as he exhaled into it. The smell was fading, his scent was fading, and Agamemnon felt something deep in his chest twist.

 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Odysseus wasn’t supposed to leave.

 

A bitter laugh caught in his throat, and he swallowed it down, his headache pulsing in time with the anger twisting through his ribs.

 

What the fuck am I supposed to do without you, Odysseus?

 

Agamemnon sat still for a long moment, gripping the chiton like a lifeline, his mind an exhausted mess of fury and something far more dangerous—uncertainty.

 

His hands ached from how tightly he was clutching the fabric, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go. It felt like if he did, Odysseus would truly be gone.

 

The thought made his gut churn with something ugly.

 

His generals—those fools —were running around in circles, trying to figure out how to find a man who clearly did not want to be found. Achilles was on the verge of murder, Diomedes was stalking the woods like a bloodhound with a personal vendetta, Athena was seconds from losing her mind, and Hermes, for some reason, was still involved.

 

None of this made sense. None of this should have even happened.

 

He had screamed himself hoarse hours ago, trying to wrangle some order into the madness, but even he knew it was a lost cause. The moment the camp realized Odysseus was missing— truly missing —all logic had crumbled.

 

Because it wasn’t just about losing a man.

 

It was Odysseus.

 

The one who kept everything together, the one who could talk down Achilles, outthink Diomedes, match Athena in wit, and hold Agamemnon himself accountable without ever seeming to do so. He was the man they all relied on, the one who made impossible problems seem solvable.

 

And he had left them.

 

Agamemnon pressed the chiton harder against his face, breathing in the last remnants of Odysseus’ scent, his headache splitting behind his eyes like a blade.

 

He had blamed himself at first— what did I do? What could I have done differently? —but the more he sat here, stewing in his own frustration, the more his anger turned outward.

 

Who the fuck had made Odysseus leave?

 

Because no matter how reckless, no matter how prone to disappearing acts, Odysseus was not stupid. He was cunning , calculated —he never did anything without a reason.

 

So why did he run? Who made him run?

 

The obvious answer was Diomedes, but Agamemnon dismissed it immediately. If Odysseus and Diomedes had fought, Diomedes would be the one missing, or at the very least, the one injured. No, this was something else.

 

A new, more dangerous thought slithered into his mind, uncoiling like a serpent.

 

What if Odysseus hadn’t left by choice?

 

He sat up straighter, his grip on the chiton loosening just slightly.

 

No, that was ridiculous. Who could force Odysseus to do anything?

 

But the idea refused to leave him, gnawing at the edges of his mind.

 

His jaw clenched.

 

If Odysseus hadn’t left willingly—if someone had made him go—

 

Then whoever was responsible was going to fucking pay.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Odysseus moved swiftly, his bare feet gripping the rough bark as he leapt from branch to branch, each movement precise, calculated. The rain had finally eased, leaving the wood slick and treacherous, but he had no choice—his only advantage was staying above ground. If he touched the earth for too long, they’d find his tracks. If he stayed too low, Diomedes or Achilles would spot him. If he made too much noise, Athena would hear him.

 

His breath came in short, sharp bursts, his muscles aching from the strain of running, swimming, and now climbing. He didn’t know how long he had been moving, but exhaustion gnawed at him, a relentless hunger demanding that he stop, rest, collapse .

 

He refused.

 

He would rest when he was safe.

 

A branch creaked beneath him, and he froze, pressing himself low against it. The forest stretched out below, dark and wet, the scent of damp earth and crushed leaves thick in the air. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the faint rush of the river—the same river he had nearly drowned in. He resisted the urge to look back. He knew better. Looking back meant hesitation. Hesitation meant death.

 

His fingers curled tightly around the bark as he forced his body forward, muscles burning. He had no idea where he was going, but it didn’t matter. Anywhere but there.

 

His mind buzzed with thoughts, too loud, too sharp. He should be planning. Thinking. But right now, all he could focus on was moving .

 

Move.

 

Run.

 

Survive.

 

A particularly wide gap stretched ahead of him, and he gritted his teeth before pushing off with all his strength. For a brief, weightless second, he was airborne, heart hammering—

 

He landed, barely, gripping the branch hard enough to scrape his palms. He pulled himself up quickly, exhaling through clenched teeth.

 

Too close.

 

Too fucking close.

 

He needed to be smarter. Needed to stop reacting and start thinking. He could not outrun them forever. He could not keep dodging the inevitable.

 

But right now, he had to.

 

He kept moving.

 

Odysseus gritted his teeth as he landed on another branch, his fingers digging into the rough bark to steady himself. He let out a sharp breath, glaring at the endless stretch of trees ahead of him.

 

“This is fucking ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper. “Sneaking through my own goddamn camp like a thief. What am I, a common spy?”

 

His body ached—his arms from holding his weight, his legs from constant movement, his lungs from the damn running . His chiton was in tatters, barely hanging on him, drenched from the earlier rain and stiff with mud and gods knew what else. He looked, smelled, and felt like a half-drowned rat.

 

“Fucking fantastic ,” he growled. “Smartest man in the war, and here I am, jumping through trees like some forest spirit. Meanwhile, Diomedes is probably planning my murder, Achilles is foaming at the mouth, and my lady—” He stopped himself, grinding his teeth. Don’t think about that.

 

His foot slipped slightly on the damp bark, and he cursed, steadying himself just in time.

 

“I swear to every god, if I fall again, I’m strangling myself before they can get the chance.”

 

His stomach growled, and he scowled. “Oh, great . Starving too. Perfect. Just what I needed.” He rubbed a hand down his face, barely stopping himself from groaning out loud. “This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. Ever. And that includes pissing off Palamedes, faking insanity, and betting Diomedes he couldn’t wrestle a bull.”

 

He sighed, shaking his head as he crouched lower on the branch.

 

“No. Focus. You need a plan.”

 

He needed food. A real hiding spot. A way to stop smelling like himself. A way to get off this damn tree without leaving tracks.

 

Most of all, he needed a way to convince himself this wasn’t the worst mistake of his life

.

Odysseus exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp, matted hair.

 

“Alright, Ithacan,” he muttered to himself. “Let’s see how much trouble you can really get out of.”

 

And with that, he moved forward.

 

Chapter 10: ୨♡୧﹒Little Fox﹒⚜﹒

Polites trembled, his fingers clutching at the fabric of Eurylochus’ chiton as if letting go would shatter him completely. His sobs were quiet but raw, his shoulders shaking violently with each breath he took. Eurylochus, normally so composed, so stern, stood stiff for a moment before sighing deeply and wrapping his arms around the younger man.

 

“It’s alright,” Eurylochus muttered, though they both knew it wasn’t. His grip tightened, his large hands pressing firmly against Polites’ back, grounding him. “He’s not dead.”

 

Polites only sobbed harder, pressing his face into Eurylochus’ chest as if trying to suffocate his grief. “What if he is?” His voice cracked, broken and desperate. “What if—what if this time, he really—”

 

Eurylochus clenched his jaw, swallowing down the lump in his throat. He couldn’t think like that. Not Odysseus. Not his Odysseus.

 

“Don’t,” he said, his voice lower, firmer. “Don’t you dare.”

 

Polites shook his head wildly. “I told him—so many times—I told him to stop running off, to stop throwing himself into danger, and he never —” His breath hitched, his fingers twisting in Eurylochus’ chiton. “And now he’s gone , and I don’t—”

 

Eurylochus exhaled sharply, closing his eyes as he rested his chin atop Polites’ head. He hadn’t seen the boy like this in years. Polites, who was always gentle, always kind, always hoping . But now? He was unraveling in his arms, his grief so tangible that it made Eurylochus’ own chest ache.

 

“He’s not gone,” Eurylochus murmured, his voice rough, but steady. “Not yet. And even if the whole world turns against him, I know him. He’ll fight to come back. He always does.”

 

Polites sniffled but didn’t respond, only gripping Eurylochus tighter.

 

They stayed like that, holding onto each other as if their shared warmth could somehow keep Odysseus tethered to life.

 

The tent was quiet except for Polites’ uneven breaths and the occasional rustle of fabric as he clung to Eurylochus. Outside, the camp bustled with frantic activity—soldiers sharpening weapons, barking orders, preparing for another wave of search parties—but here, in this dim, candle-lit space, time had collapsed in on itself.

 

Eurylochus stared past Polites, his jaw tightening as his thoughts spiraled. Odysseus had to be alive. He refused to believe anything else. But as much as he wanted to shove the worry away, the reality clawed at him: they had no real lead, no true sign that Odysseus hadn’t been ripped apart by the elements or worse—by the Trojans.

 

His fingers curled against Polites’ back, gripping him like a tether to something real.

 

Polites’ voice was muffled against his chest. “I keep thinking… what if we never find him?”

 

Eurylochus shut his eyes, inhaling sharply through his nose. “Then we’ll burn Troy to the ground,” he said, his voice like flint striking stone.

 

Polites let out a soft, shaky laugh, but there was no humor in it. “That’s not what he would want.”

 

“No,” Eurylochus admitted, his fingers twitching against Polites’ back. “But it’s what I’d do.”

 

Polites slowly pulled back, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his chiton. His face was blotchy, red, and utterly wrecked . “I just don’t understand,” he murmured. “He’s smarter than this. He should’ve waited for us.”

 

Eurylochus scoffed. “Since when has Odysseus ever waited for anyone?”

 

That earned a weak, almost bitter smile from Polites. “Since when has he ever let himself be taken?”

 

Eurylochus’ expression darkened. “That’s what worries me.”

 

Polites’ lips parted slightly, but no words came. His gaze searched Eurylochus’ face, and in that moment, he realized— Eurylochus wasn’t just worried. He was afraid.

 

That alone was terrifying.

 

Before Polites could say anything, the tent flap whipped open, and a soldier stumbled inside. “Another scouting party just returned!” His voice was tense, clipped. “No sign of Odysseus, but—” He hesitated. “They found something. Diomedes and Achilles are looking at it now.”

 

Polites and Eurylochus shared a look before moving. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

The tent was thick with tension. The rain outside had faded to a light drizzle, but the air inside was suffocating, heavy with damp sweat and barely restrained fury. Achilles stood in the center, his hands still speckled with blood— not his own , but from the thing he had just been forced to witness. His teeth were clenched so tight his jaw ached, but he barely noticed.

 

Agamemnon sat at the war table, fingers pressing into his temples, trying to will away the ever-growing migraine that came with dealing with Odysseus’ absolute insanity. His face was red with barely contained rage, and when he finally lifted his head to glare at Achilles, his voice came out in a near-growl.

 

“Let me get this straight.” He exhaled through his nose. “You’re telling me that Odysseus, our Odysseus— Ithacan Prince , Achaean General , master strategist —decided that the best way to fake his own death was to brutalize a bunch of cats and smear himself all over them?”

 

Achilles’ nostrils flared. “Yes.”

 

Agamemnon inhaled sharply. “He killed cats.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And left them there.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Arranged them.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And smeared his scent on them.”

 

Achilles’ fingers twitched . “Yes.”

 

Agamemnon’s fist slammed down on the table so hard that the cups rattled. “I KNEW that man wasn’t sane , but this—this is a new level of depravity —”

 

“That’s what you’re focusing on ?” Diomedes snapped from where he leaned against the side of the tent, his arms crossed tight over his chest. His entire body radiated frustration, his fingers twitching at his biceps as if he were barely restraining himself from snapping someone’s neck . “He’s alive. He’s thinking. He’s running . That’s the problem.”

 

“That’s one problem,” Agamemnon shot back, exasperated. “The other is that I need a godsdamned priest for whatever the hell that was —”

 

Across from him, Nestor had gone silent.

 

He had been listening—watching—piecing the information together in his head like a weaver setting the first threads of a tapestry. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the arm of his chair as he stared at the war table, brows furrowed.

 

“Perhaps…” His voice came slow, deliberate, “...he did have a plan.”

 

Everyone turned to him.

 

Achilles scoffed. “You said yourself he didn’t.”

 

“I thought he didn’t,” Nestor corrected, eyes narrowing. “But this… this is something else . This isn’t a man fleeing blindly. This is a man deliberately leading us astray.”

 

Agamemnon gave a bitter laugh. “Then why the hell are we still falling for it?”

 

Nestor didn’t answer immediately. He leaned forward, his elbows pressing into the table, and muttered, almost to himself, “Where are you going, Odysseus?”

 

Silence.

 

Then, Polites, from where he had been standing stiffly by the entrance, spoke in a small, hesitant voice.

 

“Ithaca.”

 

Heads snapped toward him.

 

Polites swallowed, fists clenching at his sides. “He… he always talks about it. Even when he doesn’t realize he is. He—he’s not running to escape. He’s running to go home .”

 

The words settled into the air like a curse.

 

Eurylochus closed his eyes. “Of course he is.”

 

Achilles gritted his teeth. “Then we stop playing his game.” His fingers dug into his arms. “We catch him before he gets the chance, hunt him like a cat.”

 

Agamemnon let out a sharp breath, dragging a hand down his face. " Hunt him like a cat? " His voice was filled with exasperation and disbelief. " We are hunting a man who just made a graveyard of felines to fake his own death, and your grand solution is to treat him like the very thing he murdered? "

 

"Think about it," Achilles pressed, his arms crossed over his chest, foot tapping impatiently against the dirt floor. His eyes burned with fury and something else— frustration . " He's smaller than most of us, but he's fast. He moves through trees, through shadows, and he’s quiet. He thinks like prey, but acts like a predator. So we track him the way we would track something feral— "

 

Nestor, who had been rubbing his temples, muttered, " I cannot believe this is an actual conversation we are having. "

 

Diomedes, however, was already nodding, his expression thoughtful. "If he's thinking like prey, we force him into a corner. Cut off the easy escape routes. Make him feel like we're getting close—pressure him into making a mistake. He will make a mistake."

 

"You act as if we are not talking about Odysseus ," Menelaus muttered darkly. His fingers tapped against the table, eyes distant as he thought. " Every time someone thinks he’ll make a mistake, they’re the ones who end up losing . He’s not just any prey, Diomedes—he’s a fox . The moment we think we have him, we’ll realize he’s been leading us in circles, playing his own game, and laughing at us from the trees."

 

"Then we change the game," Diomedes snapped, the dangerous glint in his eye growing darker. " We become the fox."

 

Silence.

 

Agamemnon exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the fabric of Odysseus’ old chiton still clutched in his lap. " I hate that I agree with you. "

 

Patroclus, who had been silent until now, shifted uncomfortably where he stood beside Achilles. “You all realize what you're saying, don’t you?" His voice was edged with unease. "If you hunt him like a cat, then that means when you catch him—"

 

Achilles' expression darkened. "We will catch him."

 

" Then what? " Patroclus pressed, stepping forward. "You're speaking as if he's some beast to be dragged back kicking and screaming. If we hunt him like prey, we’ll corner him like prey. And what happens when an animal realizes it can’t escape?"

 

Diomedes’ lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile. " Then we’ll put him down . "

 

Polites made a small noise of protest, but it was lost beneath the weight of the moment.

 

Nestor sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead. "I am too old for this," he muttered.

 

Agamemnon inhaled deeply through his nose. " Fine. We treat this like a hunt. We track him like a beast. But the moment we have him in our grasp, the moment we have him trapped—" His eyes flickered dangerously across the tent, lingering on each of them before landing on Diomedes. " We bring him back alive. "

 

Achilles scoffed but nodded. Diomedes tilted his head, silent for a long moment before his smirk softened into something unreadable.

 

"Alive," he repeated. His voice was almost amused.

 

Patroclus did not like the way he said that.

 

The tent descended into a tense silence as the reality of the situation settled in. Then, as if on cue, Achilles—still furious about the cat corpses—spoke first.

 

“We know he’s going to need food eventually,” he muttered, pacing. “And knowing him, he’s too damn smart to steal from our rations. But he’ll need to eat something. If we poison the natural food sources near the river—make it just strong enough to slow him down—”

 

Patroclus stared at him in horror. “You want to drug him?”

 

Achilles turned to face him, exasperated. “It’s not going to kill him.”

 

Patroclus rubbed his face. “And what if you miscalculate ? What if he’s been starving himself this whole time and the dose is too strong? What if you poison something else and he doesn’t eat it but some other idiot does? What if—”

 

"Then we take another approach," Diomedes cut in, his voice cool, calculated. "Water. He'll need to drink . We position ourselves near every major source, set up traps, and wait. He'll have to come to us eventually."

 

Menelaus frowned, arms crossed. “We don’t know that.”

 

Diomedes turned his sharp gaze onto him. “ Yes , we do. The longer he stays out there, the more desperate he becomes. The more desperate he becomes, the more likely he is to slip. Even he has limits.”

 

“Assuming we don’t drive him further into insanity first,” Nestor muttered. He still looked exhausted .

 

Polites, who had been quietly listening, suddenly stiffened. “What if he’s drinking rainwater ?”

 

Everyone froze.

 

Agamemnon groaned, pressing his fingers against his temples. “Gods damn him.”

 

Achilles gritted his teeth. “Then we change the plan.”

 

Patroclus sighed. “Of course we do.”

 

“We ambush him,” Achilles continued, ignoring him. “He’s expecting to be hunted, but if we move silently, if we disguise ourselves, if we become the trees and the wind, he won’t even see us coming.”

 

“You mean we hide in bushes,” Nestor deadpanned.

 

Achilles didn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

 

There was a long pause.

 

“ This is so stupid, ” Polites whispered.

 

Menelaus sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “ And yet it just might work.”

 

"Bushes and traps," Diomedes mused, almost too interested. "This could work."

 

Achilles grinned viciously. "We go low to the ground. We move with the wind. We let him think he's safe—"

 

“ And then we pounce, ” Diomedes finished for him.

 

Patroclus buried his face in his hands.

 

Polites stared at them in disbelief. "You're all talking about tackling him like he's some kind of wild dog —"

 

"He is a wild dog at this point!" Achilles snapped. "You saw the cat bodies!"

 

Eurylochus, who had been silent the whole time, finally muttered, " We may need to muzzle him. "

 

The tent went dead silent.

 

Agamemnon stared at him. “We may need to what ?”

 

Eurylochus exhaled, crossing his arms. “You heard me. If he’s desperate, he’s going to bite . Do you want him ripping out someone's throat?”

 

Menelaus groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I can’t believe we are having a conversation about muzzling Odysseus.”

 

Achilles looked delighted . "We can make one out of leather strips," he said eagerly.

 

Patroclus looked sick. "We're not muzzling him."

 

"We might have to," Diomedes countered. "It’s either that, or he actually rips someone's throat out when we catch him."

 

Nestor, who was now massaging his temples, muttered, “Odysseus is going to kill every single one of us when we bring him back.”

 

Agamemnon sighed, staring at the map before him. "Fine. Hide in bushes. Drug the food. Set traps near water. Gods help us, muzzle him if you must. But bring him back alive. "

 

Achilles grinned. " Hunt begins at dawn. "

 

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Odysseus crouched on the thick branch of an old cypress, fingers curling into the bark as he stared down at the water below. His breath came slow and measured, but his mind raced—frantic, relentless, spiraling.

 

I could make it.

 

The thought slithered through his head, curling around every ounce of reason he had left.

 

Ithaca isn’t that far. If he pushed himself, if he moved with the currents, if he conserved his energy properly— he could make it.

 

Sure, he had no food. No supplies. No guarantee the sea wouldn’t chew him up and spit him out like a piece of rotten driftwood. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that he was done.

 

Done with this war. Done with their insistence on keeping him caged. Done with their hunt —because it was a hunt, wasn’t it? The longer he stayed, the tighter their net would become. He knew them too well.

 

They’d find him.

 

He could already hear Achilles’ voice—furious, livid, snarling his name like a curse. Could already feel Diomedes’ presence like a shadow creeping up his spine.

 

He needed to go.

 

Odysseus exhaled sharply, forcing himself to think logically . Swimming wasn’t the worst idea—if he avoided the patrols, if he timed it just right, he could slip into the waves under the cover of darkness and—

 

He paused.

 

Hermes.

 

His stomach twisted violently.

 

That damn god was still looking for him.

 

He ground his teeth, gripping the branch tighter. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. If Hermes was searching, then the moment he touched open water, the god would see him. Would snatch him up like a hawk toying with a mouse.

 

A frustrated growl built in his throat. He hated this. He hated them . He hated this entire situation .

 

But most of all—

 

He hated that for the first time in his life, he had no way out .

 

Odysseus pressed his fingers to his temples, exhaling through his nose.

 

Wait. Wait, hold on—

 

Two months of boating to get to Ithaca.

 

Two whole fucking months.

 

His eye twitched. What in Hades’ name was he thinking ?

 

Swimming across the Aegean? Like some fish ? He wasn’t a damn dolphin. He was a man—a man who needed food, rest, and air.

 

Even if he could stay afloat for days without collapsing, even if the sea didn’t decide to drag him under like an anchor, even if some god didn’t smite him for his audacity—what then? He’d reach Ithaca a half-dead, salt-swollen corpse , and then what? Stumble onto the shore, barely breathing, just to collapse at Penelope’s feet like some half-drowned rat?

 

That was if he even made it that far. Which he wouldn’t .

 

By the time he made it past the first stretch, he’d be hallucinating from dehydration. The sun would boil him alive. His muscles would lock. The currents would toss him around like a plaything, and some shark or kraken would eat him before he even saw land.

 

Odysseus buried his face in his hands.

 

“Oh, I’ve gone fucking mad.”

 

Two months.

 

He almost laughed .

 

Here he was, mocking Nestor and the others for overestimating him, and yet he had somehow convinced himself that swimming the entire damn sea was a reasonable idea.

 

This was it. He’d finally lost his mind.

 

Groaning, he dragged his hands down his face and let his head thunk back against the tree trunk. The rain had stopped, leaving the forest eerily silent save for the dripping of water from the leaves.

 

He was tired.

 

He was so damn tired.

 

But he couldn’t rest.

 

Because no matter how stupid his plan was, he knew theirs would be worse.

 

Odysseus let out a long breath, staring up at the dripping leaves overhead. His body ached, his limbs were heavy, and his mind was a chaotic mess of exhaustion and calculation.

 

Ithaca was impossible currently.

 

But another kingdom …

 

His breath hitched.

 

It wasn’t the worst idea.

 

If he could put enough distance between himself and the camp—if he could slip through their search, evade whatever insanity they had planned—he could reach another city. Someplace neutral. Someplace that didn’t know him. He could get lost in the crowds, find a ship heading anywhere but here.

 

Odysseus swallowed.

 

He could disappear.

 

A new name. A new life. No war. No kings. No expectations. For a week or two.

 

His heart pounded faster.

 

No more being the man they all needed.

 

He could just be .

 

No more Agamemnon breathing down his neck. No more Achilles’ dramatics. No more Athena watching him. No more war .

 

He could slip into obscurity. Make himself a ghost.

 

The thought made something tighten in his chest. A giddy, half-hysterical feeling.

 

All he had to do was keep moving .

 

He licked his dry lips, forcing himself to think rationally . Which kingdoms were nearby? Who would take in a lone, bedraggled traveler without too many questions?

 

Pylos? No. Nestor would find him in an instant.

Argos? Definitely not. Diomedes would drag him back in pieces.

Troy? He almost laughed . Maybe if he wanted to get skinned alive .

 

Maybe some smaller city. Somewhere off the major trade routes. Some no-name port town where no one would recognize his face.

 

His hands curled into fists.

 

It could work .

 

But he had to act fast .

 

Because if he was thinking this, then surely— surely —one of them would be, too.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Hermes stood at the riverbank, arms crossed, foot tapping against the damp earth. His brows were furrowed, lips pursed in genuine, almost offended confusion.

 

How.

 

How.

 

How in the name of Olympus was a mortal hiding from him ?

 

He was the god of travel , the messenger , the guide of souls . There was not a road he did not know, not a path he could not walk. He could track the faintest scent of a dying animal from miles away, hear the whisper of a lie before it was even spoken.

 

And yet—

 

No footprints.

No scent.

No whispers of his presence carried by the wind.

 

It was like Odysseus had vanished into nothingness .

 

Hermes’ eye twitched.

 

He squatted down, rubbing his chin, staring at the ground like it would give him an answer. His golden eyes flickered over the faintest indentations in the mud, the broken twigs, the signs of something moving through the trees. It was like chasing a ghost—one that somehow knew exactly how to cover his tracks.

 

Slowly, a grin curled at his lips.

 

“Oh… you clever little rat.”

 

He straightened, rolling his shoulders. This was getting interesting. No mortal had ever given him such a chase before. It was almost fun .

 

Almost.

 

But Hermes didn’t lose .

 

And he certainly wasn’t going to lose to a half-starved, sleep-deprived, mud-covered king who thought he could play tricks on a god .

 

He exhaled, tilting his head up toward the sky.

 

“All right, Odysseus,” he murmured, amusement curling in his voice. “Let’s see how long you can run.”

 

And with a lazy stretch, he vanished, the wind carrying the faintest echo of his laughter.

 

Hermes reappeared atop a tall tree, balancing effortlessly on a branch as he surveyed the land below. His fingers drummed against his thigh, lips quirking in amusement, but his golden eyes gleamed with something darker—something bordering on obsession.

 

He muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

 

“The audacity of this man.”

 

His voice was laced with disbelief, but underneath it, there was something almost impressed . Almost.

 

“A mortal— a mortal —throwing a rock at me ?” He let out a sharp, breathy laugh, eyes flickering with something almost manic. “I mean, really. Really? He sees me , standing right there, and his first thought is, ‘let me chuck a rock at the god of swiftness and messages, surely that’ll work’?”

 

Hermes scoffed, shaking his head as he crouched down, running a hand through his curls.

 

“This man has survived wars, storms, and monsters, and yet his grand master plan was rock-to-face ?”

 

He ran a tongue over his teeth, grinning now.

 

“Oh, I like him.”

 

His fingers tapped against the bark. “But where are you hiding, little fox?”

 

His wings twitched, restless. He knew Odysseus was out there. Knew he was thinking, planning, slipping through the cracks like the rat he was. And Hermes should have been furious . A mortal making a fool out of him ? That should have been infuriating.

 

But instead, it was entertaining .

 

Hermes exhaled, standing up straight, stretching his arms above his head.

 

“All right, King of Ithaca,” he purred, a grin spreading across his lips. “Let’s see what else you’ve got.”

 

Hermes sighed, stepping onto the air as if it were solid ground, his sandals skimming just above the treetops. The sky bent beneath his feet, forming invisible pathways of wind and light, each step silent yet deliberate.

 

His fingers twitched at his sides as his golden eyes scanned the landscape below, but no matter how many times he retraced his path, how many angles he searched from, the bastard was gone .

 

He clicked his tongue, irritation creeping into his usually easygoing demeanor. “Alright, Odysseus,” he muttered. “The joke’s funny, I’ll give you that. You’ve made me work for this. But now you’re just being obnoxious .”

 

A breeze stirred his curls, carrying nothing—no scent, no trace of mortal sweat, no flicker of divine presence. It was as if Odysseus had erased himself.

 

Hermes narrowed his eyes.

 

“That’s not possible,” he grumbled, adjusting his winged cap. His thing was tracking people. He was the god of travelers, the guide of souls, the one who always knew where people were going before they did. And yet—this mortal , this cunning little cockroach—had slipped through his fingers.

 

He scowled, tapping his foot against the air. "You threw a rock at me , and now you pull this? Unbelievable.”

 

The sky darkened slightly as a cloud rolled past the moon, casting a long shadow over the forest below. Hermes exhaled sharply, crossing his arms. He should have been enjoying this, should have been laughing at the absurdity of it all. But now? Now it was just annoying .

 

Because he wasn’t just looking for Odysseus anymore.

 

He was chasing him.

 

And the longer this went on, the more he realized something disturbing.

 

He was starting to enjoy it.

 

A sharp flick cracked against Hermes’ forehead, sending his head snapping back slightly. His golden eyes blinked, startled, before narrowing as he rubbed the sore spot.

 

Athena stood before him, her arms crossed, her expression a mixture of exasperation and something dangerously close to restrained fury. Her storm-gray eyes burned like smoldering embers, and her presence crackled in the air, thick with irritation.

 

“ Ow, ” Hermes muttered, scowling. “What was that for?”

 

Athena didn’t answer right away. She merely stared at him, her lips pressed into a thin, unamused line. Then, slowly, she exhaled through her nose.

 

“You’re enjoying this,” she accused.

 

Hermes blinked, then scoffed, tossing up his hands. “Enjoying what? The part where I’ve been chasing around a mortal who somehow thinks he can outwit me ?” He huffed. “It’s irritating .”

 

Athena did not look convinced. Her fingers twitched at her sides, itching to strike him again.

 

Hermes rolled his shoulders and sighed. “Alright, maybe a little fun. But can you blame me? No one’s ever had the audacity to do this to me before.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “It’s almost impressive.”

 

Athena’s eye twitched.

 

“I don’t care if it’s impressive,” she said, her voice sharp as flint. “He is out there alone, in the dark, in the cold, running from us .”

 

Hermes arched a brow. “And whose fault is that?”

 

Her expression darkened.

 

“Careful, messenger.”

 

He smirked, but it faltered when he saw the way her fists clenched. Athena was not in the mood.

 

“Look,” he sighed, adjusting his cap. “I am looking for him. I just—” He hesitated, gesturing vaguely to the trees below. “— Can’t find him.”

 

Athena inhaled sharply, her patience fraying. “You are the god of travelers, Hermes.”

 

“Yes, and apparently, I’m chasing the god of getting-lost-on-purpose.” He threw up his arms. “How is he doing this? I can’t smell him. I can’t sense him. It’s like he wiped himself off the map.”

 

Athena’s jaw tightened. “Then look harder.”

 

Hermes groaned. “Do you want me to tear apart the entire forest?”

 

“If that’s what it takes.”

 

Hermes gave her a long look. His usual playfulness faded into something more calculating.

 

“You’re really upset about this,” he observed.

 

Athena’s gaze flickered, but she did not reply.

 

Hermes tilted his head. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face.

 

“You know, I think I get it now.” He let out a low, amused chuckle. “This isn’t about finding Odysseus, is it?”

 

Athena stiffened.

 

Hermes' grin widened. “This is about the fact that he ran from you .”

 

Lightning crackled in the sky.

 

“Shut up, Hermes.”

Chapter 11: 👁‍🗨﹒﹒Hector﹒⇡

Perimedes sat hunched over a makeshift table in the tent, staring blankly at the dirt beneath his nails. His fingers tapped anxiously against his knee, his mind spinning in circles. Across from him, Elpenor was rubbing his temples as if trying to physically push the headache away.

 

“So,” Elpenor said at last, voice hoarse. “Do we just say it?”

 

Perimedes looked up. His fellow Ithacan’s face was pale, his usually relaxed demeanor gone. He looked like a man desperately trying to make sense of something that refused to be logical.

 

“Say what?” Perimedes muttered.

 

Elpenor exhaled through his nose and leaned in. His voice dropped lower, like he was afraid someone might overhear.

 

“That our captain —the man who has led us through war, who has outwitted kings and gods alike—might have finally lost his mind. ”

 

Perimedes winced, his hands tightening into fists. He didn’t want to say it. He didn’t even want to think it. But after everything—after the cat corpses , after the sheer audacity of throwing a rock at Hermes , after Odysseus vanishing without a single damn plan —

 

Perimedes swallowed.

 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. His voice was quiet. “I just—he’s always been able to pull off impossible things. He makes plans. He thinks ahead.”

 

Elpenor scoffed. “Yeah? Then where the fuck is he ?”

 

Perimedes had no answer.

 

Elpenor groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Peri, I’m telling you, I know our captain. He wouldn’t—he wouldn’t do this unless something was wrong. ”

 

Perimedes’ fingers twitched. “Maybe—” He hesitated. “Maybe he does have a plan. Maybe we just don’t see it yet.”

 

Elpenor slowly lifted his head, giving him a look so flat it could have been used as a shield.

 

“A plan,” he repeated dryly. “A plan that involves killing a bunch of cats, making everyone think he’s dead, and then running off into the wild like a feral man with zero supplies?”

 

Perimedes grimaced.

 

“…Okay, yeah, when you put it like that —”

 

Elpenor groaned again, dragging a hand down his face.

 

Perimedes shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe he’s just—” He hesitated. “— tired. ”

 

Elpenor’s mouth pressed into a thin line. He didn’t respond right away.

 

Then, after a long moment, he exhaled.

 

“If we do find him,” he muttered, “I’m tying him to a fucking post.”

 

Perimedes sighed. “Yeah.” A pause. “Maybe with a muzzle.”

 

Elpenor gave a humorless snort. “You joke, but at this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if the others actually try that.”

 

Perimedes rubbed his temples, sighing. “Captain, what the fuck are you doing…”

 

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Odysseus skidded to a halt on the damp forest floor, his breath catching as his sharp eyes locked onto the figures ahead. A small group of Trojans—three, no, four—stood clustered near the base of a tree, speaking in hushed voices. Their armor gleamed dully in the fading rain, their weapons strapped close to their sides.

 

His heart slammed against his ribs. He had been too focused on outrunning the Greeks, on losing himself in the wilderness, that he hadn't even considered the possibility of running straight into enemy soldiers. Stupid. Reckless.

 

He pressed himself against the trunk of a gnarled oak, his fingers tightening around the damp bark as he forced himself to breathe quietly. His chiton was still wet, clinging to his skin, making him feel heavier than he should. His only advantage was that the Trojans had not yet seen him.

 

Odysseus slowly, carefully, eased his hand toward the knife at his waist. He wasn’t equipped for a fight—not against four men, not while exhausted and running on little more than spite. His best chance was slipping away unnoticed, but that would require patience.

 

And then, one of the Trojans turned his head. Their eyes met.

 

Odysseus didn’t think. He lunged.

 

Hector barely had time to react before the drenched, half-wild Greek lunged at him. His first instinct was to lift his spear, but something in the sheer desperation of the movement made him hesitate. Instead of striking, he shifted his stance, sidestepping just as Odysseus barreled toward him.

 

Odysseus, unbalanced from the sudden lack of resistance, nearly ate dirt. He twisted at the last second, skidding in the mud before whipping around to face Hector, chest heaving, eyes sharp and glinting like a cornered animal. His hair was matted, his chiton torn and soaked through, and there was something off about the way he stood, as if he was both calculating his next move and barely holding himself together.

 

Hector tightened his grip on his spear, but didn’t raise it.

 

“Odysseus?” His voice was laden with confusion.

 

Odysseus didn’t answer. He just stared, breath ragged, as if debating whether to attack, bolt, or drop dead where he stood.

 

Hector frowned. He had seen Odysseus before, across the battlefield, had heard of the man’s tricks and silver tongue. But this—this wasn’t the composed, cunning tactician he expected. This was a man on the verge of breaking.

 

“What in the name of the gods happened to you?” Hector asked, lowering his spear slightly.

 

Odysseus exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers twitching like he was resisting the urge to grab something—his knife, Hector’s throat, the sky itself. Then, finally, he rasped out, “Nothing.”

 

Hector blinked. He glanced at his men, who looked just as bewildered as he felt.

 

“Nothing?” he repeated, deadpan. “You look like a man who’s either been chased by the Furies or pissed off every god on Olympus.”

 

Odysseus let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

 

Hector narrowed his eyes. Something was very wrong here. This wasn’t some elaborate Greek ploy—Odysseus looked like he was running from something. But what could possibly have sent him into the wilds like this?

 

Hector exhaled, rubbing his temple. “Let me guess,” he said, voice dry, “your own camp is after you?”

 

Odysseus remained silent. That was answer enough.

 

Hector stared at him. “What in Tartarus did you do?”

 

Hector exhaled through his nose, glancing at the Trojan soldiers surrounding them. They were tense, hands tight on their weapons, watching Odysseus like he was some wild beast about to lunge.

 

Hector couldn’t blame them.

 

But something in Odysseus’ posture—coiled and frantic, but not hostile —made him hesitate. If Odysseus had been here to kill them, he would have already tried. And if he were here to surrender, he wouldn’t look like a dog cornered by a pack of wolves.

 

Hector frowned. This was the last thing he needed.

 

“…Stand down,” he finally said, lifting a hand to halt his men. “But don’t put your weapons away.”

 

The soldiers hesitated. One of them, a younger man, looked between Hector and Odysseus, uncertain. “Prince Hector—”

 

“I said stand down. ” Hector’s voice left no room for argument.

 

Slowly, the Trojans obeyed, lowering their spears but keeping them in hand. Hector’s gaze flicked back to Odysseus, who hadn’t moved, save for the slight rise and fall of his chest.

 

“You look like a man who’s been chased through the pits of the underworld,” Hector said. “So tell me, Odysseus—what’s hunting you?”

 

Odysseus’ lips curled, a half-bitter, half-mirthless smile. “Take your pick.”

 

Hector’s patience was already thin. He rolled his shoulders, his grip tightening around his spear. “I don’t have time for riddles, Ithacan.”

 

Odysseus huffed a breath through his nose, shifting his weight just slightly, eyes darting to the trees. Calculating. Still thinking about running. Hector noticed.

 

“If you try to run,” he said, voice low, “you won’t get far.”

 

Odysseus scoffed. “You going to kill me, Hector?”

 

Hector’s jaw clenched. “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t be talking to you.”

 

Odysseus’ eyes flickered with something unreadable. But the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease.

 

Hector sighed, running a hand down his face. “Look. I don’t trust you—I’d be an idiot if I did. But I can tell when a man’s being hunted.” His gaze sharpened. “So unless you want me to throw you to whatever’s after you, talk. ”

 

Odysseus was silent for a long moment.

 

Then, finally, he exhaled.

 

“…They think I’m dead,” he said, voice rasping. “And I’d rather keep it that way.”

 

Hector blinked. He stared at Odysseus, waiting for some kind of clarification, some indication that this was some convoluted trick, that the Ithacan was, as usual, playing some game only he understood.

 

But Odysseus just stood there, taut as a bowstring, his breathing uneven, like he was waiting for Hector to decide if he was prey or not.

 

Hector furrowed his brows.

 

“They think you’re dead,” he repeated slowly. “And you want to keep it that way.”

 

Odysseus nodded once, sharp and final.

 

“Who is they ?” Hector asked, desperately needed elaboration.

 

Odysseus blinked, “.. The Greeks.”

 

Hector exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple. “What in the name of the gods did you do to make your own army hunt you?”

 

Odysseus shifted, gaze flicking past Hector to the shadows of the trees. His fingers twitched like he was resisting the urge to run again.

 

Hector felt a headache coming on.

 

“Let me get this straight,” he said, forcing his voice to remain level. “You abandoned the Greeks. You faked your own death. And now you’re here. ”

 

Odysseus shrugged. “I didn’t plan on being here.”

 

Hector pinched the bridge of his nose. “That doesn’t make this better, Odysseus.”

 

Odysseus just tilted his head. “Would it help if I said I was lost?”

 

“No,” Hector said flatly. He exhaled, glancing at his men, who all looked equally baffled.

 

“What do you expect me to do with this?” Hector demanded, fixing Odysseus with a sharp glare. “You’re a Greek. A high-ranking Greek. Do you think I’m going to just let you go ?”

 

Odysseus’ lips curled, something between amusement and exhaustion in his expression. “I think you don’t know what to do with me.”

 

Hector clenched his jaw. He hated that the bastard was right.

 

Letting him go was a risk. Keeping him here was just as dangerous. Dragging him back to Troy would be a disaster waiting to happen.

 

And, perhaps most frustratingly, Hector still didn’t know if Odysseus was lying.

 

He sighed through his teeth. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

 

Odysseus smirked. “I’ve been told that before.”

 

Hector resisted the urge to throw his spear at his head.

 

Hector barely had time to react.

 

One second, Odysseus was standing there, all sharp-edged exhaustion and smug audacity. The next, his hand shot down to the ground, and before Hector could process what was happening—

 

Sand.

 

A fistful of it, straight to his eyes.

 

Hector recoiled with a curse, staggering back as he instinctively raised his hands to rub the grit from his vision.

 

“ Are you serious?! ” he roared, but Odysseus was already gone.

 

The sound of rapid footsteps barely registered before one of his men shouted, “He’s running!”

 

Hector blinked rapidly, his eyes burning, and when he could finally see again, Odysseus was nothing but a blur disappearing into the undergrowth.

 

Hector seethed.

 

“Are you kidding me?” he snapped, furious at both Odysseus and himself. “After all that, he just—just throws sand in my eyes and runs?! ”

 

One of his soldiers hesitantly cleared his throat. “Should we chase him?”

 

Hector clenched his jaw so hard it hurt.

 

That bastard.

 

That infuriating, insufferable, audacious —

 

“No,” he growled, spitting the last of the grit from his mouth. “If he wants to run himself to death, let him.”

 

He turned on his heel, muttering under his breath.

 

“Damn Ithacan.”

 

Hector took a slow, steadying breath, forcing his frustration down as he wiped the last remnants of sand from his face.

 

That insufferable bastard.

 

He should be furious. He was furious. But as the irritation settled into something colder, something more calculating, a thought struck him like a spear to the chest.

 

Odysseus had fled.

 

The Greeks had lost their best strategist.

 

The only man keeping that fractured mess of an army together was gone.

 

Hector inhaled sharply, his fingers twitching at the realization.

 

The Greek coalition was a delicate thing, held together by nothing but pride, debts, and grudges. It was Odysseus who soothed tensions, who mediated between egos, who kept the war machine running despite the madness of men like Agamemnon and Achilles.

 

Without him—

 

“They could fall apart,” Hector murmured, the words tasting almost unbelievable on his tongue.

 

His men stiffened at the thought.

 

One of them stepped forward. “My lord?”

 

Hector turned to them, his mind racing.

 

“If the Greeks don’t have Odysseus, they don’t have a plan. They don’t have direction. ” His voice was sharp now, energized. “They’ll descend into infighting. Agamemnon will try to control them with brute force, but the others—Achilles, Diomedes, Ajax—they don’t follow orders. They follow opportunity.”

 

The realization sent a shiver of something dangerous down his spine.

 

This war had been deadlocked for years. But now?

 

Now the Greeks were leaderless.

 

And that meant Troy could win.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Odysseus ran.

 

His breath burned in his lungs, his legs ached with every frantic step, but he ran. His mind was a cacophony of panic, every thought a disjointed mess of curses and desperate calculations.

 

Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.

 

He had just thrown sand in Hector’s eyes. Hector’s. Prince of Troy, heir to the throne, the best warrior they had —the one man who wasn’t just some brute with a sword but an actual soldier. And what had Odysseus done?

 

Blinded him and fucking bolted like a rabbit.

 

His pulse thundered in his ears. Think. Think.

 

He barely registered the underbrush scratching at his legs, the uneven ground threatening to trip him. Where do I go? What do I do? He couldn't go back to the Greek camp—not yet, not ever, if Agamemnon and Achilles had lost their minds. The Trojans? Definitely out of the question.

 

The river? No, you almost drowned last time, you dumbass.

 

The mountains? Too exposed.

 

The trees? Might work.

 

A low branch caught his shoulder, yanking at his chiton. He nearly stumbled. Focus!

 

They were going to find him. Someone was going to find him—Hermes, Athena, Diomedes, Achilles, fucking Hector.

 

His vision blurred for a moment. Gods, I haven’t slept.

 

His mind spiraled.

 

What if they think I’m already dead? What if they give up?

 

No. No, those crazy bastards aren’t giving up.

 

He pushed himself harder, his body screaming, lungs begging for relief. The rain had stopped, but the air was thick with moisture, making every breath feel like dragging in mud. He wiped the sweat from his brow, his fingers shaking.

 

You just have to make it far enough. Just far enough, and they’ll leave you alone.

 

Right?

 

Right?

 

Odysseus kept running.

 

His breath came in ragged gasps, his legs burning with every step, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. He crashed through the undergrowth, the damp leaves clinging to his skin, the mud beneath his feet making every step a battle for balance.

 

Keep going. Keep going. Just a little farther.

 

His thoughts were a mess, tangled and fraying like an old net. He didn’t even know where he was going anymore. It didn’t matter. Away was the only direction he needed.

 

His bare feet stung from roots and rocks. His chiton was torn, clinging to his sweat-drenched skin. His entire body hurt, but he didn’t stop. The forest around him blurred into a smear of dark green and shadows, and his mind spiraled with it.

 

They’ll find you. They’ll drag you back. They’ll—

 

No. No.

 

He forced the thought down and kept running.

 

His heartbeat pounded in his skull. His breath hitched. The air felt too thick, too heavy. His body was slowing down, exhaustion sinking into his bones like lead, but he gritted his teeth and pushed forward.

 

Then—

 

His foot caught on something—he didn’t know what, didn’t care what—just that suddenly the ground was gone and the sky flipped and he was falling.

 

A sharp impact slammed into his side, knocking the air from his lungs. He tumbled down a slope, dirt and leaves catching in his hair, his arms flailing for anything to stop him. His shoulder smacked against a rock, pain flaring bright and hot, and then—

 

Stillness.

 

For a moment, all he could hear was the sound of his own ragged breathing, the distant rustle of the trees, and the rapid-fire pounding of his heart.

 

He was lying on his back, staring up at the canopy above. The sky was beginning to lighten. Dawn.

 

He was shaking. His hands curled into the dirt beneath him, as if anchoring himself to the earth would keep him from flying apart.

 

But he was alive.

 

He let out a breath—shaky, unsteady.

 

Then, slowly, his fingers unclenched, and he forced himself to sit up. His body protested, but he ignored it. He had to move. Had to keep going.

 

Because if he stopped—if he gave them time to catch up—

 

They’d never let him go again.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Apollo watched from above, perched lazily on the edge of a temple roof, one leg swinging idly. Below him, Hector was furiously rubbing at his eyes, cursing under his breath as grains of sand clung stubbornly to his lashes.

 

The god’s golden brows lifted in mild amusement. “Well,” he murmured to himself, “I certainly didn’t have that on my list of things to witness today.”

 

Hector, still half-blind, barked an order to his men. “Find him! Now! ”

 

The Trojans hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances.

 

One of them cleared his throat. “Prince Hector… ah… he ran into the woods. Alone.”

 

Another soldier added, “He didn’t have a weapon, either.”

 

Hector, blinking rapidly as tears finally cleared the last of the sand, let out a slow breath. “Are you telling me,” he said, voice low, “that Odysseus— Odysseus —the man known for his mind , for his cunning , for his ability to manipulate entire armies—just threw sand at me and ran? ”

 

The men shifted awkwardly.

 

“…Yes?”

 

Apollo snorted.

 

Hector pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

The war had dragged on for years. He had studied Odysseus’ strategies, his deception, his ability to twist battles in his favor like a gambler with loaded dice. He had prepared for a hundred different possibilities when encountering him.

 

But this?

 

He had not prepared for this.

 

Apollo, resting his chin in his hand, sighed dramatically. “I must say, Hector,” he mused, “if this is the man holding the Greek army together, perhaps Troy really is fated to win.”

 

Hector tensed at that. He turned his gaze toward the trees where Odysseus had vanished. A new thought formed, sharp and insidious.

 

If Odysseus was gone… if the Greeks had lost him…

 

They had lost their spine. Their cohesion. Their most dangerous mind.

 

And Troy?

 

Troy might just win the war.

 

Apollo smirked as he stretched out along the temple’s edge, basking in the warmth of the late afternoon sun. He rested his chin on his palm, watching Hector process the realization like a man who had just found a missing chess piece—only to realize it had been trampled into the dirt.

 

“Oh, Hector,” Apollo drawled, his voice a lazy purr, “this is delightful. I should thank Odysseus for this entertainment, if he weren’t currently running like a startled deer.”

 

Hector shot a glare at the sky, as if he could glare at Apollo himself. “It doesn’t make sense,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Laertiádēs never panics . He never runs . He plans —he plays the long game. He—”

 

“Ah, but see,” Apollo interrupted, grinning, “you’re assuming he had a plan.”

 

Hector stiffened, narrowing his eyes. “…What?”

 

Apollo laughed, the sound rich and delighted, rolling through the air like a golden bell. “Oh, this is even better than I thought,” he mused. “He didn’t plan this, Hector. Your little strategist is running on instinct. ”

 

Hector stared at the god’s unseen presence, his stomach twisting. Instinct? Odysseus’ instincts should have led him toward something—toward deception, toward manipulation, toward anything other than throwing sand and bolting.

 

Apollo stretched luxuriously, sighing as if he were lounging on the clouds themselves. “The Greeks lost their golden boy,” he mused. “And now, their entire army is floundering without him, scrambling like ants without a queen.” He smirked. “And you, Hector—you’re beginning to realize that without him, they might just lose. ”

 

Hector clenched his jaw. He wanted to deny it. But deep down, he knew.

 

Without Odysseus, the Greek war machine would falter.

 

Without Odysseus, Troy might win.

 

Apollo hummed to himself, thoroughly pleased. “I must find a way to thank him for this performance,” he mused. “Perhaps I’ll whisper to the Greeks that he’s still alive. Maybe I’ll help you find him, just for the fun of watching what happens next.”

 

Hector exhaled sharply, his grip tightening around his spear.

 

Odysseus was out there, alone, lost in his own madness.

 

And Hector needed to find him first.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Hermes threw his arms up, exasperated, as he paced back and forth across the sky. “I cannot —for the life of me—figure out what he’s trying to do,” he grumbled. “And believe me, I get audacity, but this? This isn’t audacity. This is lunacy. ”

 

Athena pinched the bridge of her nose, inhaling deeply. “No, see, lunacy implies some kind of detached irrationality. Odysseus isn’t just being irrational—he’s actively being a dumbass. ”

 

Apollo had just complained to them about Odysseus’ antics.

 

Hermes gestured wildly toward the landscape below, where their favorite mortal was presumably still running like a madman. “He threw sand in Hector’s face and ran ! What is that? What kind of strategy is that ?”

 

Athena made a strangled noise. “IT’S NOT A STRATEGY, THAT’S THE PROBLEM!”

 

Hermes stopped pacing and turned to her with an almost affronted look. “Okay, but— why ?” He pressed his hands together like he was trying to pray for wisdom. “This is Odysseus . He always has a plan. He always has some convoluted, borderline sociopathic reason for the things he does. And yet—” He gestured to the horizon. “Here he is. Running blindly into the wilderness, away from literally everyone , after faking his death with cats .”

 

Athena groaned, rubbing her temples. “I hate this. I hate him. ”

 

“You don’t,” Hermes pointed out, grinning.

 

“Shut up,” she snapped. “I am so close to smiting him.”

 

Hermes smirked. “You wouldn’t.”

 

Athena’s eye twitched. “No, but I will beat him half to death when we find him.”

 

Hermes hummed in agreement, then sighed, placing his hands on his hips. “So… what’s the plan? How do we find him?”

 

Athena stared out at the land below, eyes stormy with irritation. “…We think like an idiot.”

 

Hermes blinked. “That’s… vague.”

 

Athena clenched her fists. “We think like him. ”

 

Hermes groaned. “Oh, gods.”

 

Athena groaned loudly, dragging her hands down her face in sheer frustration. “I swear to Olympus, I have never— never —dealt with a mortal who makes me this angry.”

 

Hermes snorted. “Oh, come on. You’ve dealt with plenty of idiots.”

 

“Idiots, yes,” Athena snapped. “But this isn’t just idiocy. This is weaponized stupidity . This is calculated dumbassery. ” She threw her hands in the air. “This man has the potential to be the smartest strategist in the world, and instead, he’s running through the wilderness, barefoot, half-starved, and— oh yeah —he faked his death with cats !”

 

Hermes chuckled. “Yeah, that was a bit much.”

 

“A bit ?” Athena wheeled on him, eyes ablaze. “He mutilated a bunch of stray cats, rubbed his own scent on them, and left them there like some kind of deranged offering just so his own people would think he was dead ! And then —instead of coming up with a real plan—he threw sand in Hector’s face and ran !”

 

Hermes folded his arms, nodding sagely. “Yeah, it’s actually kind of impressive.”

 

Athena let out a primal groan, pacing back and forth in agitation. “I hate this man.”

 

Hermes grinned. “No, you don’t.”

 

“Shut. Up. ”

 

He snickered, watching her with amused eyes. “Come on, though. You have to admit, it’s kind of funny.”

 

Athena stopped in her tracks and turned to glare at him. “Hermes. If you say one more word —”

 

He held up his hands in surrender, still grinning. “Fine, fine! I’ll behave.”

 

She pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling slowly. “We have to think like him. We have to figure out where he’s going before he gets himself killed doing something even dumber than what he’s already done.”

 

Hermes smirked. “So… you are acknowledging that he’s thinking at least a little bit.”

 

Athena’s eye twitched. “No, I am acknowledging that he thinks he’s thinking. Which is somehow worse. ”

 

Hermes laughed. “Alright, alright. So what’s the next move, wise one?”

 

Athena gritted her teeth, then exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her hair. “…We track him. And if he somehow manages to escape again —” She clenched her fists. “I am personally going to wring his neck. ”

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Odysseus was starving . His stomach twisted in knots, growling so loud he was sure even the gods could hear it. He had been running for hours , avoiding pursuers, dodging Trojans, and generally making his life a thousand times harder than it needed to be. But right now? Right now, there was only one thing on his mind.

 

A bird.

 

A juicy bird.

 

It was plump, its feathers sleek, its little beady eyes unaware of the sheer desperation lurking behind him. Odysseus' mouth watered as he slinked forward, barely breathing, eyes locked on his prize.

 

Then it hopped forward, just a bit out of reach.

 

Odysseus lunged .

 

The bird screeched and flapped wildly, dodging him with insultingly little effort. It fluttered up to a low-hanging branch, tilting its head at him as if to mock him.

 

Odysseus, breathless and wild-eyed, glared at it.

 

"You little bastard ," he hissed, crouching low again.

 

The bird chirped .

 

His stomach growled louder.

 

No. He needed this. He deserved this. He had suffered , gods damn it, and if the gods were truly cruel enough to deny him a simple meal , then—then—

 

The bird hopped further up the branch.

 

Odysseus snarled and grabbed a rock.

 

He hurled it.

 

The rock missed by an embarrassingly large margin. The bird barely even reacted. It simply stared at him.

 

Odysseus clenched his fists, breath heaving. His sanity was cracking .

 

"Come down here and fight me like a man ," he growled at the bird.

 

The bird, being a bird, did not respond.

 

Odysseus let out a slow, shaking breath. " Fine. "

 

And then he climbed the tree .

 

Odysseus scrambled up the tree with the grace of a half-drowned rat, his limbs aching, his breath ragged, but his hunger was stronger. He needed this.

 

The bird flapped higher, but Odysseus was relentless . He climbed with single-minded desperation, his fingers scraping against the bark, his balance wavering, but he would not lose to a damn bird .

 

The bird fluttered to another branch.

 

Odysseus gritted his teeth and lunged, grabbing onto the branch just below it. His arms burned . His fingers dug into the wood, but he would not let go . He pulled himself up with the last of his strength—

 

And then he snatched the bird mid-flight.

 

It screeched , wings flapping wildly, but Odysseus clamped his hands around it with the grip of a man who had lost everything and would not be denied one single victory .

 

He was panting , his body shaking, but he had it .

 

A grin stretched across his face, wild , exhausted , and just a little bit insane .

 

" Got you, " he rasped.

 

The bird flailed, but Odysseus only tightened his grip, his stomach twisting in anticipation.

 

And then, with zero hesitation , he bit into it.

 

Feathers exploded into his mouth. He coughed, spit, and shook the damn thing, plucking at its body like a half-feral beast. His teeth sank into flesh, warm blood hitting his tongue, and gods, he had never tasted anything so good .

 

His hands were shaking as he tore into his pathetic meal, feathers sticking to his face, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

 

He chewed. Swallowed. His mind was still spinning , but his stomach wasn't empty anymore .

 

He leaned back against the trunk of the tree, eyes half-lidded, heart pounding.

 

It wasn't much.

 

But for the first time in days, he wasn't starving .

 

Odysseus licked the blood off his fingers, sighing in something close to satisfaction—until his brain finally caught up with what he had just done.

 

He stared at the half-mangled bird carcass in his hands. Feathers stuck to his face. Blood dripped down his chin. His stomach gave a slow, uneasy lurch.

 

Oh.

 

Oh, he was a fucking idiot .

 

He blinked.

 

Then he blinked again.

 

Did I—

Did I just eat a raw bird like a starving alley cat?

 

A long, slow breath left his lips as the weight of his actions really sank in.

 

He definitely just did that.

 

Odysseus wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, spitting out the stray bits of feather. His stomach gave another uneasy twist, and suddenly, the victory he had just felt turned into something a lot more ominous.

 

I'm going to get sick.

 

His fingers twitched against the stripped carcass of the bird. His mind raced through every half-remembered lecture from healers, every warning about eating undercooked meat, every tragic death story of some poor fool who thought they could digest things they absolutely could not .

 

His stomach made another noise.

 

He swallowed hard.

 

"Gods damn it," he muttered under his breath.

 

He'd survived Troy . He'd survived storms . He’d survived gods messing with his life.

 

And now he was about to be killed by a bird .

 

Odysseus pressed his forehead against the tree trunk, inhaling deeply. He had officially lost his mind.

 

This was it. This was how he went out. Not by the hands of an enemy. Not by the wrath of the gods.

 

But by salmonella .

 

Odysseus barely had time to register the churning in his gut before his body lurched forward, and he heaved .

 

The half-digested remnants of his poor, unfortunate bird splattered against the forest floor, followed by another violent retch that left him gagging. His stomach clenched, protesting the absolute idiocy of his actions, and his knees buckled as he braced himself against the tree.

 

His breath came in harsh, uneven gasps as another wave hit him, his body forcefully purging every trace of his terrible decision. Cold sweat dripped down his temple. His arms shook.

 

By the time he was left dry heaving, spitting out the last bits of bile and feather, Odysseus groaned and slumped against the tree, eyes shut as he tried to breathe .

 

Gods.

 

That was awful .

 

But as miserable as he felt, something in his stomach twisted with relief .

 

He knew what food poisoning felt like. He’d seen men writhing in agony, shaking from fever, their guts twisted into knots until they died foaming at the mouth.

 

This? This was bad. But this was also manageable .

 

He pressed his forehead against the rough bark, inhaling shakily.

 

"Thank you, my lady."

 

He knew exactly what to do in moments like this because of her. The training she had drilled into his skull—the grueling, agonizing poison resistance exercises—had saved him.

 

Back then, he had cursed her for it. She'd made him drink tinctures that made his stomach cramp for hours. She’d made him taste poisons in small doses, taught him which ones would simply make him sick and which would kill him.

 

And now? Now he wasn’t going to die because of a damn bird .

 

"I get it now," he grumbled, wiping his mouth. "You were right."

 

Then he groaned and leaned back.

 

"But I still hate you."

 

Odysseus groaned, pushing himself up from the tree with a hand still pressed to his stomach. His throat burned, his body was still trembling from the ordeal, and his mind was a mess of exhaustion and frustration. But then—

 

His gaze landed on a thick cluster of branches above him. A nest.

 

A rather large nest.

 

His eyes narrowed.

 

Carefully, he stepped forward, craning his neck. The wind had settled, the world eerily quiet after his retching. The tree before him was sturdy, its bark thick and rough—easy to climb.

 

And there, nestled safely within the tangle of twigs and leaves, sat eggs .

 

He exhaled sharply through his nose.

 

Well. He wasn't making that mistake again.

 

Slowly, painfully, he began to climb. His limbs ached, his stomach still knotted from his earlier sickness, but hunger gnawed at him, stronger than his pride. This was food. Safe food. Food he knew how to cook properly.

 

By the time he reached the nest, his fingers were scraped, but he barely cared. He reached in carefully, fingers brushing against the warm, smooth shells.

 

He smirked.

 

"Perfect."

 

Gingerly, he plucked a few eggs, testing their weight in his palm.

 

If he could find some dry wood, make a fire—he could eat . He could keep going.

 

Odysseus adjusted his grip, balancing the eggs carefully before beginning his descent. This time, he was careful. He would not waste this.

Chapter 12: ☀﹒┊﹒Apollo﹒༊

Odysseus descended the tree with a patience that only desperation could teach. Every step was measured, every movement deliberate—if he dropped these eggs, he might actually cry .

 

His feet hit the ground with a soft thud . He exhaled through his nose, crouching to examine the eggs once more.

 

"Alright," he muttered to himself. "Now, fire."

 

That presented a problem. The rain had soaked everything. Even now, the damp air clung to his skin, making the chill settle deeper into his bones. He needed dry wood, or at least something that could burn .

 

His gaze flickered around. The underbrush was thick, but maybe—

 

Then, he spotted the hollow of a fallen tree, partially covered by moss. It was damp on the outside, but the inside—he reached in, fingers brushing against the inner bark.

 

Dry.

 

A grin curled his lips. Finally, something goes right.

 

He pulled out as much of the dry wood as he could manage, tucking it under his arm. With his other hand, he carefully balanced the eggs, setting off to find a spot to make his fire. Somewhere concealed, somewhere safe.

 

The thought of warm food sent his stomach twisting in anticipation.

 

It had been too long since he'd had anything good .

 

Odysseus found a small dip in the ground, shielded on three sides by thick undergrowth and the gnarled roots of an old tree. It was the best he could manage for now. Carefully, he set the eggs aside, his mind already running through the steps.

 

Tinder first. Then kindling. Then fuel.

 

His hands worked methodically, almost on instinct. He shredded thin strips of the dry bark, setting them in a neat pile, then placed the kindling—small twigs, brittle and snapping easily—over it. His flint was worn but serviceable. With a practiced strike, sparks leaped into the tinder. A few careful breaths, a bit of coaxing, and—

 

A small flame flickered to life.

 

Odysseus grinned. Finally, something—

 

Then, it hit him.

 

Smoke.

 

His stomach twisted violently. His entire body locked up as he watched the thin wisp of it curl upward, like a beacon against the damp air.

 

I’m an idiot.

 

If Hermes was still searching, this would be a goddamn flare in the night. If the Greeks were still looking, this would be a flashing sign saying, Here I am, come tie me up like an unruly goat. If Hector was still nearby, this was practically an invitation for the Trojans to drag him back as a war trophy.

 

Odysseus hissed under his breath, grabbing a handful of wet leaves and smothering the fire immediately. The embers hissed in protest, steam curling from the sudden dampness.

 

For a long moment, he just knelt there, fingers digging into the earth, his breath uneven.

 

He couldn't afford mistakes. Not anymore.

 

His stomach groaned in protest, reminding him that he hadn't actually eaten anything.

 

"Shut up," he muttered to himself, rubbing his face. He could eat the eggs raw. Disgusting, but survivable.

 

He glanced at them, still whole and untouched beside him.

 

…Maybe he could risk a smaller flame. Just enough heat to cook them through, nothing big enough to send smoke spiraling into the sky.

 

He'd have to be careful. He wasn't sure how many more chances he’d get.

 

Odysseus exhaled slowly, rubbing at his temples as he considered his options. A full fire was too dangerous—he wasn’t about to advertise his location with a pillar of smoke like some halfwit. But he needed food. His body was already sluggish from exhaustion, his thoughts unraveling at the edges. If he didn't eat something soon, he'd make even stupider mistakes.

 

His eyes flicked to the rocks scattered around the clearing. Some of them were darkened and cracked, likely heated by the earlier sun. Not much, but it might be enough.

 

Cautiously, he picked up an egg and pressed it against the warmest stone he could find. It wasn’t ideal, but given enough time, maybe it would cook through. He set another beside it, watching as the shells barely even reacted.

 

Gods, this is pathetic.

 

Odysseus sat back on his heels, crossing his arms as he stared at his sad little meal. This was Ithaca’s greatest mind at work. The brilliant tactician, the wily strategist, reduced to playing nursemaid to a handful of eggs and hoping the rock was hot enough to cook them before someone—Greek or Trojan or goddamn divine—found him and dragged him back.

 

His stomach growled, unimpressed with his efforts.

 

"Shut up," he muttered again, poking one of the eggs with a finger. Still cold.

 

He sighed, shifting his weight. This was going to take forever. Maybe if he wrapped the eggs in damp leaves and set them closer to the stone, the heat would distribute better? Or—

 

A twig snapped in the distance.

 

Odysseus froze. His heartbeat thudded against his ribs, his body instinctively going still. He barely even breathed, listening.

 

Another faint rustle. Footsteps.

 

Someone was nearby.

 

Odysseus' breath caught in his throat. The footsteps were too light to be a soldier, too deliberate to be an animal. His fingers twitched toward his knife as he pressed himself lower to the ground, his body coiled like a spring.

 

Then, a voice—smooth, lazy, amused.

 

"Well, well. So this is Athena’s little stray.”

 

Odysseus whipped around, knife in hand, but stopped dead at the sight of the figure lounging against a tree.

 

Golden. That was the only word his exhausted brain could process.

 

The man—no, the god—stood with a casual ease, sunlight catching in his curls, skin glowing like he was made of molten amber. He was watching Odysseus the way one might watch an odd, scruffy animal—a mixture of curiosity and mild amusement.

 

Apollo.

 

Odysseus felt his stomach twist. Of all the gods to stumble across him, why him?

 

The god tilted his head, lips quirking into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I expected someone taller.”

 

Odysseus swallowed thickly, knife still clenched in his grip. His mind raced, but no plan—no strategy—came to him. He was too tired. Too hungry. His eggs weren’t even cooked yet.

 

Apollo’s gaze flickered to them, then back to Odysseus, brows raising. “Seriously?”

 

Odysseus scowled, straightening slightly. “It’s working.”

 

"Is it?" Apollo mused, stepping closer. Odysseus tensed, but the god didn’t seem interested in catching him. Instead, he crouched beside the sad little pile of eggs, resting his chin on one hand. He was too close, radiating warmth like a sun-drenched rock. “You do know you could just ask me to cook them, right?”

 

Odysseus didn’t dignify that with a response. He simply stared, wary and silent.

 

Apollo smirked. “You really are as feral as Hermes said.”

 

Oh. That was bad. That meant more gods were talking about him.

 

Odysseus gritted his teeth. "Are you here to drag me back?"

 

Apollo blinked, as if the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. "Me? No. I'm just here to see what all the fuss is about. Athena’s been acting like someone stole her favorite toy. Hermes won’t shut up about you. The war is about to get interesting.” His smile widened slightly. “So naturally, I had to see what kind of man could cause this much trouble.”

 

Odysseus’ grip on his knife tightened. "And?"

 

Apollo hummed, considering. Then, to Odysseus' utter confusion, he reached out and plucked one of the eggs off the rock, holding it between his fingers.

 

A small pulse of warmth radiated from his palm.

 

A second later, he tossed the egg back. “There. Now you won’t die of stupidity before the war is over.”

 

Odysseus caught it instinctively. It was warm.

 

Cooked.

 

He looked back at Apollo, suspicious. "Why help me?"

 

Apollo merely stretched, the golden light around him shifting like rippling sunlight on water. "I like watching mortals squirm.” He gave Odysseus a lazy grin. "And you? You’re squirming beautifully.”

 

Then, as easily as he had appeared, he was gone.

 

Odysseus stared at the spot where Apollo had been, his fingers tightening around the warm egg like it was some kind of cursed object. His stomach twisted—not with hunger, but with the creeping horror clawing its way up his spine.

 

That had been Apollo . A god. Not just any god, but the one who loved watching mortals burn. The one who struck down men with plagues and madness on a whim. And he had just casually wandered into Odysseus’ miserable little hiding spot— not to smite him, not to drag him back, but just to watch .

 

Apollo had looked at him the way a boy looks at an ant he's debating stepping on.

 

Odysseus’ breath hitched. He wasn’t just running from the Greeks anymore. He wasn’t just dodging Athena’s wrath or Hermes’ relentless hunt.

 

The gods were watching him.

 

Talking about him.

 

Laughing.

 

He shoved the egg into his mouth with shaking fingers, forcing himself to swallow despite the bile creeping up his throat. He needed the energy. He needed to move.

 

Because if Apollo found him this easily, then others could too. And how long before one of them did decide to drag him back? Or worse—before they got bored and decided to end this little spectacle with a bolt of fire through his skull?

 

His breathing quickened, his pulse hammering in his ears.

 

He needed to run .

 

Now.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Apollo twirled around his lavish chamber, his golden robes flowing like molten sunlight as he giggled to himself, positively giddy. He kicked his feet in the air, spun on his heels, and threw his arms up, a wide grin stretching across his face.

 

"Ohhh, Athena’s little pet is just delightful !" he sang to himself, collapsing onto a pile of silk cushions, still breathless with amusement.

 

He couldn’t get the image out of his head—Odysseus’ wide, horrified eyes, the way he had gone rigid like a cornered animal, the sheer terror in his face when he realized exactly who had found him.

 

Apollo let out another cackle, rolling onto his back, kicking his legs up like a love-struck maiden.

 

"He really thought I was going to kill him! Oh, sweet little mortal, if I wanted you dead, you’d have been ash before you even saw me~!"

 

He sighed happily, tossing a golden lyre into the air and catching it with effortless grace.

 

"I should check on him again soon… He’s just so fun to watch~!"

 

Apollo launched himself onto his massive, gold-trimmed bed with the grace of a deranged cat, letting out an excited, high-pitched screech as he buried his face into the silk sheets. His legs kicked wildly behind him, and he clutched a pillow to his chest, rolling back and forth like a child who just heard the juiciest piece of gossip.

 

"Athena’s little mortal is running for his LIFE! " he gasped between fits of laughter, gripping the pillow tighter. "And the best part? He doesn’t even KNOW what he’s doing! Just stumbling around like a lost little lamb—"

 

He smacked the mattress with both hands and let out another delighted screech, his golden curls bouncing with the movement.

 

"Ohhh, I could just watch him forever !" he gushed, burying his face in the pillow, practically vibrating with glee.

 

He rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand, his grin widening. "I should get some nectar and a seat. This is better than any play in Olympus." His eyes twinkled with amusement. "He’s going to suffer so beautifully."

 

Sighing contentedly, he stretched out across the bed, tapping his fingers idly against the mattress. "Why would I interfere? No, no—this is far more fun to watch unfold naturally. I wonder how long until he completely loses it?"

 

Apollo chuckled, the sound rich and pleased, before rolling onto his stomach again, kicking his feet behind him as he imagined all the ways Odysseus would flail next.

 

Apollo buried his face into the pillow, his laughter muffled but uncontrollable. The sheer audacity of Athena’s favorite mortal—sprinting through the wilds like a feral animal, throwing sand in Hector’s face, hunting birds of all things—was just delicious .

 

He turned onto his back again, staring at the ceiling, a dreamy smile spreading across his lips as he let his mind wander.

 

Oh, how far could Odysseus fall?

 

Would he start talking to himself in the trees, whispering strategies to the wind as if his own shadow were a council of war? Would he start believing he was some kind of spirit of the wild, a nameless, shapeless thing that only he could understand? Would he strip down to nothing but dirt and madness, eyes wide with sleep deprivation, teeth bared like an animal?

 

Apollo shuddered, a delighted little hum escaping his throat.

 

Or—perhaps—Odysseus would snap in an entirely different way. Maybe he’d circle back to camp, but not to surrender. No, no—he’d slink in like a vengeful wraith, dripping with river water and delirium, slipping into tents unseen. Maybe he’d start whispering in their ears while they slept, pressing a dagger just so against their throats, making them feel helpless for the first time in their arrogant lives.

 

Maybe he’d look into their eyes and laugh .

 

Apollo sighed, pressing a hand over his fluttering heart, his entire body thrumming with excitement. "Oh, Odysseus," he whispered to the ceiling, as if calling out to a lover. "How entertaining will you become?"

 

Apollo grinned, stretching out luxuriously across his bed as he let his mind drift to the absolute disaster Athena and Hermes were currently enduring.

 

Oh, he could see it so clearly .

 

Athena, pacing furiously, her hands clenched into fists, her jaw so tight that if she bit down any harder, her teeth might crack. Her precious mortal—her cleverest , most favored little schemer—had completely lost his mind . He wasn’t strategizing, he wasn’t weaving his way out of this like some grand tactician. No, he was running through the wilds like an idiot , throwing rocks and sand, eating raw birds, and diving into rivers like a rabid animal.

 

And Hermes? Oh, Hermes .

 

The poor messenger god must be losing his entire mind. He was probably pulling at his hair in frustration, cursing up a storm about how Odysseus had vanished from his sight again. How was a mortal hiding from him ? Hermes could track the flight of every bird, the breath of every thief, the shifts in the very wind itself —and yet Odysseus had somehow outfoxed him.

 

Apollo nearly cackled at the thought.

 

Oh, Hermes must be seething . Probably flitting around like a madman, scanning every inch of land with an intensity that bordered on deranged, mumbling about how this shouldn’t be possible . Athena would be beside him, practically pulling out her hair, her face twisted in absolute rage because her perfect mortal, the one she personally molded , was acting like some wild, mindless beast.

 

Apollo kicked his legs against the mattress, biting his lip to contain his giddy laughter.

 

Would Athena break first, marching into the forest with fire in her eyes, prepared to drag Odysseus back by his ear ? Or would Hermes collapse in pure, unfiltered rage , throwing his hands up and declaring that he was done —that if Odysseus wanted to live like a stray dog, then so be it ?

 

Either way, Apollo was going to enjoy every second of it .

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Diomedes sat in the dimly lit tent, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. The generals were arguing, debating plans, setting up traps—like Odysseus was some kind of wild animal instead of a man who definitely hadn’t thought this through.

 

And honestly? He was so over it.

 

He exhaled through his nose, rolling his jaw as he tapped his fingers against his arm. He could chase Odysseus through the forest. He could track him. He could set a trap, beat him over the head, and drag him back by his ankles. But let’s be real—that bastard was slippery , and Diomedes didn’t have the patience to waste half a day playing this game.

 

His gaze flicked to the entrance of the tent.

 

Maybe he didn’t need to hunt Odysseus down. Maybe he just needed to force him out.

 

A slow, wicked smirk curled on his lips.

 

What if—just what if —he strolled right into the forest, cupped his hands around his mouth, and started screaming about all the things he and Odysseus had done together?

 

“Oh, Odysseus! Remember that time you fu—”

 

Oh, he could just imagine the sheer, visceral horror on Odysseus’ face. The moment those words hit the air, that man would come flying out of hiding so fast, tripping over his own feet just to shut him up.

 

Diomedes chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. The thought was insanely tempting.

 

Sure, Odysseus was a man of many schemes, of many masks—but one thing had always been true. He cared deeply about his reputation. And if Diomedes started loudly announcing their past escapades to the trees, the birds, the Trojans —

 

Oh, that would be the breaking point.

 

Diomedes leaned back in his seat, smirking to himself.

 

He was absolutely keeping this option on the table.

 

Diomedes’ smirk lasted all of three seconds before the realization hit him like a battering ram to the face.

 

He would have to yell about his own sex life too.

 

Out loud.

 

Where everyone —the soldiers, the commanders, the gods —could hear him .

 

His smirk vanished. His face ignited . A deep, burning red crawled up his neck, scorching his ears as his brain betrayed him by replaying the absolute worst things he’d ever done with Odysseus. The things he would have to say.

 

“Oh, gods,” he muttered, slamming a hand over his mouth, eyes wide in horror .

 

He could see it—himself, standing in the middle of the forest, red-faced, screaming into the trees about that one time Odysseus had—oh fuck no. No, no, no, no.

 

He buried his face in his hands, his whole body tensing as secondhand embarrassment for himself hit him full force.

 

He was not about to be the man who made history by losing Odysseus and then publicly announcing all the ways they’d defiled half the supply tents during downtime.

 

By the gods, what if Achilles heard? What if Agamemnon heard? That man was already deranged over Odysseus, he’d probably lose his mind on the spot.

 

Diomedes groaned, squeezing his eyes shut.

 

Was getting Odysseus back worth ruining his own dignity?

 

He drummed his fingers against the table, debating.

 

… Maybe.

 

Diomedes let out a long, suffering groan and dropped his head onto the table with a thud .

 

Gods, he hated this.

 

His fingers curled into fists against the wood, frustration rolling through him like an itch he couldn't scratch. It had only been—what? A day? Two? And yet, everything already felt off.

 

There was no infuriating voice in his ear, no smug bastard making backhanded compliments that somehow still managed to sting . No one to push his buttons just right , to scheme with, to drink with, to—

 

His jaw clenched. He refused to acknowledge the other half of that thought.

 

Instead, he thought about how boring things were without Odysseus around. How the camp felt too still, too predictable . No one was getting scammed into terrible bets. No one was miraculously solving every problem with a ridiculous plan that somehow always worked. No one was looking at him with that infuriatingly knowing smirk , as if he'd already planned three steps ahead, just waiting for Diomedes to catch up.

 

And the worst part?

 

No one understood him like Odysseus did.

 

Everyone else thought he was just a brutal, apathetic soldier—a machine made for war. But Odysseus? Odysseus had never looked at him like that. He had laughed at his cruelty, matched his cunning, encouraged his worst ideas with that damn twinkle in his eye.

 

He had never flinched away, never hesitated, never looked at him like he was less than a man.

 

And now, that bastard was gone.

 

Diomedes scowled, gripping his hair.

 

It was unacceptable. He needed to find Odysseus. Now.

 

Even if it meant publicly humiliating himself. Even if it meant screaming through the forest like a lunatic.

 

Because as much as he hated to admit it, there was a gnawing, hollow ache in his chest—one he knew wouldn’t go away until Odysseus was standing in front of him again, smirking like the insufferable bastard he was.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Odysseus sat hunched over the hot rocks, cracking open the shell of an egg with careful fingers. His hands were dirty, his nails caked with dried mud, but he didn’t care. Right now, all that mattered was food.

 

He popped the first piece into his mouth, chewing slowly, letting the warmth of the cooked yolk spread through him. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

 

His jaw worked as he swallowed, eyes flicking around the darkened forest. Every sound made his muscles twitch—every rustling leaf, every distant snap of a branch. He didn’t feel safe, but he didn’t have the luxury of waiting for comfort.

 

Another bite. Another egg.

 

He should have been planning—figuring out where to go next, how to stay ahead of whoever was looking for him—but his mind was numb . The constant running, the sleepless paranoia, the sheer absurdity of his situation had worn him thin.

 

Still, he grinned to himself. They probably thought he was dead. Or at least, they were hoping he was.

 

Idiots.

 

Licking the last of the egg from his fingers, he exhaled and leaned back against the tree trunk. For now, he had a full stomach and a moment of quiet.

 

But in the back of his mind, he knew it wouldn’t last.

 

Odysseus’ fingers froze mid-lick.

 

His stomach twisted—not from the eggs, but from the sudden realization that slammed into his skull like a war hammer.

 

"I was told about you."

 

That’s what Apollo had said. Told.

 

Which meant someone knew he was alive.

 

His throat went dry as his heartbeat slammed in his ears. That one tiny sentence undid everything—every step, every false trail, every ounce of effort he’d put into making sure they thought he was dead.

 

They knew.

 

They were still looking for him.

 

Odysseus pressed his hands against his face, inhaling sharply. "Shit," he muttered into his palms. He felt the beginning of a headache creeping in, clawing at the base of his skull like a vulture pecking at a dying man.

 

How long had they known? Since the river? Since the cave? Since the damn cats?

 

His mind raced through every encounter, every mistake. Hermes was still searching. Athena was still pissed. And now, Apollo was watching —which meant the gods were talking about him.

 

And if they were talking, then it was only a matter of time before the Greeks figured it out.

 

He needed a new plan.

 

Now.

 

Odysseus wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his mind shifting from panic to cold calculation. He couldn't stay here. Not with gods whispering about him, not with Hermes sniffing around, not with Athena sharpening her metaphorical blade in preparation for his inevitable capture. If they knew he was alive, then time was against him. He had to keep moving.

 

He ran a hand through his damp, tangled hair, eyes narrowing as he thought through his next move. He needed supplies. Food that wouldn’t make him sick, real clothes—this tattered chiton was going to get him noticed immediately—and, most importantly, distance from wherever the hell he was .

 

A town. He needed a town.

 

Odysseus chewed his lip as he mentally mapped out where the nearest settlements might be. There was a small one, a few days away on foot if he kept up a steady pace. Not Greek-controlled, not Trojan, just a minor trade post—neutral ground where he could blend in, steal what he needed, and disappear again before anyone even realized he’d been there.

 

That was his best bet.

 

But to get there, he’d have to avoid patrols, keep ahead of Hermes, and hope Apollo remained content as a passive observer instead of an active participant.

 

He let out a slow breath, rubbing at his temples. " Hades take me, " he muttered, dragging himself to his feet. His body ached, exhaustion pulling at his limbs, but he had no time to rest. If he wanted to stay free, he had to move .

 

Tonight, he’d sleep. Tomorrow, he’d run.

 

Odysseus rolled his shoulders, shaking off the stiffness settling into his muscles. His plan was sound—reach the neutral town, get supplies, and vanish—but the more he thought about it, the more a nagging problem pressed at the edges of his mind. He had nothing. No weapon, no proper clothes, no coin.

 

Even if he made it to the town, he’d be a starving, half-dressed man stumbling in from the wilderness. They’d either turn him away or sell him out the moment someone came looking.

 

No, he needed supplies before he reached the town.

 

And who had the best supplies? The Greeks. His army.

 

Odysseus let out a slow breath, tilting his head back to stare at the canopy above him. It was ridiculous, reckless— perfectly in character for him, unfortunately . He knew their camp’s routines, where they stored their food, how they kept watch at night. If he timed it right, he could sneak in, take what he needed, and be gone before anyone noticed.

 

The idea settled into his chest, solid and dangerous.

 

Was it worth the risk?

 

His stomach growled. His limbs still ached from days of running. He knew the answer before the question fully formed.

 

It was a risk, but it was a calculated one. If anyone could pull it off, it was him.

 

He had one last night of rest before the real game began. In a few hours, he was going back to camp.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Nestor sat in his tent, rubbing his temples as the voices of the other generals droned on in the background. They were arguing—again. About Odysseus— again .

 

He had seen many things in his long life. Wars, betrayals, the rise and fall of great kings. He had endured the madness of youth, the arrogance of power, and the foolishness of men who thought they were above consequence. But nothing— nothing —had prepared him for this.

 

Odysseus, their so-called "cleverest" warrior, had apparently lost his mind and vanished into the wilderness like a feral dog. The Greeks, in response, had collectively decided to hunt him down as if he were a wild animal. Achilles was raging. Agamemnon was still clutching Odysseus’ old chiton like a grieving widow. Diomedes was, at this very moment, sitting outside, blushing furiously over some half-baked scheme that Nestor did not want to ask about.

 

He exhaled sharply, tuning out the argument in the tent.

 

I am too old for this.

 

He had been prepared to die on the battlefield, to meet his end with a sword in hand and his name carved into legend. He had not been prepared for this.

 

For the first time in his long, long life, Nestor genuinely considered retirement.

 

Let these young fools deal with their own mess. Let them chase Odysseus through the trees, argue over cat corpses, and sob into stolen clothing. He could leave, go back to Pylos, live out the rest of his days in peace.

 

But then he sighed, long and slow, dragging a hand down his face.

 

Who was he kidding? If he left now, they’d burn the entire camp down within a week.

 

Nestor let out a long, suffering groan as he slumped forward, rubbing his temples with both hands. His mind drifted back—back to years ago, when he had first met Odysseus.

 

He had been such a cute boy back then.

 

Bright-eyed, eager, polite. A boy with sharp wits and a sharper tongue, but still full of youthful energy and promise. Nestor had thought, Ah, this one will be a fine warrior, a fine leader.

 

Now look at him.

 

Running barefoot through the wilderness like some deranged forest spirit, throwing sand at Hector, eating gods-know-what, dodging Hermes, and driving the entire Greek army to the brink of madness.

 

Somewhere, something had gone terribly wrong.

 

Nestor exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. " Where did I fail you, boy? " he muttered under his breath.

 

If young Odysseus could see himself now, what would he think? Would he be horrified? Amused? Or, gods forbid, proud of the absolute disaster he had become?

 

The thought made Nestor scowl even harder.

 

This was it. The next time he saw Odysseus, he was going to smack him. He didn’t care if he had to chase him down, trap him like a wild animal, or drag him back by the ear. One way or another, that boy was getting a lecture.

Chapter 13: ⇆﹐⊂⊃﹕Mysia ﹢✦﹐👜

Odysseus moved like a shadow through the undergrowth, his body low, his steps precise. Every branch, every rustling leaf could betray him, but he had learned to move with the silence of a thief. His chiton was torn, his body aching, but his mind was locked onto one goal— get out of Troy.

 

The border was close. If he could slip through, he could vanish into another kingdom, disappear from Greek hands. He had no illusions about blending in easily—his name carried weight, and his face was too well-known—but if he could just reach another land, he could bargain his way to safety.

 

A kingdom at odds with the Greeks might find it amusing to shelter him. A king desperate for a tactician might overlook the trouble he brought. A place that valued cunning over brute strength— somewhere, anywhere, that wasn’t crawling with the men who were currently planning to hunt him like a wild beast.

 

His fingers tightened around the small bundle he had managed to scavenge—bits of food, a crude knife, a ragged cloak he had swiped from an abandoned post. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep him moving.

 

His heart pounded as he approached the border. He could see the faintest outline of distant watchtowers against the horizon. If he got spotted, he’d have to run fast. If he got caught, he’d have to talk faster.

 

He exhaled slowly.

 

Time to see if he was still Odysseus the cunning, or just a man running blindly into disaster.

 

Odysseus crouched in the shadows, his sharp eyes scanning the landscape ahead. The border of Troy loomed in the distance, marked by a crude wooden palisade, reinforced with watchtowers at uneven intervals. It wasn’t an impenetrable fortress, but it was still a barrier between him and freedom.

 

He traced the perimeter with his gaze, looking for weaknesses, gaps, anything that could be exploited. A direct approach was suicide—he had no doubt that the guards were armed and eager to strike down any suspicious figure creeping toward their territory.

 

Then, as he crept along the edge of a dried-out ditch, something caught his eye—a narrow hole beneath the lowest beams of the fence, no larger than a dog’s passage. The ground around it was worn, furrows in the dirt suggesting it had been used frequently. His lips twitched. Dogs. Perfect.

 

Dropping to his knees, he inspected the hole more closely. It was just wide enough for a lean body to squeeze through—uncomfortably tight, but possible. He ran his fingers along the edges, feeling the loosened earth, noting the faintest trace of fur snagged on the wood. The scent of damp soil and old musk lingered, confirming his suspicion.

 

Carefully, he pressed his fingers into the dirt around the hole, testing its give. The ground crumbled slightly—soft enough that he could widen the gap just enough to slip through without drawing attention.

 

But there was a problem. If this was a dog hole, it meant there might be—

 

A low growl rumbled from behind him.

 

Odysseus froze.

 

Slowly, he turned his head, his heart pounding. A pair of glowing eyes stared back from the darkness, a lean, scruffy hound standing stiff-legged just a few paces away. Its ears were flattened, its lips curled in a silent snarl, but it had not yet lunged.

 

Odysseus inhaled carefully, forcing his muscles to stay loose. It wasn’t a trained guard dog—just a stray, likely accustomed to scavenging along the border. But that didn’t mean it wouldn’t raise hell if provoked.

 

He reached into the small pouch at his side, fingers closing around the last scrap of dried meat he had stolen. Moving slowly, he tossed it a short distance from the hole, his eyes never leaving the dog’s.

 

The hound’s nose twitched. It hesitated, then took a cautious step forward, sniffing at the offering.

 

Odysseus didn’t wait. The moment its focus shifted, he dropped to the ground and wiggled his way into the hole, pushing against the loose earth, ignoring the way splinters of wood scraped against his arms.

 

The tunnel was tight . Dirt clung to his face as he forced himself through inch by inch, his breath coming in short, controlled bursts. His ribs scraped against the packed soil, the earth pressing in from all sides.

 

For a moment, a horrible thought crossed his mind— what if he got stuck?

 

But then, with one last push, he felt the air shift. His fingers dug into open ground, and he dragged himself out, his body rolling into the underbrush on the other side.

 

He lay there for a moment, sucking in deep breaths, dirt clinging to his skin.

 

Then, slowly, he lifted his head and looked around.

He was past the border.

 

He had made it.

 

Odysseus lay motionless in the underbrush, his breath evening out as he listened. The distant murmur of Troy’s border guards remained unchanged—no shouts, no rush of footsteps. They hadn’t noticed him.

 

Good.

 

Slowly, he pushed himself up, brushing loose dirt from his arms. The dog hole had served its purpose, but he wasn’t safe yet. He had bought himself time—nothing more.

 

Mysia was still a long way off.

 

He turned south, toward the rolling hills that marked the edges of Trojan land. If he could cross through this stretch of wilderness unnoticed, he could slip into Mysia’s borders before dawn. But that meant moving quickly—no fires, no resting, just running.

 

And so, he ran.

 

Barefoot, every step was calculated. He cut through the tall grass like a shadow, each footfall pressing lightly against the earth to avoid unnecessary noise. The scent of damp soil and crushed leaves filled his nose as he weaved between sparse trees, his breath controlled, steady.

 

The night was cold, but the exertion kept his body warm. His limbs ached, but he didn’t stop. He had lived through worse.

 

The land sloped downward, and he adjusted his pace to avoid slipping, using the momentum to propel himself forward. The distant call of an owl echoed through the trees, but otherwise, the world was silent.

 

He crossed a small stream, the icy water shocking his skin as he waded through. The wet fabric of his chiton clung to him, but he didn’t stop to wring it out. Every second wasted was another second closer to being caught.

 

An hour passed. Then another.

 

His breathing grew heavier, his legs burning. His body begged for a moment’s rest, but he ignored it.

 

Then—movement.

 

Odysseus ducked behind a thick oak, his body pressed flat against the rough bark.

 

A patrol? No. The figures ahead were too scattered, too clumsy.

 

Hunters.

 

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

 

They wouldn’t be looking for him. But it didn’t matter—being seen was being seen. If a single hunter caught sight of him and spoke of it in the wrong place, the Greeks would know within a day that he had passed through here.

 

He needed to go around.

 

Keeping low, he backed away, choosing a longer route that would take him along the rocky outcrops to the east. It would slow him down, but he had no choice.

 

More running.

 

The hills grew steeper. Loose gravel slid beneath his feet as he climbed, forcing him to grip the stone for balance. His arms trembled, exhaustion creeping in. His lungs burned.

 

But then—there.

 

From the crest of the hill, he saw it. The distant flicker of torches marking the outskirts of Mysia.

 

Relief surged through him.

 

He had done it.

 

He let out a slow breath and pressed forward, his body aching but his mind focused. The hardest part was over.

 

Now, he just had to get inside.

 

Odysseus slowed his pace as he neared the outskirts of Mysia. The torchlight flickered across the faces of travelers waiting in line, their figures casting long, shifting shadows across the dirt road. A checkpoint.

 

He cursed under his breath.

 

Men in leather armor stood at the entrance, their eyes sharp as they checked the papers of each person who stepped forward. Some were waved through without issue. Others were turned away. A few were escorted aside for further questioning.

 

No way he could just slip in.

 

His chiton was torn, stained with mud, and still damp from the stream. His hair was a mess, his body scratched and bruised. He looked like a runaway slave or a vagrant—not someone with legitimate business in Mysia. If he stepped forward now, they’d drag him off for questioning in an instant.

 

Odysseus stepped back into the shadows, blending into the mass of merchants, travelers, and beggars who loitered outside the checkpoint. He needed a plan.

 

There were options. None of them good.

 

Stealing papers would be ideal, but not easy. The guards were thorough, checking not only the documents but also the faces of the people carrying them. He couldn’t just snatch one and hope they wouldn’t notice the difference.

 

Bribery? He had nothing to offer.

 

Sneaking around? Possible, but risky. If they had patrols stationed beyond the gates, he’d be caught before he made it past the inner streets.

 

His fingers tapped against his thigh as he scanned the line, mind racing.

 

Then—an opportunity.

 

A merchant’s cart stood near the back of the line, covered with heavy fabric. The merchant himself, a portly man with a thick beard, was loudly arguing with another traveler over space in the queue.

 

Odysseus shifted closer, eyes flicking toward the cart. If he could slip beneath the cover and hide among the goods, he might have a chance. But it had to be timed perfectly—any movement would be noticed if the argument ended too soon.

 

He waited, muscles tensed.

 

The voices rose. The merchant waved his arms, stepping away from the cart to shove the other man back.

 

Now.

 

Odysseus moved.

 

A few quick, silent steps, and he was beneath the cover, sliding into the cramped space between crates. The scent of spices filled his nose—strong, pungent, but better than the alternative. He pressed himself low, heart pounding as he listened to the argument outside.

 

The fight dragged on. A few others in line muttered complaints, but no one paid attention to the cart.

 

Then—the merchant huffed, stomping back into place. The line moved forward.

 

Odysseus held his breath.

 

The cart jerked as the merchant pulled it along. A few moments later, a gruff voice spoke.

 

"Identification."

 

The merchant grumbled, shuffling through his belongings. A pause. Then, the sound of parchment being handed over.

 

A longer pause.

 

Odysseus clenched his jaw.

 

Then—

 

"Go on through."

 

The cart lurched forward.

 

He was in.

 

As the cart rumbled past the checkpoint, Odysseus barely suppressed a grin.

 

That had been brilliant .

 

Not just clever—no, clever was expected. But that? That was artistry . Precision timing. Calculated risk. The kind of maneuver that, under normal circumstances, he’d have bet against anyone pulling off. But he wasn’t just anyone , was he?

 

He was Odysseus. And he’d just outwitted a heavily guarded border with nothing but a torn chiton and the ability to recognize an argument at the right time.

 

The thought filled him with something dangerously close to giddiness .

 

He adjusted his position slightly, careful not to shift the crates too much. The scent of spices was cloying, burning his nose, but he could endure that. It was a small price to pay for the sheer satisfaction of slipping past armed men undetected.

 

Oh, they’d never let him live this down if they found out.

 

Not that they would find out, of course. But just the thought of Diomedes' face if he ever learned Odysseus had smuggled himself into Mysia like some street rat in a cart —it almost made him laugh.

 

Almost.

 

He forced himself to stay still. The ride wasn’t smooth, and if he made too much noise, he’d be discovered before he even had a chance to stretch his legs. There was still a long way to go before he could consider himself truly safe.

 

Still.

 

He’d done it.

 

No armies. No gods. No grand battle strategies. Just him, his wits, and an argument between two fat merchants.

 

Maybe he should go rogue more often.

 

Odysseus waited until the cart hit a particularly rough patch of road, jostling its contents. The merchants up front grumbled, more focused on keeping their balance than on whatever was happening in the back. Perfect.

 

With careful, practiced movements, he reached into one of the burlap sacks beside him. His fingers brushed against something soft—cloth. He nearly grinned. Fortune favors the desperate. He pulled out a bundle of neatly folded garments, something simple yet well-made. A tunic, a fresh chiton, even a cloak. How considerate.

 

He wasted no time shrugging out of his tattered, filth-streaked chiton and replacing it with the fresh one. The new fabric was crisp, untouched by sweat or blood—so much so that it felt wrong against his skin. It had been too long since he'd worn anything clean.

 

He reached into another sack. Dried fruit, a hunk of bread, even a small wedge of cheese. His stomach clenched at the sight. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he still was. He tore off a piece of bread, stuffing it into his mouth as he worked, chewing efficiently, swallowing it down before reaching for more. He’d take whatever he could carry—there was no telling when he’d get his next proper meal.

 

Then, something heavier at the bottom of the cart caught his attention. A waterskin. Now that was invaluable. He snatched it up, weighing it in his hand. Still full. He allowed himself a quick swig, the water cool and refreshing against his parched throat.

 

By the time the cart hit smoother terrain, he was clothed, fed, and a good deal richer in stolen supplies.

 

Odysseus leaned back slightly, adjusting the newly acquired cloak over his shoulders, and let out a quiet breath.

 

Now all he had to do was figure out how the hell he was going to get out of this cart unseen.

 

Odysseus shifted slightly, his foot knocking against something solid. He glanced down and spotted a leather satchel tucked into the shadows of the cart’s wooden slats.

 

Well, well. What do we have here?

 

He reached for it, fingers curling around the strap as he pulled it closer. It had some weight to it—not much, but enough to be promising. He loosened the ties and peeked inside. A small bundle of cloth, a few silver coins, and— oh.

 

A second waterskin.

 

Clean. Full.

 

Odysseus exhaled through his nose, a rare wave of relief washing over him. Bless whoever packed this cart. He wasted no time unstoppering the waterskin and taking a long, deep drink. The coolness hit his throat like salvation, clearing the lingering dryness of salt and dust. He had been running for so long—this was the first real taste of reprieve he’d had since escaping the Greek camp.

 

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, then stashed the waterskin in the satchel. The cloth inside? He pulled it out—it was a headscarf, something a merchant or traveler might wear to shield themselves from the sun. Perfect. He wrapped it around his head, letting it partially obscure his face. The fewer people who could recognize him, the better.

 

Odysseus sat back, adjusting the bag over his shoulder.

 

He had clean clothes. Food. Water. And now, a way to carry it all.

 

For the first time since fleeing, he allowed himself a smirk.

 

Alright, Mysia. Let’s see what you’ve got for me.

 

Odysseus slipped out of the cart as smoothly as a shadow, landing on the packed dirt road with practiced ease. The street before him bustled with travelers, merchants, and guards—voices overlapping, carts rattling, the air thick with the scent of spiced food and livestock.

 

He straightened his new tunic, adjusting the headscarf to cover more of his face. He couldn’t afford to draw attention. Not yet.

 

With a casual gait, he stepped into the flow of foot traffic, blending in like he belonged there. He kept his pace brisk, his gaze sharp—scanning the people, the buildings, the pathways leading deeper into Mysia.

 

He needed to move.

 

He needed to disappear.

 

But first—he needed to think.

 

One wrong step, and everything would crumble.

 

Odysseus kept walking, weaving through the crowd like a fish slipping through reeds. Every step sent a thrill through him—he was in, he was in , and no one was chasing him yet. His stolen bag pressed against his side, reassuring in its weight.

 

He passed a market stall selling dried figs and nearly reached for one before stopping himself. No. He needed to lie low. Act natural. The scent of roasted meat filled the air, making his stomach clench, but he ignored it. His priority was disappearing .

 

His eyes darted across the street, catching sight of a small alley between two buildings. Good. He could take a moment to reassess.

 

He slipped in, leaning against the wall, exhaling slowly. Mysia was a safe bet—for now. The Greeks wouldn’t think to search for him in a kingdom that had no reason to shelter him.

 

But he couldn’t stay forever.

 

He needed an identity. A purpose. A way to survive without suspicion.

 

His fingers curled around the strap of his bag. He had stolen food, water, and clothes—but not a name.

 

He needed a name .

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Artemis sat on a tree branch in her divine sanctuary, idly sharpening one of her arrows as Athena paced below, ranting with the fury of a storm contained in mortal flesh.

 

“He is an absolute dumbass,” Athena seethed, dragging a hand down her face. “I give him battle tactics, wisdom, training , and what does he do? He eats a half-cooked bird and runs into Troy like an actual madman!”

 

Artemis twirled her arrow between her fingers, watching her sister’s tantrum with mild amusement. “And yet, you still love him.”

 

Athena groaned, glaring up at her. “That is beside the point.”

 

“No, it’s very much the point.” Artemis smirked. “You’re practically pulling your own hair out over him.”

 

Athena crossed her arms, jaw tightening. “Because he is going to get himself killed !”

 

Artemis tilted her head. “And yet, he’s still alive.”

 

Athena looked like she wanted to strangle someone. “By luck , not intelligence! Hermes can’t even track him! Hermes! The fastest, sharpest tracker in Olympus! And Odysseus —my dumbass, ridiculous, reckless mortal —has outmaneuvered him by accident !”

 

Artemis let out a low chuckle, tossing her arrow in the air and catching it. “You sound jealous.”

 

Athena’s eye twitched. “I will throw you into the sea.”

 

“Oh, please try,” Artemis said, grinning. “I’ll give you a five-second head start.”

 

Artemis scoffed, rolling her eyes as she leaned back against the tree trunk. “It’s always men.”

 

Athena pinched the bridge of her nose. “Artemis—”

 

“No, really. It’s always a man causing the greatest headache. They think with their egos, they throw themselves into disaster, and when they inevitably screw up, who has to fix it? Us. ” She gestured to Athena with her arrow. “You’re out here pulling your hair over a mortal idiot, and for what? Because he’s charming? Because he’s ‘clever’?” She sneered. “There’s no difference between him and every other arrogant fool who thinks he can dance with the gods.”

 

Athena’s fingers twitched, but she didn’t argue. Artemis smirked.

 

“Oh, admit it, sister. You know he’s no different. Men like Odysseus—like all of them—wreak havoc, and it’s always someone else cleaning up after them. They blunder into things they don’t understand, make messes of wars, betray, destroy, and then expect us to be there, guiding their pathetic hands.”

 

Athena’s jaw clenched.

 

“Are you done?”

 

Artemis laughed. “Oh, hardly. But I’ll let you keep suffering for him. It’s entertaining.”

 

Athena exhaled sharply, tilting her head up to the heavens as if pleading for patience. Artemis simply returned to sharpening her arrow, her smile sharp.

 

This was going to be fun.

 

Artemis stared at the door long after Athena had left, the goddess’ frustrated footsteps echoing in her ears.

 

Something was wrong.

 

Athena never cared about men like this. She was pragmatic, logical—gods, she was ruthless. When had she ever let herself get this worked up over a mortal? Especially a man?

 

Artemis’ fingers tightened around her bow.

 

Odysseus wasn’t the strongest, the fastest, or even the most honorable. He was cunning, yes, but that didn’t explain why Athena was this fixated. This wasn’t just amusement. It wasn’t just a passing interest in a mortal who had caught her eye. No, this was something else.

 

Athena felt something for him.

 

Artemis’ lip curled.

 

Pathetic.

 

A man had wormed his way into Athena’s affections. A mortal man, no less. It was disgusting.

 

And yet, the thought unsettled her. Not because she cared about Athena’s emotions—let her waste her affections, if she wished—but because Artemis knew men. And she knew that if Athena, of all goddesses, had been ensnared like this…

 

Then Odysseus was far more dangerous than any warrior on the battlefield.

 

Her grip on her bow was iron-tight.

 

She would be watching him.

 

Artemis exhaled slowly, a controlled breath that did nothing to ease the storm brewing inside her. She turned away from the door, pacing in slow, measured steps, her bare feet silent against the cold marble of her temple.

 

She despised men. Their arrogance. Their foolishness. Their endless hunger for power, for flesh, for destruction. They called upon the gods for strength, swore oaths of loyalty and fealty, then betrayed them in the same breath. They took what they wanted, cared nothing for the aftermath, and when the consequences came—when they faced the ruin they themselves had wrought—they begged for salvation.

 

She had seen it too many times. The way kings fell to greed, the way hunters defied sacred ground, the way men looked at women like prey instead of people.

 

Men disgusted her.

 

But none had ever disturbed her quite like this.

 

Artemis could count on one hand the number of people Athena had genuinely cared for. That list had never included men. The men Athena favored were tools—useful, sharp, sometimes even entertaining, but never precious. She had guided them, aided them, but when they failed? When they proved themselves weak or unworthy? She had abandoned them without hesitation.

 

And yet…

 

Artemis had never seen Athena like this.

 

She had ranted, ranted about Odysseus. About his foolishness, his recklessness, his audacity. She had called him an idiot, a disaster, a complete and utter dumbass. But underneath it all, hidden beneath her frustration, Artemis had caught something else.

 

Worry.

 

Not the detached concern of a strategist losing a valuable pawn. No, this was personal. Athena cared what happened to him. She wasn’t just irritated—she was invested.

 

It sickened Artemis to her core.

 

She had spent centuries watching men deceive, watching them manipulate and charm their way into power. This wasn’t a coincidence. This wasn’t an accident.

 

Odysseus had ensnared Athena.

 

He was no warrior-king like Achilles, no brute force conqueror like Agamemnon. He was a liar, a schemer, a man who slithered through battles instead of facing them head-on. And now, somehow, he had managed to worm his way into Athena’s affections.

 

Artemis clenched her teeth, nails digging into her palms.

 

It was disgusting.

 

Athena, the goddess of wisdom and war, reduced to this. All because of a man.

 

She turned abruptly, striding towards the edge of the temple, where the silver light of the moon cast long, sharp shadows across the floor.

 

Athena had left to chase after Odysseus. To hunt him down, to find him.

 

Artemis' lip curled.

 

Good.

 

Let her go. Let her realize her mistake. Let her see what men truly were—what Odysseus truly was.

 

Because Artemis would be watching.

 

And the moment he revealed himself for what he really was, the moment he showed his true colors— the moment he hurt Athena —

 

Artemis would put an arrow through his skull.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Odysseus moved through the crowded streets of Mysia with the practiced ease of a man who had slipped through a hundred enemy camps undetected. He kept his head slightly lowered, his newly stolen cloak drawn over his shoulders, the hood pulled just far enough forward to cast a shadow over his face. He walked with purpose, neither too fast nor too slow, just another weary traveler lost in the sea of merchants, traders, and beggars.

 

The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat, fresh bread, and unwashed bodies. Stalls lined the streets, their vendors shouting over one another, hawking spices, fabrics, and trinkets to anyone who so much as glanced in their direction. Ox-drawn carts rattled over the uneven stone paths, children darted between legs, and stray dogs sniffed at discarded scraps.

 

Odysseus' stomach twisted in protest. The eggs had been enough to stave off immediate hunger, but his body still ached for more. Something solid, something warm.

 

His eyes flickered toward a butcher’s stall, where a man was busy carving thick slices off a roasted lamb.

 

No.

 

Stealing food in a foreign city was a sure way to attract attention. He’d need coin, and if he wanted coin, he’d have to find a way to get it. That meant either gambling, working, or picking a pocket or two.

 

Gambling was a risk—he was too noticeable. He had no local reputation, no way of blending in with the regulars. A stranger winning too much too quickly? He’d be thrown into the gutter before nightfall.

 

Working? No. He wasn’t about to start lifting crates like some common dockhand.

 

That left thievery.

 

Odysseus let out a slow breath, scanning the crowd for an easy mark. Not the beggars, not the merchants watching their wares like hawks. Someone wealthy, distracted—

 

There.

 

A man in fine robes, a heavy coin pouch dangling from his belt. He was deep in conversation with another noble, his attention elsewhere.

 

Odysseus slid forward, moving like water through the crowd. A slight shift, a bump of the shoulder, a murmured apology—

 

The pouch was in his hand.

 

He turned away before the noble even noticed, slipping back into the sea of bodies.

 

Coins. A good handful of them. Enough to eat, maybe enough to get new supplies.

 

His lips curled into a satisfied smirk.

 

He wasn’t out of the woods yet, but he was getting there.

 

Odysseus tucked the stolen pouch into his belt, making sure the weight of it didn’t shift unnaturally. He moved with practiced ease through the crowded streets, weaving past merchants and common folk alike until he spotted what he was looking for—a tavern.

 

It wasn’t the grandest establishment in Mysia, nor was it the most decrepit. A large wooden sign swung above the entrance, depicting a horn of ale spilling over the rim. The scent of roasted meat and stale beer wafted from within, and the low hum of conversation was punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter or the clang of a mug against a table.

 

Perfect.

 

Odysseus pushed open the door, stepping inside with confidence. The dim light made it easy for him to avoid scrutinizing gazes. The room was full, but not packed, with a mixture of travelers, traders, and a few off-duty soldiers nursing their drinks.

 

He moved to an open spot at the bar, settling onto the worn wooden stool with the ease of a man who belonged anywhere he damn well pleased.

 

The barkeep was a broad-shouldered man with a beard like an overgrown hedge, wiping a mug with a rag that looked like it had seen far cleaner days. He eyed Odysseus for a moment, then grunted. “What’ll it be?”

 

Odysseus pulled a coin from his stolen pouch and placed it on the counter. “Something warm. Meat, bread. And ale.”

 

The barkeep snorted but took the coin without question. “Coming right up.”

 

Odysseus exhaled, allowing himself a moment of relief. He was still running, still a fugitive in the middle of a war, but at least for now—just for a short while—he could eat like a man instead of a starving stray.

 

As Odysseus waited for his meal, he let his shoulders loosen, adopting the air of a weary traveler rather than a fugitive on the run. He glanced around, taking in the chatter of the bar’s regulars—men discussing trade, local disputes, and rumors from the war. He noted the way their expressions shifted at the mention of Troy, some leaning in, others scoffing as if it were a tired topic.

 

A man beside him, likely a merchant judging by his fine yet travel-worn clothes, eyed Odysseus’ chiton—too new, too clean. “You look fresh off the road, friend,” the merchant mused, swirling his cup. “Mysia a stop on your way somewhere, or are you looking to settle?”

 

Odysseus let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “If I had the coin to settle, I wouldn’t be drinking in a place like this,” he replied easily, reaching for his ale. “Just a traveler. The war’s been bad for business, and I figured Mysia’s far enough that a man can find honest work.”

 

An older man across from him grunted, rubbing his beard. “You’d best avoid the ports then. They’re tightening security—Greeks and Trojans both sending spies through every rat hole they can find.”

 

Odysseus raised a brow, taking a casual sip of his drink. “That so? And which side do the Mysians favor?”

 

The men chuckled, one of them slapping the bar. “Whichever side stays out of our affairs! As long as the ships keep coming and the coin keeps flowing, no one here gives a damn about kings and their egos.”

 

Odysseus smirked. Smart men. Mysia might just be the perfect place to lay low.

 

The barkeep returned with a wooden plate piled with roasted meat and bread, setting it in front of him with a grunt. “Eat quick. I don’t like men who linger without spending.”

 

Odysseus nodded, already tearing off a chunk of bread. “Good policy,” he muttered through a mouthful.

 

The men around him continued their conversation, and Odysseus leaned in, listening carefully. He needed more than just food—he needed information. If he was going to disappear, he needed to do it right.

 

Odysseus wiped the grease from his fingers onto his chiton, leaning into the conversation with a charming, easy grin. “Well, I can’t just sit here eating like a beggar while you all do me the courtesy of conversation. Let me buy the next round—least I can do for some good company.”

 

The men exchanged looks, clearly not about to turn down free drinks. The merchant beside him let out a short laugh, waving to the barkeep. “A generous traveler, I like that. Haven’t even given us your name yet, and already making friends.”

 

Odysseus took another bite, chewing thoughtfully before answering. “Call me Kallias,” he said smoothly, choosing the name of a long-dead cousin. “And who am I drinking with?”

 

The merchant raised his cup. “I go by Phaedimus. I run goods between here and Phrygia.” He tilted his head, assessing Odysseus. “You a trader yourself?”

 

Odysseus hummed as if considering. “Not quite. Used to help manage shipments in Ionia, but the war's made business risky. Thought I’d try my luck here.”

 

A broad-shouldered man to his left let out a snort. “Trade’s not the only thing war’s ruined. Try being a hunter when every damned noble is hoarding supplies and driving up prices. Name’s Damis, by the way.”

 

Next to Damis, an older man with graying hair and a shrewd gaze leaned forward. “Ariston,” he said simply, his voice rough with age. “Ran a ship once. Now I just sit here and drink.”

 

Odysseus lifted his cup in a casual salute. “A man who’s seen the sea, eh? You must have stories.”

 

Ariston chuckled, shaking his head. “More than a few, but none I’d share for free.”

 

Odysseus smiled, storing away their names and trades. These were the sort of men who knew how to survive. Phaedimus could tell him about supply routes. Damis, about the land and its resources. Ariston—well, old sailors had eyes and ears in places most men overlooked.

 

He took a slow sip of his drink, keeping his expression open and easy. “Mysia seems like a good place for a fresh start. No war, no kings breathing down your neck. I imagine a man can disappear here if he knows where to go.”

 

Phaedimus arched a brow. “Looking to disappear, are you?”

 

Odysseus let out a short laugh. “Aren’t we all?” He gestured vaguely. “Just saying, some places are better than others. If a man wanted to avoid trouble, where’s the best spot to lay low?”

 

The men exchanged glances, a moment of wary silence stretching between them. Then Damis leaned forward, lowering his voice.

 

“There’s a village south of the main trade routes, past the river. Small, but it doesn’t ask questions. You show up with coin, you get a roof. That what you’re looking for?”

 

Odysseus nodded slowly, feigning casual interest. “Could be.”

 

He took another sip, his mind already working. He had a direction now. He just needed supplies, and he’d be well on his way.

Chapter 14: ░﹕🎲﹐Market-Place﹑ᵕ˂﹗☁️

Odysseus leaned back, flashing an easy grin as he swirled his drink in his cup. “A village that doesn’t ask questions, huh? Sounds like a paradise. If only women were that kind—imagine the peace.”

 

The table erupted into laughter, Damis slapping the wood with a heavy palm. “By the gods, if you find a place where a woman doesn’t ask questions, take me with you!”

 

Odysseus tilted his head, smirking. “I’ll let you know if I do. But tell me, how does a man get by in Mysia? Not all of us are born traders, hunters, or ship captains. If you were me—fresh off a long journey, looking for an honest way to keep my cup full—where would you start?”

 

Phaedimus, always the businessman, leaned in. “Depends. You strong? Handy with a blade? Or do you prefer silver-tongued dealings?”

 

Odysseus chuckled, gesturing broadly. “I can lift a sack of grain without breaking my back, I know which end of a blade to hold, and I’d like to think I can talk my way into—or out of—most situations.”

 

Ariston gave him a measuring look. “Then you’ll do well enough here. Merchants always need hired hands, and caravans need men who can think on their feet.”

 

Damis scoffed. “If he’s as quick as he says, he’d make a fine hunter. The forests are teeming with game, and the nobles will pay well for fresh meat.”

 

Odysseus hummed, pretending to consider while already dismissing the idea. He wasn’t about to spend weeks in the wilderness gutting animals when he had bigger plans. “Tempting,” he said. “But I think I’ll stick to what I know. You wouldn’t happen to know of any traders needing extra hands?”

 

Phaedimus stroked his beard. “I might. A caravan’s set to leave in a few days for Phrygia. If you can lift crates and keep your mouth shut, I could put in a word.”

 

Odysseus grinned. “I can do both, though I’d prefer lifting crates.” More laughter, more easy camaraderie. He had them now—relaxed, talking freely, no longer eyeing him like a stranger.

 

He leaned forward, lowering his voice just enough to make them lean in too. “And what about the city itself? You all seem like men who know where to find a good opportunity. If a man needed, say, some supplies on short notice, where would he go?”

 

Damis smirked. “Looking to outfit yourself, Kallias?”

 

Odysseus feigned a sheepish grin. “Let’s just say I traveled light and didn’t expect to stay so long.”

 

Phaedimus laughed. “Then you’ll want the lower market by the docks. Cheap, fast, and no one asks where your silver comes from.”

 

Odysseus clinked his cup against the nearest one in thanks. “Now that is useful information. This round’s on me.”

 

As the barkeep poured, Odysseus leaned back with a satisfied sigh. He had names, directions, and a way to gear up. Soon, he’d be out of Mysia and on to the next step of his escape. But for now? He’d drink, laugh, and let these men believe they were in the company of just another weary traveler.

 

Odysseus shifted in his seat, turning toward Damis with an easy grin as he reached for his drink. In the movement, his fingers lightly brushed against the older man’s hand where it rested on the table. A fleeting touch—just enough to be noticeable, but not enough to be intentional.

 

Damis paused mid-laugh, his eyes flicking to where their hands had met. Odysseus didn’t acknowledge it, at least not directly. Instead, he took a slow sip of his drink, as if utterly unaware, his gaze still on the others. But when he set his cup down, he let his fingers trail just a little too close again, lingering for the barest of moments.

 

Damis cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. His posture remained relaxed, but there was a new tension in his shoulders. “So, Kallias,” he said, his voice steady but a little more measured, “you always this friendly with new drinking companions?”

 

Odysseus glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, his smirk widening just a fraction. “Only the ones who treat me right.”

 

The men around them laughed, none of them quite catching the undercurrent in the exchange. Damis studied him for a moment, then scoffed and reached for his own cup. “You’re trouble,” he muttered, shaking his head.

 

Odysseus just smiled, leaning back again, satisfied. He wasn’t looking for anything—this was just another game, another thread of control in the conversation. But the way Damis had stiffened ever so slightly, the way he had taken note of it—that was useful.

 

People who noticed you were dangerous. People who noticed you and didn’t say anything? Even more so.

 

Odysseus swirled the last of his drink in his cup, eyes half-lidded with feigned contentment. The bar hummed with conversation, the scent of roasted meat and stale ale thick in the air. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and let his gaze drift lazily across his companions.

 

“So, tell me, friends,” he began, his voice easy, relaxed, “what’s a man’s coin worth in Mysia these days? I’ve heard strange things—silver stretching farther than gold, merchants hoarding coppers like they’re gems. That true?”

 

One of the men, an older fisherman with salt-and-pepper stubble, snorted. “Hah! If only. Silver’s still worth something, but you won’t get far if you don’t have gold for the right hands. Foreigners struggle if they don’t know how to barter.”

 

Odysseus hummed, rubbing his chin as if considering. “And what about copper? What’s a decent meal cost a man?”

 

Damis, who had been silently watching him, finally scoffed. “Depends where you eat. Cheap places, a few coppers get you a bowl of stew and some stale bread. But if you’re aiming higher—” he gestured toward the nicer side of town, “—you’ll want silver at least.”

 

Odysseus filed the information away, nodding thoughtfully. So, copper worked for survival, silver was preferable, and gold was king—same as most places. He’d have to adjust his methods accordingly.

 

Feigning mild exasperation, he sighed. “And here I was, hoping Mysia had a more merciful purse.” He shook his head, grinning. “Guess I’ll have to make my coin last.”

 

The men chuckled, offering their own complaints about the cost of goods. Odysseus leaned back, satisfied. Information was the best currency he could deal in, and now he knew just how much he needed to steal to stay afloat.

 

Odysseus exhaled in exaggerated defeat, shaking his head with a rueful grin. “Well, if I’m going to stretch my purse, I’d best spend wisely. And for that, I’ll need sharp-eyed men who know the market better than some poor foreigner with holes in his pockets.” He leaned forward, catching Damis’ gaze with an easy smile. “What do you say? Help a man out?”

 

Damis raised an eyebrow, arms crossed over his chest. “And what do we get for our trouble?”

 

Odysseus clapped a hand over his heart, feigning injury. “The honor of guiding a lost soul? The satisfaction of saving a man from paying thrice what something’s worth?” He let the silence linger for a breath, then grinned. “And, of course, the promise that I’ll owe you one.”

 

The older fisherman scoffed. “Owe us what, exactly?”

 

Odysseus smirked. “That depends. But a favor from a man like me might come in handy.”

 

Damis studied him for a long moment before huffing a laugh. “You’re either a fool or someone who talks himself out of trouble often.”

 

Odysseus lifted his cup in mock salute. “Why not both?”

 

The men exchanged glances before Damis finally relented with a shrug. “Fine. The market’s not far. We’ll walk you there, but don’t expect us to haggle for you.”

 

Odysseus grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

He stood with them, adjusting the stolen bag on his shoulder, slipping easily into their pace as they exited the bar. The streets had begun to settle from the early evening rush, but the market ahead still buzzed with life—merchants shouting their wares, carts creaking under fresh produce, the air rich with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wines.

 

Perfect.

 

Now all he had to do was blend in and make a plan.

 

As they walked through the bustling streets, Odysseus kept his pace relaxed, eyes flicking from stall to stall, taking in the prices, the weight of the coin purses at the waists of passing merchants, and the exits in every direction. He had always been good at adapting, but a new kingdom meant new customs, new dangers. He needed to learn fast.

 

Damis, walking slightly ahead, turned his head to glance at Odysseus. “Your accent—it's strange.”

 

Another man, a wiry fellow named Lykos, snorted. “Not just his accent. His whole look’s odd. What’s with your eyes?”

 

Odysseus feigned mild surprise, like he hadn’t heard that a hundred times before. He touched his face, fingers grazing his cheekbone as if he’d forgotten. “Ah. That.” He offered a sheepish smile. “Gift from the gods, or so my mother claimed. One eye blue, one eye brown—means I see the world in two ways.” He chuckled. “Or so the poets like to say.”

 

Damis grunted. “Superstitious nonsense.”

 

Lykos wasn’t so quick to dismiss it. He eyed Odysseus warily. “Different-colored eyes are an omen. Could mean luck… or disaster.”

 

Odysseus laughed, slapping Lykos on the back. “Then let’s hope the gods are feeling generous tonight, aye?”

 

Damis gave him another once-over. “Your hair too—it’s strange. Not quite brown, not quite blonde.”

 

Odysseus ran a hand through his curls, smirking. “That’s just from too much time in the sun, my friend. Hard labor, long travels, you know how it is.”

 

Lykos narrowed his eyes. “You don’t have a laborer’s hands.”

 

Odysseus glanced down at his own calloused fingers and resisted the urge to sigh. He had spent years wielding a sword and a bow, tying knots, and handling the wheel of a ship. They weren’t the hands of a farmer, true—but they were far from soft.

 

He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I was a sailor, once. Storms don’t care much for what kind of hands you have.”

 

That seemed to satisfy them for now, though Damis still looked unconvinced. “Sailor, huh? That might explain the quick tongue.”

 

Odysseus grinned. “You have to talk fast when you’re swindling merchants at foreign ports.”

 

The men chuckled, and just like that, the tension eased. The questions had been routine, nothing more than the curiosity of men who had lived in the same place their whole lives and weren’t used to strangers who looked quite like him.

 

Still, Odysseus knew he had to be careful. His appearance, his voice—any one of these things could give him away if the wrong person got suspicious. He needed to blend in, to make himself seem just foreign enough to be interesting, but not so strange that he became a threat.

 

They rounded a corner, and the market sprawled before them, lanterns glowing warm in the evening air.

 

Odysseus smiled to himself. Time to get to work.

 

Odysseus scanned the market, his sharp gaze flicking between the stalls. He walked with a casual gait, hands loose at his sides, but his mind was working fast. He needed supplies—something to defend himself with.

 

His eyes landed on a small stall tucked between two larger ones. The merchant, an older man with weathered hands and a thick beard, stood behind a modest display of weapons. Most were battered, some rusted, but Odysseus knew how to look past the surface. His fingers trailed over the hilts of a few daggers before they settled on one that, at first glance, seemed unremarkable.

 

The blade was dull with age, its handle wrapped in faded leather, the sheath scratched and worn. A lesser man would have overlooked it, drawn to the shinier weapons on display. But Odysseus knew better. He picked it up, testing the weight in his hand. Perfectly balanced. The handle fit smoothly in his palm, the kind of grip forged by a master who understood the importance of a weapon that moved as an extension of the body.

 

He flicked his thumb along the edge, feeling the sharpness beneath the layer of grime. This was no common street dagger—it was well-made, its disguise intentional. Someone had gone through the trouble of making it look worthless.

 

Clever.

 

The merchant eyed him, arms crossed. “You have a good eye,” he said gruffly. “Most overlook that one.”

 

Odysseus smiled. “Most don’t know what they’re looking for.” He turned the dagger over in his hand, watching how the weight shifted with each movement. “Where’s it from?”

 

The merchant shrugged. “Came in with a bundle of scrap. Some old soldier’s blade, maybe.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “But if you know what you’re looking at, you know it’s worth more than that.”

 

Odysseus hummed, feigning mild interest as he slid the dagger back into its sheath. “How much?”

 

The merchant studied him. “Three silver.”

 

Odysseus laughed. “Three? For something that looks ready to snap in half?” He shook his head. “I’ll give you one.”

 

The merchant scoffed. “Two and a half.”

 

“One and a half.”

 

The man narrowed his eyes. “Two. Final offer.”

 

Odysseus tapped his fingers against the sheath, as if debating, then sighed. “Fine. Two.” He reached into his stolen bag, fishing out a few coins and placing them in the merchant’s hand. The man counted them quickly, then nodded in satisfaction.

 

Odysseus slid the dagger into the folds of his new clothing, feeling the comforting weight against his side.

 

One step closer to surviving.

 

Odysseus drifted away from the dagger stall, his fingers instinctively resting against the hilt beneath his clothing. He felt better now—armed, at least. But it wasn’t enough. His features were too distinct, his mismatched eyes too sharp, his hair an oddity in these lands. He needed a disguise.

 

His gaze flicked across the market, searching. The stalls buzzed with people bartering and laughing, their voices blending into the hum of daily life. It was easy to disappear in the crowd, but only for a moment. If anyone looked too closely, they’d notice him.

 

He made his way toward a fabric merchant, pretending to inspect the goods. The bolts of cloth were expensive, too lavish for a simple traveler, but the scraps—the discarded remnants—were more his style. A few coppers for a strip of cloth, something to wrap around his head, maybe cover his hair.

 

“Looking for something specific?” the merchant asked, raising a bushy eyebrow.

 

Odysseus forced a lopsided grin. “Just something to keep the dust out of my face. Been traveling a long way.”

 

The merchant snorted. “You and everyone else. Two coppers for the scraps.”

 

Odysseus tossed the coins onto the table, grabbing a dark, rough piece of cloth. He wrapped it around his head, adjusting it so that his hair was mostly hidden beneath the fabric. Not perfect, but enough to dull the oddity of his coloring.

 

Next, he moved toward a small stand selling dyes and ointments. A woman sat behind it, lazily stirring a pot of something thick and dark. Various jars and flasks lined her stall, some labeled, others not.

 

“You sell hair dye?” he asked, keeping his tone light.

 

The woman barely glanced up. “I sell what people need.”

 

Odysseus smirked. “And I need something that’ll darken hair quickly.”

 

The woman exhaled through her nose, reaching for a small clay jar. She popped the lid off, revealing a thick, brown-black paste. “Mix of walnut and iron,” she said. “Stains deep, lasts a few weeks.”

 

Perfect.

 

“How much?”

 

“Five coppers.”

 

Odysseus clicked his tongue. “Bit steep for some walnut paste.”

 

She shot him a knowing look. “Not for someone who needs to not be recognized.”

 

He chuckled. “Fair enough.” He handed over the coins, taking the jar in return.

 

Now, all he needed was a place to apply it. A quiet corner, an alleyway—somewhere out of sight. With the cloth covering his head and the dye in hand, his features would be far less noticeable.

 

Step by step, he was becoming someone else.

 

Odysseus blended back into the market, the weight of the small clay jar in his hand grounding him. He needed information—specifically, how soon he could get out of here. Ithaca wasn’t exactly a prime destination for traders, which meant ships would be infrequent.

 

He approached a group of dockworkers taking a break near a fishmonger’s stall, their arms thick with muscle, their hands stained with salt and grime. They looked like the type who knew the coming and going of every ship.

 

Odysseus gave them an easy smile, slipping effortlessly into the persona of a traveler looking for passage. “Evening, friends. I’m looking to book passage to Ithaca. Any idea when the next ship heads that way?”

 

One of the men, an older sailor with a weathered face and a scar running down his forearm, snorted. “Ithaca? What business you got there?”

 

Odysseus shrugged, keeping it casual. “Family.”

 

Another sailor, younger but just as grizzled, laughed. “Not much traffic that way. Ithaca’s out of the main routes, small island, not much reason to go unless you got business with the king, and he’s off in Troy.”

 

Odysseus kept his expression neutral, though the words nearly made him scoff. Business with the king. If only they knew.

 

“So,” he pressed, “when’s the soonest ship heading that way?”

 

The older sailor scratched his beard. “Two weeks, give or take. There’s a merchant vessel scheduled to pass through, but it ain't exactly a passenger ship. You’d have to pay well, or work your way aboard.”

 

Two weeks. Too long, but it was the best he had. He couldn’t linger here that long—not without a plan.

 

Odysseus sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as if considering. “Any chance I could find a faster way?”

 

The younger man grinned. “Unless you grow wings or steal a ship yourself, no.”

 

Odysseus laughed along with them, though inside, his mind was already churning. Two weeks meant he had to stay hidden, had to survive without drawing attention. That wasn’t the worst of it.

 

It also meant the Greeks had two weeks to find him.

 

Odysseus slipped back into the bustling market crowd, weaving between merchants and customers as he made his way toward the tavern where he had first charmed his new acquaintances. He needed a place to stay—somewhere quiet, somewhere out of sight. And he needed it fast.

 

As soon as he spotted Damis and the others lingering near the entrance, sharing drinks and boisterous conversation, he quickened his pace. Without hesitation, he slid up to Damis, wrapping an arm around the man’s elbow with an easy familiarity, pressing in close.

 

“Damis, my good man,” Odysseus purred, flashing a disarming grin. “You wouldn’t happen to know a place a weary traveler can rent a room for a few weeks, would you?”

 

Damis raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by the sudden touch, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he smirked. “What, already tired of the road? You seemed like the restless type.”

 

Odysseus chuckled, tightening his grip slightly. “Restless, sure, but even I need a place to rest my head. Just a quiet little room—somewhere out of the way.” His fingers drummed lightly against Damis’ forearm, his expression nothing but casual charm, though underneath, his mind raced.

 

One of the other men, a burly, broad-shouldered worker named Lysios, scoffed. “You got coin for that, traveler? Places here aren’t cheap unless you don’t mind sharing a room with a few rats.”

 

Odysseus feigned a thoughtful frown, then sighed dramatically. “Ah, well, I suppose I could always sleep under the stars. But a proper bed… now that sounds far more inviting.”

 

Damis tilted his head, eyeing him. “You looking for something in the nice part of town or something more… discreet?”

 

Odysseus grinned. “Discreet.”

 

Damis and Lysios exchanged a glance before Damis nodded. “I might know a place. Come on.”

 

Odysseus released his grip, though he let his fingers trail just enough to linger before stepping back, his expression one of gratitude. “I knew I could count on you, Damis.”

 

Damis smirked. “You’re lucky you’re charming.”

 

With that, Odysseus followed as they led him through the streets, his heart steady, but his mind already planning his next move.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

The tent was dimly lit, the flickering of the oil lamp casting long shadows against the fabric walls. Patroclus sat against a pile of furs, his arms curled protectively around Achilles, whose head rested heavily against his chest. The younger warrior had spent the entire night searching—storming through the camp, snapping at soldiers, threatening anyone who even looked like they might be withholding information about Odysseus.

 

Now, finally, exhaustion had won.

 

Achilles’ breaths were slow and deep, his body slack in sleep, but his brow was still furrowed, his fingers twitching even in unconsciousness. He had fought rest for hours, stubbornly insisting he could keep going, but as soon as Patroclus had pulled him down, running his fingers through his hair, Achilles had slumped forward and passed out.

 

Patroclus sighed, his own exhaustion settling into his bones. He glanced down at Achilles' sleeping face, at the way tension still clung to his expression, even in slumber. He knew that the moment Achilles woke, it would all start again—the frustration, the rage, the relentless need to find Odysseus.

 

Gently, he brushed a thumb across Achilles' cheek, his voice a quiet murmur. “You idiot. You never stop.”

 

Outside, the camp was still restless—men whispering in clusters, rumors spreading like wildfire. But in this moment, inside the tent, there was a rare stillness. Patroclus exhaled slowly, tightening his arms around Achilles, keeping him close.

 

If only for a little while.

 

Patroclus adjusted his grip, shifting slightly so that Achilles’ weight rested more comfortably against him. He ran his fingers absently through Achilles’ golden hair, untangling strands that had become knotted from the relentless wind and his ceaseless movement throughout the night. He could still feel the tension in Achilles’ shoulders, even in sleep, as though his body refused to believe that rest was an option.

 

Patroclus let out a quiet sigh and tilted his head back against the furs. His free hand rubbed slow, soothing circles against Achilles’ back, the motion meant to keep him grounded—to remind him, even in his dreams, that he wasn’t alone.

 

A soft hum rumbled in Patroclus’ throat, an old melody from their childhood, something Achilles’ mother used to sing when the world was still simple, when war was just a distant concept rather than the force that had shaped their lives.

 

The sound barely filled the tent, quiet enough that only Achilles would hear it, buried against Patroclus' chest.

 

He wasn’t sure if Achilles could hear him in his dreams, but some of the tension in his face seemed to ease. His grip on Patroclus' tunic slackened slightly, fingers uncurling as if, just for a moment, he trusted that he didn’t have to keep fighting.

 

Patroclus closed his eyes, resting his chin lightly atop Achilles' head. The tent was still, the only sound the occasional murmur of soldiers outside, the wind rustling against the fabric. But here, in this moment, Achilles was safe.

 

And Patroclus would make sure it stayed that way.

 

Patroclus smiled softly as Achilles shifted in his sleep, pressing closer against him like a child seeking warmth. His breathing had slowed, deep and steady, his face relaxed in a way Patroclus rarely saw anymore. It made his heart ache—this was the Achilles he remembered from their youth, before war had sunk its claws into him.

 

Patroclus tightened his arms around him, holding him just a little closer. Achilles' hand, which had been gripping his tunic, twitched slightly before settling again, his fingers curling against Patroclus' chest.

 

A strand of golden hair fell into Achilles' face, and Patroclus carefully brushed it back, his touch featherlight. Achilles murmured something unintelligible in his sleep, shifting his head so that his nose nuzzled against Patroclus' collarbone.

 

Patroclus bit back a chuckle, warmth blooming in his chest. "Even in sleep, you're impossible," he whispered, though there was nothing but affection in his tone.

 

Achilles let out a tiny sigh, and Patroclus could swear he felt him relax even more, as if, even in dreams, he knew he was safe here.

 

For a moment, Patroclus let himself forget the war, the frantic search for Odysseus, the weight of everything that loomed over them. For now, it was just the two of them, wrapped in the quiet of the tent, Achilles safe in his arms.

 

And Patroclus would stay like this for as long as Achilles needed.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Polites clung tightly to Eurylochus, his face buried in the fabric of one of Odysseus' old chitons, inhaling the lingering scent of salt, earth, and something distinctly him. His fingers trembled as they clutched at the cloth, as if holding onto it hard enough would bring Odysseus back.

 

Eurylochus lay beside him, quieter than usual, his own hands resting on a folded himation that still smelled like their missing captain. His usual stern expression had softened—his brows no longer drawn in frustration, his lips no longer set in a grim line. Instead, he just held Polites close, pressing his forehead against the crown of his head.

 

"He’s alive," Eurylochus murmured, though he didn't sound entirely convinced. "You know he is."

 

Polites nodded weakly, but his breath hitched, and a fresh wave of silent tears spilled onto the fabric beneath him.

 

Eurylochus exhaled slowly, squeezing Polites tighter. “He’s too stubborn to die. Too damn clever to be caught.” His voice was rough but steady, as if by saying it aloud, he could force it into truth.

 

Polites sniffled, his grip tightening. "But what if—"

 

Eurylochus cut him off with a firm, reassuring squeeze. “No 'what ifs.’ He’s out there. And when he comes back, he’s going to be pissed that we wallowed in his clothes like mourning wives."

 

Polites let out a choked, watery laugh. "He’d never let us live it down."

 

“No, he wouldn’t.”

 

For a long time, they stayed there, tangled together in the scent of their missing captain, breathing him in, holding onto what little they had left of him.

 

Polites nuzzled deeper into the fabric, rubbing his cheek against the worn cloth like a child seeking comfort. "I miss him," he murmured, voice small and fragile.

 

Eurylochus sighed, shifting so that he could pull Polites closer, resting his chin on top of his head. "I know," he admitted, voice softer than usual. "I do too."

 

Polites' fingers curled in the fabric, his other hand fisting gently in Eurylochus’ tunic as if anchoring himself. "You think he's eating? Sleeping?"

 

Eurylochus let out a huff that was almost a chuckle. "Knowing him? Probably not. He's probably running around barefoot in some ridiculous scheme, tricking people into feeding him."

 

Polites made a small, hiccupy laugh, the kind that still had tears in it. "He always manages to talk his way into a full meal and a warm bed."

 

"Exactly," Eurylochus said, his voice warmer now, more certain. "He's probably lying back somewhere, smirking to himself, thinking about how we’re worrying for nothing."

 

Polites sniffled again, rubbing at his eyes before burrowing deeper into Eurylochus’ chest. "Jerk," he muttered, but it lacked any real venom.

 

Eurylochus hummed, rubbing soothing circles on Polites’ back. "Yeah. But he's our jerk."

 

Polites nodded against him, pressing even closer. "He better come back soon, or I'm never letting him hear the end of it."

 

Eurylochus let out a rare, quiet chuckle. "When he does, I’ll hold him down while you yell at him."

 

That finally earned a genuine laugh from Polites, small but real. They fell into a comfortable silence after that, wrapped in the familiar scent of their captain, the steady warmth of each other’s presence keeping the worst of their fears at bay.

 

For now, it was enough.

 

Polites sighed softly, his breathing evening out as he lay nestled against Eurylochus’ chest. The warmth, the scent of worn linen and salt lingering in Odysseus’ old clothes, and the steady rise and fall of his friend’s breathing made it impossible to stay tense.

 

Eurylochus felt the weight of Polites settle against him fully, the younger man’s body relaxing, his fingers still loosely curled in the fabric of Odysseus’ chiton. With a quiet exhale, Eurylochus shifted just slightly, adjusting so they were both more comfortable.

 

Polites murmured something incoherent in his sleep, his brow furrowing for a moment before smoothing out again. Eurylochus glanced down at him, his usually stern features softening. He wasn’t used to this—comforting others, being this close—but it felt natural, somehow. Familiar.

 

The tent was quiet, save for the distant sounds of the camp and the occasional flicker of the lamplight. Eurylochus let his eyes drift shut, his grip on Polites remaining steady but gentle.

 

As exhaustion finally won over his own restless thoughts, he found himself whispering, almost absently, “Idiot. You better come back soon.”

 

And with that, he let sleep take him, the two of them curled together in the empty space Odysseus had left behind.

Chapter 15: ♡﹒✿﹒New Friends﹕✧﹒⚔

Odysseus sat cross-legged on the wooden floor of the small inn room, his fingers working deftly as he mixed the crushed walnuts and iron shavings with water. The thick, dark paste formed quickly, its earthy scent filling the air. He scooped up a handful, hesitating only briefly before running it through his hair, making sure to coat every strand.

 

The mirror before him was a little warped, but it was enough to show him his reflection—his unmistakable mix of sun-lightened brown and ashy blonde slowly darkening into something richer, something less recognizable. His heterochromatic eyes, one sharp blue and the other warm brown, stood out even more starkly now against the deepening color of his hair.

 

He sighed, rubbing the mixture into his scalp, making sure to work it through the roots. His fingers were stained already, dark streaks marking his knuckles and palms. He had done this before—disguises, deceptions, becoming someone else—but never with this level of desperation.

 

The candlelight flickered, casting shadows across the wooden walls. He let out a breath, staring at himself. His face was thinner than it had been before this whole mess started. His cheekbones were more pronounced, exhaustion evident in the faint hollows beneath his eyes. He looked older, worn down.

 

“Gods, I look like a bastard son,” he muttered to himself, lips twisting in wry amusement.

 

He ran his fingers through his hair once more, ensuring everything was evenly coated, before wrapping a cloth around his head to let the dye set. He leaned back against the bedpost, staring at the ceiling.

 

Two weeks. He had two weeks before the next ship left for Ithaca. Until then, he had to keep his head down, keep moving, and most importantly—

 

He smirked to himself, feeling the dye settle in.

 

—stay uncatchable.

 

Odysseus exhaled slowly, steeling himself as he reached for the dagger he had chosen from the market. It was unassuming at first glance, the hilt worn, the sheath frayed at the edges—but the blade itself was sharp, well-crafted, and deadly precise. A true soldier’s weapon, not some flashy ornament for a noble’s belt.

 

He ran a thumb over the edge, testing its keenness, before shifting his focus to his reflection in the warped mirror. His beard, thick and well-maintained despite his time on the run, framed his face the way he liked it—his own mark of distinction, something that separated him from the younger, clean-shaven warriors. It had become part of him.

 

But it was also recognizable.

 

Odysseus huffed out a breath, tightening his grip on the dagger. A small price to pay.

 

With careful, practiced movements, he began trimming it down, slicing away the fullness bit by bit. The blade was sharp enough that it barely tugged at the hairs, and soon, dark strands littered the wooden floor. He worked methodically, sculpting the remaining facial hair into something shorter, rougher—something that no longer looked like the Odysseus his men knew.

 

When he finally pulled away, he studied his reflection. The transformation was subtle but effective. His face looked slightly different now, sharper without the fullness of his beard, more like a wanderer than a god’s general. Combined with the darkening of his hair, it was enough to throw off anyone who wasn’t paying close attention.

 

He ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the shorter scruff beneath his fingertips. He already missed the weight of his beard, but he ignored the pang of regret.

 

Small price to pay.

 

Odysseus stood, brushing the fallen hair off his tunic, then picked up the dagger and sheathed it at his waist. His disguise was coming together. Now, all that was left was to blend in, gather supplies, and wait.

 

Odysseus ran his fingers through his newly darkened hair, feeling the slightly stiff texture where the walnut and iron mixture had set. The deep brown shade was uneven in some places, giving it a natural, sun-worn appearance—believable enough for a traveler or a laborer, not a war-worn king of Ithaca. But there was still one problem.

 

His eyes.

 

One was an ordinary, warm brown—the same color as his father’s had been. The other, however, remained a striking, unnatural blue, the mark of his mother’s side. It had always drawn attention. More than once, it had betrayed him when he needed to remain unnoticed.

 

He needed to fix that.

 

Glancing at his reflection in the small mirror, he shifted his hair forward, tugging the longer strands so that they swept over the right side of his face. It wasn’t a perfect cover, but it cast enough of a shadow to dull the blue’s vibrancy. He adjusted it further, carefully pulling the locks in a way that looked natural—messy, but deliberate. A tired traveler who didn’t bother with appearances.

 

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

 

It was ironic—he’d spent his youth grumbling whenever his hair fell into his eyes while training. Now, it was a shield.

 

Satisfied, Odysseus leaned back, rolling his shoulders. His disguise wasn’t flawless, but it didn’t need to be. Most people wouldn’t spare him a second glance now.

 

Odysseus exhaled slowly, running a hand through his newly darkened hair once more before shaking out his tunic. He had taken a few of the better garments from the Greek supply cart, but even those were simple, worn enough that they wouldn’t draw suspicion. He looked like any other traveler—perhaps a merchant’s guard fallen on hard times, or a sailor between voyages. That would work.

 

The next step was securing work, something menial that would keep him fed without forcing him into too many conversations. He needed to keep his head down, listen more than he spoke, and avoid drawing the wrong kind of attention.

 

He fastened the belt around his waist, adjusting the placement of the dagger he’d bought. His fingers brushed over the hilt, a brief comfort. He hadn’t been without a weapon in years, and he wasn’t about to start now.

 

With one last glance at the small, rented room, Odysseus stepped out into the streets of Mysia, blending into the late-morning crowd. The scent of fresh bread, roasting meat, and salt from the nearby harbor filled the air. Merchants called out their wares, haggling with customers in the open market.

 

He walked with purpose but not urgency, his posture relaxed, his steps steady. No one paid him any mind.

 

Good.

 

Now, he just needed to find work. Something that wouldn’t ask too many questions.

 

Odysseus had always been good at finding the right kind of people in the right kind of places. It didn’t take him long to notice a group of men gathered outside a weaponsmith’s stall, their gear telling him more about them than any words could.

 

They weren’t soldiers—at least, not the disciplined, regimented kind. Their armor was mismatched, their weapons chosen for preference rather than standard issue. Mercenaries, then. The kind that wandered from war to war, picking up work where they could.

 

Perfect.

 

Odysseus adjusted his tunic, tugging the fabric just enough to hide the finer weave of Greek craftsmanship. He made his way toward them, taking in their conversation as he approached.

 

Lemenai, a short, pale-skinned man with bandages on his face, was in the middle of fumbling with his bowstring. “I swear, it keeps slipping! I think it’s cursed.”

 

“Or you’re just clumsy,” Uloan, the broad-shouldered, stern-faced tank, grumbled. He reminded Odysseus of Eurylochus—solid, dependable, but not the type to suffer fools.

 

Maldovin, lanky and too pretty for his own good, leaned against a post, smirking. He carried himself with the confidence of a man who knew he was fast enough to make up for any mistake. The way his sword hung at his hip—tilted just right for an easy draw—made Odysseus think of Achilles.

 

Then there was Gialaus, standing slightly apart, adjusting the straps on his satchel. His long white hair and red eyes made him stand out, even among this mismatched group. A medic, if the assortment of vials at his belt meant anything. That could be useful.

 

Odysseus stopped just short of them, hands resting casually on his hips. “You looking for another blade?”

 

Four sets of eyes turned to him.

 

Uloan frowned. “Who’s asking?”

 

“Someone in need of work,” Odysseus said smoothly, tilting his head. “And from the looks of it, you lot could use another hand.”

 

Maldovin’s smirk widened. “That so? And what exactly can you do?”

 

Odysseus grinned. “Whatever needs doing.”

 

Lemenai perked up. “Can you shoot a bow?”

 

“Better than you, I’d wager.”

 

Uloan scoffed. Gialaus just watched him, silent.

 

Maldovin pushed off the post, rolling his shoulders. “Well, that remains to be seen. You any good with a sword?”

 

Odysseus shrugged, letting just the right amount of cocky confidence seep into his tone. “Good enough to still be standing.”

 

Uloan crossed his arms, sizing him up. “You ever fought in a real battle?”

 

Odysseus met his gaze evenly. “More than I care to count.”

 

That made them pause.

 

Finally, Gialaus spoke for the first time, his voice quiet but firm. “We leave at dawn for a job. If you can keep up, you can stay.”

 

Odysseus smiled.

 

Perfect.

 

As Odysseus followed the mercenaries through the streets, he let his mind do what it did best—catalog, analyze, prepare. He wasn’t just walking with them; he was learning them. Every twitch of a hand, every shift of weight, the way they carried themselves—it all told him something.

 

Lemenai walked with a slight bounce, his steps light, almost too eager, like a young recruit who hadn’t yet learned to temper his energy. He was the shortest of them, barely reaching Odysseus' shoulder, with pale skin that made the bandages on his face stand out even more. His messy, short hair was a shade between dark blonde and light brown, untamed as though he rarely bothered with it. The way he kept fiddling with his bowstring, adjusting his quiver, and looking around suggested he was fidgety, perhaps nervous—or just naturally restless.

 

Uloan, in contrast, walked like a moving fortress. He was tall, broader than most, his thick arms crossed over his chest as he kept an even pace. His face was square-jawed, with deep lines etched into his forehead, as though he had spent his life scowling. His armor, though worn, was well-maintained, strapped on with a methodical precision that spoke of discipline. He carried a massive shield on his back, the edges dented from countless blows. He reminded Odysseus of Eurylochus—practical, steady, but likely stubborn. The kind of man who wouldn’t turn his back on a fight but also wouldn’t take unnecessary risks.

 

Maldovin, on the other hand, moved like a predator. He was tall, but lean, his long limbs giving him a natural grace that made him stand out even among mercenaries. His dark brown hair was kept at an almost lazy shoulder-length, framing a sharp-featured face with high cheekbones and striking golden-brown eyes. A beauty that was almost unfair. He carried his sword at an angle meant for speed, and he walked with the loose confidence of someone who knew he was the fastest in the room. There was a hint of Achilles in him—cocky, poised, and ready to prove himself at the slightest challenge.

 

And then there was Gialaus. He stood apart from the others, even in their formation. Where Maldovin oozed arrogance, Gialaus carried an air of detachment. His long, white hair was neatly tied back, revealing striking red eyes that flickered toward Odysseus more often than the others’. His face was angular, his skin almost unnervingly pale under the dim street lanterns. He was a medic, that much was obvious—the small pouches strapped to his belt were carefully arranged, likely filled with various herbs, salves, and maybe even poisons. His steps were deliberate, measured, as if he knew exactly how much effort to exert in every movement.

 

Four men, each distinct, each skilled.

 

And now, Odysseus was walking among them.

 

He adjusted the bag slung over his shoulder, letting a small smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. He’d gotten himself in. Now, he just had to figure out where to go from here.

 

As they walked through the dimly lit streets, Odysseus decided it was time to pry. He adjusted his bag, glancing at Uloan first—he seemed the type to appreciate directness.

 

“So,” he said, keeping his tone casual, “what exactly are we fighting?”

 

Lemenai perked up immediately, his face lighting with a strange mix of excitement and nervousness. “Harpies.”

 

Odysseus stopped mid-step, blinking. “…Harpies?”

 

Maldovin smirked, running a hand through his hair. “What, you’ve never fought one?”

 

Odysseus scoffed. “I’ve heard stories. Winged, shrieking monsters, claws like razors, fast—”

 

“Fast and filthy,” Gialaus cut in, his tone detached as ever. “They don’t just tear flesh. They spread disease. A single scratch festers if not treated quickly.”

 

Odysseus frowned. That made things more complicated. It wasn’t just about outmaneuvering them—they had to avoid getting wounded altogether.

 

Uloan let out a slow exhale, arms still crossed over his broad chest. “There’s a nest near the cliffs. They’ve been raiding the town’s food stores, attacking farmers. The local lord is offering a decent sum to drive them off.”

 

“A ‘decent sum’ is an understatement,” Maldovin added with a grin. “It’s a small fortune. But no one’s been able to do it yet.”

 

Lemenai shifted, gripping his bow strap. “The last group that tried lost three men.”

 

Odysseus hummed, glancing at the group. “And you all think you can handle it?”

 

Uloan gave him a sharp look. “We don’t think. We do.”

 

Odysseus smirked at that, hiding the way his mind was already whirring. Fighting harpies was a dangerous job, but it was exactly the kind of job that would solidify his place among these mercenaries. And if they survived, the reward could be useful.

 

Still, this wasn’t going to be easy.

 

He rolled his shoulders, adjusting his stance as they neared the edge of town. “Alright then,” he said, a glint in his eye. “Let’s see what these monsters are made of.”

 

The group reached the rocky cliffs just outside the town, where the scent of salt and rotting flesh hung in the air. The jagged formations provided ample cover, but Odysseus felt the tension rolling off the others. They were seasoned fighters, but harpies weren’t just another band of brigands—they were predators.

 

As Maldovin moved to take another step forward, Odysseus threw an arm out, stopping him. “Wait.”

 

The mercenaries stilled. Odysseus bent down, picking up a fist-sized rock from the ground. He weighed it in his hand for a moment, then, with an easy flick of his wrist, tossed it high into the air.

 

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

 

Then—

 

A blur of movement, a shrill shriek.

 

A harpy dove from the sky like a lightning strike, talons outstretched. It tore through the stone midair, shattering it into dust and pebbles, then flapped its massive, tattered wings and soared back up before even glancing at the ground.

 

Lemenai let out a slow, shaky breath. “Gods.”

 

Odysseus’ sharp gaze followed the harpy as it disappeared into the shadows of the cliffside nests. His mind raced, calculating. They were fast—faster than he expected. And precise. That thing had obliterated a rock in a single motion.

 

“If we had walked out there,” he murmured, mostly to himself, “we’d be dead.”

 

Uloan grunted. “Appreciate the warning.”

 

Maldovin gave a low whistle, gripping the hilt of his sword. “Well. I guess the direct approach is out.”

 

Gialaus, ever impassive, adjusted the straps on his satchel. “If you have a plan, now is the time.”

 

Odysseus exhaled through his nose. A plan.

 

He looked up at the sky, watching the dark forms shift and circle above the cliffs. The harpies weren’t mindless beasts—they were patient. Watching. Waiting for easy prey.

 

Odysseus narrowed his eyes. Then we won’t be easy prey.

 

A slow smirk curled on his lips as an idea began to form.

 

“Well,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “If they’re hunting, why don’t we make them think we’re already dead?”

 

Lemenai blinked. “What?”

 

Odysseus crouched, running his fingers through the dirt, rubbing some of it between his palms. He looked up at them, a grin flickering on his lips. “They aren’t attacking because they think we’re still a threat. Harpies prefer corpses—easier pickings. If we play the part, they might come down themselves.”

 

Maldovin scoffed. “You want us to pretend to be dead?”

 

“Not just pretend.” Odysseus pointed at Gialaus. “You have anything that smells like rot in that kit of yours?”

 

The albino medic studied him with unreadable red eyes, then sighed, reaching into his bag. “I have poultices for infected wounds. They reek.” He pulled out a small clay vial and tossed it to Odysseus, who caught it deftly.

 

Odysseus popped the lid off and immediately recoiled. The stench of spoiled flesh hit him like a punch. “Perfect,” he choked out.

 

Lemenai, face twisted in disgust, shook his head. “I’m starting to regret taking this job.”

 

Uloan sighed. “What do we do?”

 

Odysseus grinned. “We make ourselves smell like rotting meat, cover ourselves in dirt, and lie down.”

 

Maldovin gave him a flat look. “This is your grand strategy?”

 

Odysseus just smirked. “Would you rather charge in and get shredded midair?”

 

Maldovin hesitated. Then, begrudgingly, he snatched the vial from Odysseus’ hand. “If I die smelling like this, I’m haunting you.”

 

Lemenai groaned, but the others followed suit. They smeared the foul-smelling paste on their clothes and skin, dirtied their faces, and arranged themselves across the ground like fresh corpses left to rot.

 

Odysseus lay back, slowing his breathing. The ground was cold beneath him, the scent of the poultice burning in his nose. The others were still. Even Lemenai, fidgety as he was, had forced himself into unnatural stillness.

 

Above them, the harpies circled.

 

They were watching.

 

Waiting.

 

Odysseus forced his muscles to relax, resisting the urge to glance up. Come down. Take the bait.

 

And then—

 

A shadow passed over him.

 

The air shifted. A low, shrill clicking noise.

 

Something landed just a few feet away.

 

Got you.

 

Odysseus stayed perfectly still, his heartbeat hammering in his chest, but his breath remained slow, measured. He had lain among corpses before. He knew the stillness of death well enough to mimic it. His fingers twitched ever so slightly, feeling for the hilt of his dagger tucked against his hip.

 

The harpy’s talons scraped against the packed earth. The sound was sharp, like knives dragged over stone. Odysseus could hear the slow inhale of its breath, as though it were savoring the scent of decay they had lathered themselves in. It didn’t know. It truly believed them to be corpses.

 

A second harpy landed. Then a third.

 

Odysseus listened to the rustling of feathers, the grotesque slopping sounds of long tongues licking at the air, testing the supposed freshness of their ‘meal.’ He felt the displaced wind as one of them moved closer to him, its breath hot against his face. He forced his lips to part slightly, like a mouth stuck open in death, resisting the instinctual recoil at the rancid stench of its breath.

 

It leaned in closer. Its claws scraped against the ground near his shoulder.

 

A clawed hand touched him.

 

Now.

 

Odysseus moved.

 

In a single motion, he rolled, slashing his dagger up in a quick, brutal arc. The blade caught the harpy’s throat, slicing deep before it could shriek. Blood sprayed across his arm, hot and slick. The creature staggered back, clawing at its ruined throat, wings flailing.

 

The others burst into action.

 

Uloan, with his sheer brute force, rose and crushed another harpy’s skull with his war hammer before it could react. Bone cracked under the blow, and the creature collapsed in a twitching heap.

 

Lemenai loosed an arrow from where he had been lying on his back, the projectile shooting straight through a harpy’s eye. It barely managed a screech before it collapsed.

 

Maldovin was a blur. He darted between the creatures, his blade flashing in swift, precise slashes. He cut deep into their wings, severing tendons and clipping their ability to flee.

 

Odysseus didn’t stop. He lunged at the next harpy, kicking its legs out from beneath it and plunging his dagger into its chest. He twisted the blade for good measure, feeling the crunch of bone and cartilage under his grip.

 

The remaining harpies shrieked in panic, realizing too late that their ‘prey’ had become predators. They tried to take flight—

 

Too late.

 

Gialaus, ever calm, had already prepared for this. He hurled a weighted net into the air, ensnaring two of them before they could escape. They thrashed, their screams echoing across the hills—

 

But Maldovin was already on them. He slit their throats in one clean motion.

 

And then—

 

Silence.

 

Odysseus heaved in a breath, wiping blood from his cheek. The stench of harpy ichor filled the air, thick and cloying. His arms burned, but he felt alive.

 

Lemenai groaned from where he lay on the ground. “That was disgusting.”

 

Maldovin scoffed, wiping his blade clean. “At least it worked.”

 

Uloan surveyed the carnage, then turned to Odysseus with an unreadable look. “You think like a madman.”

 

Odysseus grinned, twirling his dagger between his fingers. “And yet, you’re alive. You’re welcome.”

 

Gialaus, unfazed, crouched beside one of the fallen harpies, already extracting useful materials. “We should gather proof of the kills. The pay won’t come without it.”

 

Odysseus exhaled, running a hand through his newly darkened hair. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Let’s not waste time.”

 

The job was done. But the real work?

 

Just beginning.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Lemenai swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around his bowstring as he crouched beside a rock, eyes flicking between the man and the harpies circling above. His breath came quick, not out of fear—but out of something else.

 

This man—this stranger—moved like a shadow given form, like a story pulled from the lips of an old soldier at a tavern, the kind of legend that made men dream of war and adventure. He had stopped them before they could walk into a death trap, had thrown a simple rock and unraveled the harpies' strategy in an instant. And now he was there, just ahead, his body taut with readiness, his expression sharp as a blade.

 

Lemenai had seen skilled fighters before—he’d fought beside men who were strong, quick, even brilliant. But the man was something else entirely. He had that impossible, untouchable air of someone who had lived through more than could be spoken. Someone who had survived not by chance, nor by brute force alone, but through sheer, unrelenting cunning.

 

Lemenai shifted his weight, trying not to make a sound. His heartbeat hammered against his ribs, but not from the threat above. No, this was something else.

 

This was awe.

 

Lemenai couldn’t help himself. Before he even thought about it, he rushed to the man’s side, grabbing onto his arm with both hands, his bow still clutched awkwardly in his fingers. His eyes shone with excitement as he practically bounced on his feet.

 

“That was amazing !” he whispered, though his excitement made it barely quieter than normal speech. “You just knew they were waiting! I mean, I knew harpies were smart, but I didn’t think they were that good! And you—you just threw a rock and figured it all out! Gods, you didn’t even hesitate —”

 

The man turned his head slightly, giving Lemenai a flat look. His golden-brown eye flicked to where the harpies were still circling, then back to the archer clinging to him like an overeager child.

 

Lemenai immediately clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling the rest of his words as his face burned.

 

The man sighed, pried Lemenai’s hands off his arm, and gently shoved him back toward cover. “I appreciate the admiration, kid,” he muttered, voice low, “but unless you want me to use you as bait next, keep your voice down.”

 

Lemenai gave a frantic nod, but the excitement in his eyes didn’t dim in the slightest.

 

The man huffed through his nose, shaking his head at Lemenai’s sheer enthusiasm. For a moment, he just looked at him—this short, pale-skinned archer with messy hair and bandages covering parts of his face, eyes shining with unfiltered admiration. He reminded the man of a stray pup that had just found someone willing to feed it.

 

With an exasperated sigh, the man reached out and ruffled Lemenai’s hair. “You’re lucky you’re useful, kid.”

 

Lemenai froze. His whole body went rigid, like the man had just cast some sort of spell on him. And then, in an instant, he lit up . His eyes went wide, a bright grin stretched across his face, and he practically vibrated with happiness.

 

“I—” he started, but whatever he was trying to say died in his throat as he slapped both hands over his mouth to muffle the excited squeal that almost escaped.

 

The man smirked at the reaction, rolling his eyes before turning his attention back to the harpies. “Focus, pup. We’ve still got a job to do.”

 

Lemenai nodded rapidly, still practically bouncing on his feet. He would focus , sure—but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to replay that head-pat over and over in his mind for the rest of the day.

 

Lemenai could barely contain himself. His hands were still pressed over his mouth, muffling the excited little noises that kept trying to escape. He felt like he might explode.

 

He pet my head. He actually pet my head.

 

His heart was racing so fast it felt like it might burst out of his chest. He had always wanted an older brother—someone strong, someone cool, someone who knew everything and could take on the world without even flinching. Someone just like him .

 

The man.

 

Lemenai glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, watching as the man analyzed the terrain, his sharp gaze flickering between the harpy nest and the surrounding cliffs. There was something so effortless about the way he carried himself. Like he could be dropped into any situation, and he’d always find a way out. He was nothing like the captains Lemenai had served under before—men who barked orders but had no real idea how to fight, men who valued their own lives above their soldiers’.

 

The man wasn’t like that. He was calculating , sure, but he wasn’t cowardly . He was the kind of man who would jump into the fray himself, who would take the risks first, who—

 

Lemenai grinned to himself, warmth filling his chest. Yeah. He’s just like how I always imagined an older brother would be.

 

He didn’t even care that they were about to fight harpies. He’d follow the man anywhere.

 

Uloan stood at the edge of the group, arms crossed, watching the new guy with sharp, assessing eyes. The way he moved, the way he analyzed the nest, the way he had stopped them in their tracks before they walked straight into a death trap—it wasn’t the work of just any sellsword.

 

No, this man was experienced . More experienced than he was letting on.

 

Uloan had been fighting for years, long enough to tell the difference between a seasoned warrior and a drifter looking for coin. The man didn’t carry himself like a mercenary. There was something almost too refined in the way he carried himself, in the way he measured every step, every glance. Like a man who had spent years commanding others, not taking orders.

 

And Uloan didn’t like that.

 

He cleared his throat, stepping forward. “I don’t believe we’ve had proper introductions,” he said, his voice low and firm. “Since we’ll be watching each other’s backs, seems only fair we know who we’re fighting alongside.”

 

The man turned to him, his expression smooth, unreadable. Uloan wasn’t sure he liked that either.

 

“I’m Uloan,” he said, keeping his voice even. “This here is Lemenai.” He nodded toward the short archer, who was still practically vibrating from excitement, beaming like an idiot after getting a head pat.

 

“I’m Lemenai!” the boy chirped. “But you already knew that.”

 

Uloan ignored him. “Maldovin,” he continued, jerking his chin toward the lanky swordsman, who gave an easy, lazy grin in return.

 

“Maldovin,” he confirmed, flashing his pretty white teeth. “Swordsman. Resident good looks.”

 

Uloan sighed through his nose. “And Gialaus.”

 

The albino medic gave a slow nod, his red eyes unreadable. “Gialaus,” he said simply.

 

That left only the stranger.

 

The man tilted his head slightly, as if considering something, before offering a smooth, effortless smile. “Kallias,” he said. “Pleasure to be working with you all.”

 

Uloan’s jaw tightened. Kallias. Sure. Maybe.

 

Maybe not.

 

Uloan held Kallias’ gaze for a moment longer, waiting for something—some slip-up, some hesitation. But the man remained perfectly composed, the edges of his lips curved in that polite, nonchalant smile.

 

Too smooth. Too practiced.

 

Uloan grunted. Fine. If Kallias wanted to play games, then Uloan would just have to watch him carefully.

 

“So, Kallias,” Maldovin drawled, rocking on his heels. “Where’d you learn to move like that? Not many people have the instinct to spot a harpy trap before stepping right into it.”

 

Kallias gave a small chuckle, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve. “You pick up a few tricks when you’ve been on the road long enough. I had a good teacher.”

 

“A teacher?” Gialaus echoed, his tone neutral. “A mercenary company?”

 

Kallias shrugged. “Something like that.”

 

Vague. Too vague.

 

Uloan narrowed his eyes. “You a deserter?”

 

That got a reaction. Barely noticeable, just a fraction of a second, but Uloan caught the way Kallias’ fingers curled ever so slightly, the way his jaw shifted before smoothing out again.

 

“No,” Kallias said evenly. “I’m just a man looking for work.”

 

A man looking for work.

 

Uloan didn’t believe that for a second.

 

But before he could push further, Lemenai practically threw himself at Kallias’ arm again, beaming like an overeager pup.

 

“Who cares where he’s from?” Lemenai said, practically vibrating with energy. “He’s awesome ! Did you see how fast he figured out that harpy was watching? And the way he threw that rock? I wish I could think like that! Kallias, you have to teach me!”

 

Kallias blinked, caught off guard for just a moment before recovering. He chuckled, resting a hand on Lemenai’s messy hair once more, ruffling it slightly. “That depends. You willing to learn?”

 

Lemenai gasped dramatically. “YES!”

 

Maldovin smirked. “You’ve done it now, Kallias. Once Lemenai decides someone’s his mentor, he never lets go.”

 

“Like a tick,” Gialaus added dryly.

 

Lemenai pouted. “I am not a tick.”

 

Uloan exhaled sharply, crossing his arms again. Fine. If Kallias wanted to act like a mysterious drifter, so be it. But Uloan was going to be watching.

 

Closely.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Odysseus— Kallias , he reminded himself—moved ahead of the group, keeping his steps light as he weaved through the rocky terrain. His eyes flicked between the crags, noting the claw marks gouged into the stone, the dried streaks of filth where the harpies had perched. The air smelled sharp, a mix of rotting meat and something sickly sweet, the stench of their last kills lingering.

 

Behind him, the others followed, their footsteps a mix of cautious and eager. Lemenai stuck close, practically bouncing on his heels, bow clutched tightly in his hands. Uloan, ever the skeptic, trailed behind with his usual stiff, assessing silence. Maldovin moved with the easy grace of someone who thought himself untouchable, and Gialaus… Gialaus just observed, those red eyes gleaming in the dim light.

 

Odysseus stopped suddenly, raising a hand. The others froze.

 

Ahead, nestled in the curve of two rock formations, was the nest.

 

A tangled mess of sticks, bones, and shredded cloth, it was larger than Odysseus had expected—easily big enough for several harpies to roost in. Scattered across the ground were the remains of their victims—gnawed bones, broken weapons, the remnants of shredded armor that had once belonged to men who hadn’t been as lucky.

 

Lemenai’s breath hitched. Maldovin let out a low whistle.

 

“Guess we found it,” Maldovin muttered.

 

Odysseus crouched, picking up a fragment of torn leather. He turned it over, inspecting the jagged claw marks slashed through it. Fresh.

 

“We’re close,” he murmured. “They’re either roosting or circling nearby.”

 

Uloan huffed. “What’s the plan, then?”

 

Odysseus smirked, slipping the leather back onto the ground. “Simple. We kill them before they kill us.”

 

He turned to them, eyes gleaming.

 

“Ready?”

 

The group tightened their grips on their weapons, eyes flickering between each other and the towering nest ahead. Odysseus— Kallias —rolled his shoulders, exhaling slow and even. He wasn’t just leading them into a fight. He was testing them, measuring how they moved, how they reacted, how they fought. It was second nature, the way his mind cataloged and analyzed.

 

His fingers brushed over the hilt of his stolen dagger. A familiar comfort.

 

Then he moved.

 

With a practiced silence, he pressed forward, stepping around loose stones and brittle bones. The others followed, some quieter than others—Lemenai nearly stumbled over a ribcage before catching himself, his face turning red as Uloan shot him a sharp look. Maldovin, ever confident, prowled forward, his long limbs moving with lazy precision. Gialaus remained unreadable, his eerie red gaze sweeping the nest like he was already calculating injuries before they happened.

 

The air shifted.

 

A sound.

 

A low, warbling cry echoed above them, carried by the wind like a dying wail.

 

Odysseus’ head snapped up.

 

The harpies were circling.

 

He saw the dark shapes first—long, gangly limbs stretched wide, wings spread like torn sails against the dull sky. Their figures twisted and coiled, moving with an unsettling sharpness, talons flexing, eyes gleaming with that strange, soulless hunger.

 

One of them dived.

 

Odysseus reacted before the others.

 

“DOWN!” he barked, grabbing Lemenai’s collar and yanking him to the ground. A blur of leathery wings tore past them, a shriek splitting the air as talons raked across the earth where Lemenai had stood moments before. Dust kicked up. Pebbles scattered.

 

The harpy veered back into the sky, wings flapping wildly.

 

Lemenai gasped, eyes wide, before scrambling onto his knees. “That—That was so fast—”

 

“Focus,” Odysseus snapped, already standing. “They’re testing us.”

 

Another screech. A second dive.

 

Maldovin twisted, his sword flashing as he swung upward. A glancing blow—his blade barely nicked the harpy’s leg before it swooped away, shrieking in fury.

 

Uloan stood his ground, axe raised, muscles tense as he tracked their movements.

 

Lemenai fumbled with his bow, hands shaking as he notched an arrow. Odysseus saw the way he hesitated, eyes darting between the moving targets.

 

“They’re fast, but predictable,” Odysseus muttered, watching the patterns. “They’ll swoop in again—”

 

Another harpy screeched and dove, this one locking onto Odysseus.

 

He dodged left, barely avoiding the rake of claws against his chest. The wind from its wings buffeted him as it shot past, rising sharply.

 

His mind was quick, thoughts stacking in order. They’re trying to scatter us. They don’t fight on the ground, they’re picking us apart piece by piece.

 

He glanced toward the nest. The real prize.

 

If they could force the harpies down—trap them somehow—

 

Odysseus grinned. I have an idea.

 

He turned sharply.

 

“Uloan!”

 

The broad man grunted, still locked in defensive posture.

 

Odysseus’ grin widened.

 

“Knock down the nest.”

 

Uloan’s head snapped toward him, his brows furrowing. “Are you insane?”

 

Odysseus just grinned, sharp and knowing. “I’ve been told.”

 

Odysseus was already moving, dodging another harpy’s swoop as he barked, “The nest! Bring it down!”

 

Maldovin let out a low, almost amused chuckle, his blade gleaming as he took a swipe at another passing harpy. “Bold plan, Kallias. But if we destroy the nest, what keeps them from tearing us apart in a frenzy?”

 

“They’re already trying to kill us,” Odysseus shot back, shoving Lemenai aside as another shadow darkened the ground. “If we take their nest, they’ll panic. Harpies are territorial. If they think they’ve lost their home, they’ll scatter.”

 

Uloan grunted, but he didn’t argue. He adjusted his stance, gripping his axe tighter as he turned toward the massive, gnarled structure of the harpy nest. It was a twisted mass of stolen wood, bones, and whatever else the creatures had scavenged—perched precariously against the rocky incline.

 

The harpies shrieked again. Another one dived, aiming for Gialaus this time.

 

The albino man dodged, his movements eerily smooth. He barely flinched, as if he had already accounted for the attack before it happened. His long fingers twitched at his side, waiting for the right moment to move.

 

Lemenai, still kneeling beside Odysseus, finally found his nerve. He raised his bow, drawing the string back. His fingers trembled, but his eyes locked onto the nearest harpy with newfound determination.

 

“Lemenai, cover Uloan!” Odysseus barked, already on the move.

 

Lemenai swallowed hard but nodded. His arrow released with a sharp twang . It sliced through the air, striking the harpy’s wing. Not a kill shot, but enough to send it into a panicked spiral.

 

Maldovin was already on it, his blade flashing as he lunged forward, slashing deep across the creature’s chest. The harpy let out a strangled cry before collapsing in a heap.

 

“Got it!” Maldovin smirked, flipping his sword in his grip. “Not so tough, are they?”

 

Odysseus didn’t waste time on praise. He sprinted toward the nest, skidding to a stop beside Uloan.

 

“We bring it down,” he said, voice low, urgent. “Force them onto the ground. They don’t fight well there.”

 

Uloan didn’t hesitate. He raised his axe and swung.

 

The first strike sent a deep crack through the tangled structure. Dust and debris rained down. The harpies above screeched, their patterns turning more erratic as they realized what was happening.

 

Another swing. Another.

 

A chunk of the nest collapsed, sending smaller eggs tumbling out.

 

The harpies lost it.

 

A piercing shriek ripped through the sky as all of them dived at once, their fury wild and uncontained.

 

Odysseus barely dodged in time, rolling to the side as talons slashed at the space he had just occupied.

 

“They’re coming down—get ready!” he shouted.

 

Maldovin was already moving, blade raised. Lemenai fired again, this time striking a harpy clean through the throat. Gialaus sidestepped gracefully, avoiding a swipe before plunging a thin dagger into a harpy’s gut with surgical precision.

 

Uloan delivered one last, brutal swing.

 

The nest gave way.

 

A great crack split the air as the massive structure collapsed in on itself, sending wooden beams and shattered bones cascading to the ground.

 

And just as Odysseus predicted—

 

The harpies landed .

 

Odysseus drew his stolen dagger, eyes flashing.

 

“Now we finish it.”

 

Lemenai’s hands shook—just for a second—as he watched the harpies land. They were grotesque up close, all sinew and bone, with mangy feathers and too-human eyes. The way they hissed, their beaks curling back into something almost like a sneer, sent a thrill of terror through him.

 

But then Odysseus moved, stepping in front of him slightly, his stance confident, casual, utterly fearless . He didn’t even turn back, but Lemenai swore he could feel the silent encouragement.

 

Lemenai took a breath. Nocked an arrow.

 

He exhaled as he let it fly.

 

The first shot took a harpy clean in the throat. It let out a choked screech, stumbling forward before collapsing onto its knees.

 

Another arrow.

 

This one embedded itself in a harpy’s eye. The creature spasmed, shrieking as it thrashed wildly, before its movements slowed and finally stopped.

 

Lemenai’s heart pounded.

 

His third shot landed in the chest of one lunging straight for Uloan’s back. The big man turned just in time to see it drop at his feet. He glanced at Lemenai, giving a curt nod.

 

“Good shot.”

 

Lemenai practically beamed .

 

But there was no time for celebration.

 

Two harpies launched themselves at once—one aiming for Maldovin, the other for Odysseus.

 

Lemenai fired.

 

The arrow caught the first in the wing, sending it spiraling off course. Before it could recover, Maldovin was on it, slicing clean through its neck in a flash of silver.

 

The second—

 

Lemenai saw it, saw the way it twisted in midair, wings spread wide, talons glinting in the dim light— too close .

 

Odysseus pivoted fast, barely dodging the slash aimed at his face. He ducked low, rolling under the harpy’s next strike, before driving his dagger up into its gut.

 

It screeched, thrashing wildly. Odysseus grunted as it clawed at his arms, but he twisted the blade deeper before yanking it out in one brutal motion.

 

The harpy collapsed.

 

Silence fell over the battlefield, broken only by the heavy breathing of the mercenaries.

 

Lemenai swallowed, staring at the carnage.

 

Then, slowly—his grip still tight on his bow—he turned to Odysseus.

 

“Kallias,” he whispered, his voice full of something awed, breathless. “That was amazing .”

 

Odysseus, wiping his dagger clean on his stolen cloak, glanced at him with a smirk. “Not bad yourself, little archer.”

 

Lemenai lit up .

 

Uloan, however, let out a sigh, surveying the mess. “This better pay well.”

 

Maldovin chuckled, flipping his sword casually. “After that performance? We should charge double .”

 

Odysseus only grinned, tucking his dagger away.

 

“One job down,” he murmured to himself. “Now, onto the next.”

Chapter 16: ﹒➜﹐﹐Ctimene﹔🎭

Palamedes had had enough.

 

He sat on the edge of his cot, methodically wrapping his hands, his expression carefully blank. The dim candlelight flickered against the tent walls, casting long, shifting shadows across his face.

 

He had watched the others scramble like fools, wasting time, running themselves in circles, agonizing over Odysseus’ fate like he was some delicate lost lamb instead of the infuriating, insufferable , dangerously competent bastard he actually was.

 

And now? Now Palamedes had to clean up the mess.

 

He tied off the wrappings with a sharp tug, exhaling slowly.

 

He wasn’t stupid . He knew Odysseus. Knew how the man thought, how he planned. He also knew, better than most, that Odysseus was arrogant to the point of recklessness. He could vanish into thin air, survive in impossible conditions, outthink anyone put against him—but he wasn’t invincible.

 

And Palamedes refused to let that idiot’s hubris be the death of him.

 

Standing, he slung a small satchel over his shoulder, the weight of extra rations and supplies settling against his back. He wasn’t bringing much. He wouldn’t need much.

 

Because he was going to find him .

 

Palamedes had spent years studying Odysseus, tracking his patterns, understanding the maddening, labyrinthine way his mind worked. If anyone could predict his movements, it was him.

 

And if the others were too blind or too slow to figure it out?

 

Well. That was their problem.

 

Stepping outside, the cool night air met him. The camp was quieter now, most of the men either resting or too exhausted to notice his departure.

 

Good.

 

Palamedes adjusted the strap of his satchel and took a steadying breath.

 

Time to bring the idiot home.

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Odysseus sat on a fallen log, rubbing at his aching shoulders, his newly earned coin pouch resting in his lap. The scent of blood and feathers still lingered on him, the aftermath of their harpy hunt clinging to his skin like an unpleasant memory.

 

He exhaled sharply, rolling his neck.

 

Being a mercenary is overrated.

 

Gods, was it overrated.

 

He had spent years on the battlefield, wading through blood, filth, and the screams of the dying—but at least in war , there was some kind of structure. Some kind of order. Mercenary work? It was chaos. Pure, undiluted chaos. No strategy, no long-term planning, just fighting for coin, then moving on to the next job, the next town, the next contract.

 

It was a life for men who had nothing else. No home . No future beyond the next meal.

 

And he ? He was not one of them.

 

Odysseus glanced down at the pouch in his hands, feeling the satisfying weight of it. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Enough to last him until the next ship to Ithaca.

 

And that meant it was time to move on.

 

He cast a glance at the others—Lemenai, still beaming from his perfect shots, practically bouncing on his feet; Uloan, eyeing him like he knew Odysseus was up to something; Maldovin, brushing feathers off his clothes like this was all beneath him; and Gialaus, tending to a minor cut on his own arm, entirely unbothered by anything happening around him.

 

They weren’t a bad lot.

 

But he wasn’t staying.

 

Pushing himself to his feet, Odysseus stretched, already thinking of the best way to slip away unnoticed. Maybe he’d leave a note. Maybe he wouldn’t. Either way, he wasn’t cut out for this nonsense.

 

Mercenary life?

 

Overrated.

 

Odysseus waited until the others were distracted—Maldovin was wiping his blade clean, Uloan was talking logistics, and Gialaus was quietly tending to his own wounds.

 

Perfect.

 

With the silence of a man who had spent a decade sneaking through enemy lines, Odysseus palmed his coin pouch, adjusted the straps of his stolen bag, and took one careful step back. Then another. And another—

 

"Where are you going?"

 

Odysseus froze.

 

He turned his head slowly, only to find Lemenai standing a few feet away, clutching his bow like a child clutching a stuffed toy. His pale face was scrunched up, confusion written all over it.

 

"Uh," Odysseus started smoothly. "Just—checking the perimeter."

 

Lemenai’s eyes narrowed. "Then why do you have your bag?"

 

Odysseus sighed through his nose. This kid was too observant. "Because, uh—look, you guys don’t need me, right? You’re fine on your own. And I have places to be."

 

Lemenai's face dropped.

 

" Oh. " His voice wavered slightly, his shoulders slumping. "So you’re leaving?"

 

Odysseus felt the first twinge of guilt. He hardened himself against it. "Yeah, kid. I was never planning to stay."

 

Lemenai bit his lip. " Oh. Okay."

 

A pause. Then—

 

"I just thought we were friends."

 

Odysseus winced. Oh, gods.

 

Lemenai shuffled his feet, looking down at the ground, his fingers tightening around his bow. "It’s fine, though," he muttered. "I just—well, I never had an older brother before. But it’s stupid, right? You don’t have to stay."

 

Odysseus groaned internally. He had survived a war, countless assassination attempts, Athena’s nagging, and a decade of dealing with Achilles' moods. And yet—this one kid, with his big, disappointed eyes and shaky voice—this was what was breaking him?

 

"Damn it."

 

Scrubbing a hand down his face, Odysseus exhaled sharply and reluctantly dropped his bag back onto the ground.

 

"Alright," he muttered. "I’ll stay a little longer."

 

Lemenai’s face lit up like the sun itself.

 

"Really?!"

 

"Yeah, yeah," Odysseus grumbled, already regretting it. "Just— stop looking at me like that. "

 

Lemenai beamed.

 

Odysseus sighed.

 

Overrated.

 

Odysseus sat on a fallen log, rubbing his temples as Lemenai practically vibrated with joy beside him. The kid was grinning, probably already making up imaginary adventures they’d go on together. Gods help me, Odysseus thought. He had survived ten years of war, and yet somehow, this felt like the true battlefield.

 

Maldovin settled across from him, long legs crossed, his sharp features unreadable in the dimming light. He idly tapped his fingers against the hilt of his sword before finally breaking the silence.

 

“So, Kallias,” Maldovin said, his tone light, but his gaze sharp. “What’s the plan after this?”

 

Odysseus barely twitched at the name. He had already repeated it to himself so many times that it almost felt natural.

 

“After this?” He hummed thoughtfully, scratching his jaw where his missing beard used to be. Damn, I miss it already.

 

Maldovin tilted his head. “Yeah. You’re clearly not in this for the long haul.”

 

Odysseus smirked. “What gave me away?”

 

Maldovin gave him a look.

 

“Everything.”

 

Odysseus huffed a short laugh. “Fair enough.” He leaned back, lazily stretching his arms behind his head. “Honestly? I haven’t decided yet.” Which was technically true—he had plans, just none he intended to share.

 

Maldovin narrowed his eyes slightly. “No family waiting for you? No home to go back to?”

 

Odysseus forced his muscles to relax. “Something like that.” He waved a hand. “I travel where I’m needed.”

 

“Mercenary work, then?”

 

Odysseus shrugged. “Something like that.”

 

Maldovin studied him for a long moment, and Odysseus could feel the scrutiny, the gears turning in the other man’s head. He had met plenty like Maldovin—people who saw too much, who weren’t easily fooled. It was a problem.

 

Finally, Maldovin exhaled and leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head in a mirror of Odysseus’ pose.

 

“Well, if you ever need a crew to fight with,” he said, watching Odysseus carefully, “we could use someone like you.”

 

Lemenai perked up. “ Yeah! ” He practically bounced on his feet. “You should stay! We’d be so cool together—like brothers-in-arms! Oh! Or maybe actual brothers?”

 

Odysseus winced. He forced out a chuckle, shaking his head. “Tempting, kid. But I’m not the team type.”

 

Lemenai pouted dramatically.

 

Maldovin gave him another unreadable glance before nodding. “Your choice. Just know the offer stands.”

 

Odysseus smiled, all charm. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

 

He wouldn’t. But it was a nice sentiment.

 

Besides, he had no intention of staying a mercenary. He had far more important things to do.

 

As the night stretched on and the others settled in, Odysseus lay on his back, staring up at the sky. His mind whirled with possibilities. He couldn't just sit here playing mercenary forever, especially not with people sniffing around for him. But he needed a way to pass the time until that ship to Ithaca set sail.

 

Something low-profile, something that won’t attract attention…

 

His stomach grumbled, and he frowned.

Food.

 

He thought back to the bar where he had first met the regulars, the smell of warm bread, the way people always seemed willing to linger over a good meal. A bakery.

 

He nearly laughed at the idea. Him? A baker?

 

And yet, the thought refused to leave his mind.

 

A bakery would be perfect. No one would expect it from a man like him. It was simple, profitable, and best of all, it would give him a reason to interact with locals, to pick up gossip without drawing suspicion. He could listen in on trade routes, troop movements—anything that might give him an edge when the time came to leave.

 

Hells, I do know how to make bread… He’d spent enough time watching the kitchen staff back home, and Penelope had always praised his knack for rolling dough.

 

The image of her crossed his mind, and he exhaled slowly.

 

Penelope would laugh at him if she knew what he was considering. Telemachus too. Gods, Diomedes would never let him live it down.

 

Still, the idea was practical.

 

He could rent a small space near the market, buy some flour, keep his head down, and make enough money to fund whatever else he needed. A few weeks of baking, and he’d have enough to secure passage to Ithaca.

 

Odysseus smirked.

 

A mercenary turned baker.

 

That had a nice ring to it.

 

Odysseus’ smirk was short-lived as a sharp flick landed right in the middle of his forehead.

 

He flinched, immediately scowling as he rubbed the sore spot. “What in the—?”

 

Gialaus stood over him, arms crossed, red eyes narrowed in something that could only be described as judgmental amusement.

 

“You were making a stupid face,” the medic said simply. “I had to fix it.”

 

Odysseus blinked. “I was thinking.”

 

Gialaus flicked him again. “Yes. Thinking stupidly. ”

 

Lemenai, sitting nearby, looked between them, blinking rapidly. “Wait, what is a stupid thinking face? Can I see it?”

 

Odysseus grumbled, shoving Gialaus’ hand away. “It was not a stupid thought.”

 

“Debatable,” Maldovin chimed in from where he was sharpening his sword. “You were grinning like you’d just discovered fire. What were you thinking about?”

 

Odysseus debated lying but figured what's the worst that could happen? “I was considering opening a bakery.”

 

Silence.

 

Lemenai gasped. Uloan actually stopped moving. Maldovin snorted so hard he nearly cut himself. And Gialaus? He just stared.

 

“A bakery,” Uloan repeated, his voice completely devoid of emotion.

 

Odysseus crossed his arms. “Yes, a bakery.”

 

Lemenai’s eyes lit up. “ Ohhh, can I help?! I’ve always wanted to try baking!!”

 

“Why,” Gialaus deadpanned, “would you , of all people, want to open a bakery?”

 

Odysseus exhaled. “Because it’s a quiet, profitable trade that doesn’t attract attention.”

 

Maldovin tilted his head. “Uh-huh. And you just happen to know how to bake?”

 

Odysseus smirked. “I’m a man of many talents.”

 

Lemenai, still latched onto the bakery idea, practically vibrated with excitement. “Can we make little honey cakes?! I love honey cakes!”

 

Odysseus blinked, then grinned. “Of course. A bakery isn’t complete without honey cakes.”

 

Lemenai beamed.

 

Gialaus sighed, rubbing his temples. “I cannot believe I am hearing this conversation.”

 

Maldovin chuckled, leaning back. “Well, Kallias , when you do open your bakery, make sure to send me a loaf. I’ll judge if it’s actually edible.”

 

Odysseus smirked. “I’ll make sure to charge you double.”

 

Lemenai gasped. “Wait, wait! Can we call it ‘ The Wandering Loaf ’?! It sounds so mysterious!”

 

Odysseus actually laughed. “That’s not bad, kid.”

 

Gialaus sighed again, rubbing his temples harder. “You are all insufferable.”

 

And yet, despite his grumbling, he didn’t flick Odysseus again.

 

Uloan, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during the whole exchange, leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, an amused smirk creeping onto his face.

 

“So let me get this straight,” he rumbled, tilting his head. “You, a supposed swordsman, want to settle down and open a bakery ?”

 

Odysseus shot him a look. “Do you have a problem with that?”

 

Uloan let out a low chuckle. “No, no problem. I just find it funny. You don’t exactly scream ‘humble baker.’” He gestured vaguely at Odysseus’ entire being. “More like someone who should be robbing a bakery.”

 

Maldovin snorted, nodding. “He does have that look. More ‘shady smuggler’ than ‘sweet old baker.’”

 

Lemenai, still fully invested, waved his hands. “No, no! He could totally be a baker! Like, a mysterious one. A man with a dark past, who turns away from violence to create the softest bread imaginable. ”

 

Odysseus raised a brow. “That’s… oddly specific.”

 

Lemenai gasped. “I knew you had a dark past!!”

 

Uloan smirked wider, clearly enjoying this far too much. “I can see it now. ‘Kallias, the brooding baker.’” He gestured dramatically, as if painting a picture. “You’ll stand behind the counter, arms crossed, eyes shadowed, speaking in riddles to customers while kneading dough like you’re plotting someone’s demise.”

 

Maldovin joined in, grinning. “‘He only speaks in cryptic warnings and only sells bread to those worthy of his approval…’”

 

Lemenai’s eyes shone. “And he never tells anyone where he learned his skills, only that he ‘had to make do in the hardest of times’—OH! And maybe he can have a signature dish that people travel miles for!”

 

Odysseus pinched the bridge of his nose, biting back a laugh. “You’re all ridiculous.”

 

Uloan leaned in, smirking. “And yet, you haven’t denied a single thing we’ve said.”

 

Odysseus sighed, rubbing his temples. “I regret ever speaking.”

 

Gialaus, looking as though he had resigned himself to this nonsense, finally added dryly, “If you do open a bakery, I expect free bread.”

 

Odysseus shot him a flat look. “Absolutely not.”

 

Lemenai clutched Odysseus’ arm again, eyes sparkling. “Please??”

 

“…Maybe.”

 

Uloan snorted, shaking his head. “Gods help us all.”

 

Uloan’s smirk hadn’t even faded before Odysseus snapped his head toward him, his expression darkening in an instant.

 

“The gods do not help mortals,” he said, his voice low and edged with something sharp—something bitter. “They only curse. ”

 

The shift in tone was enough to make the air in the room feel heavier. The playful banter died immediately, snuffed out like a candle in the wind.

 

Lemenai blinked up at him, expression caught between confusion and concern. Gialaus’ red eyes flickered with something unreadable. Maldovin, usually quick with a joke, stayed silent, his fingers drumming absently against the hilt of his sword.

 

Uloan studied Odysseus carefully, his teasing demeanor gone. “You say that like you know from experience.”

 

Odysseus met his gaze, unreadable, yet something in his posture had shifted—tense, wary. A man walking a careful line between what he would say and what he wouldn’t.

 

“I do,” was all he said.

 

Silence settled between them like an uninvited guest. Even Lemenai, who had been practically vibrating with excitement just moments before, now fidgeted awkwardly.

 

Maldovin broke the quiet first, his voice lighter, as if trying to ease the weight in the air. “Well… that was ominous. ”

 

Odysseus exhaled sharply through his nose, something between a scoff and a bitter laugh. “Yes, well. The gods have a habit of ruining lives.”

 

Gialaus folded his arms. “And yet, here you stand.”

 

Odysseus shrugged. “Unfortunately.”

 

Uloan was still watching him, sharp-eyed. There was something in Odysseus’ words—something personal. But he didn’t pry. Not yet.

 

Instead, he leaned back with a sigh. “Well, Kallias, let’s hope your bakery dream keeps you off their radar, then.”

 

Odysseus gave him a humorless smile. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Hector gritted his teeth so hard it was a miracle they hadn’t cracked yet. His fingers twitched at his sides, curled into barely restrained fists as he glared down at his younger brother.

 

Paris, in his usual infuriating manner, simply lounged back on the cushioned seat, swirling a goblet of wine in his hand as if Hector wasn’t currently two seconds from launching him across the room.

 

“I just don’t see what the big deal is,” Paris drawled, taking a sip. “You act as if I personally invited the Greeks to come burn down our city.”

 

Hector’s vision whitened with rage. “YOU MIGHT AS WELL HAVE!”

 

Paris flinched, just a little, but covered it quickly with an easy smirk. “Oh, come now, brother—”

 

“Do not ‘come now, brother’ me!” Hector thundered, voice echoing off the chamber walls. “Do you understand the position you’ve put us in?! Do you have any idea what I have to deal with because of you?!”

 

Paris sighed, setting his goblet down as if this was some grand inconvenience to him. “Hector, really. If you’d just relax—”

 

Hector lunged.

 

Paris yelped, barely dodging as Hector’s hands shot out, missing his throat by inches. He scrambled over the couch, the goblet of wine toppling onto the floor, staining the expensive rug.

 

“You’re going to kill me over this?” Paris gasped, backing up quickly as Hector advanced.

 

“I haven’t decided yet, ” Hector growled. “But I am considering it.”

 

Paris lifted his hands in a placating manner. “Listen, listen, let’s just—”

 

“ No! ” Hector snapped. “No more talking! No more excuses! You are going to start taking responsibility for the disaster you caused, and I swear to the gods, if you make one more careless decision—”

 

Paris took that exact moment to smirk and say, “I mean, it’s not like it could get any worse.”

 

Hector actually lunged again.

 

Paris shrieked and bolted.

 

Paris darted around the room, narrowly avoiding Hector’s hands as he scrambled behind a pillar. He peeked out, eyes wide and pitiful, pressing himself against the cold stone as his older brother prowled toward him like a lion ready to maul.

 

“Hector, please, ” Paris whined, drawing out the words like a petulant child. “I’m your baby brother! You wouldn’t hurt your sweet, innocent, beloved baby brother, would you?”

 

Hector froze for half a second. His eye twitched.

 

“ Sweet? Innocent?! ” He took a deep breath through his nose, his nostrils flaring dangerously. “The only thing you are innocent of is intelligence! ”

 

Paris gasped, clutching his chest as if deeply wounded. “You wound me, brother! Truly! ”

 

Hector let out a sound that was half a growl, half a strangled scream. He took another step forward.

 

Paris immediately bolted again, scrambling onto a low table, nearly tripping over a discarded goblet. “Hector, wait— wait— ”

 

“No.”

 

“Hector, please—”

 

“I’m going to throttle you, Paris.”

 

“You love me too much for that,” Paris countered quickly, offering a bright, pleading smile.

 

Hector lunged.

 

Paris yelped and flung himself over the other side of the couch, tumbling onto the floor in a heap. He groaned, rolling over dramatically.

 

“I think I hit my head,” he moaned weakly. “Brother, I see stars… ”

 

Hector just stared down at him, his fingers flexing at his sides.

 

“Paris.”

 

“Yes?” Paris peeked up at him, fluttering his lashes for maximum pitiful little brother effect.

 

Hector inhaled deeply. Exhaled through his nose. Then, very, very flatly:

 

“If you don’t get up right now, I will actually kill you.”

 

Paris, ever the opportunist, sprang to his feet and threw himself at Hector, wrapping his arms around his brother in a desperate embrace.

 

“Oh, Hector,” Paris sighed dramatically, squeezing him far too tightly. “You’d never hurt me, would you? Not your sweet, darling, cherished little brother?”

 

Hector’s entire body locked up.

 

His arms, raised and ready to pry Paris off, suddenly hovered uncertainly in the air. His jaw clenched. His fingers twitched. His mind screamed, Throw him off. Shake him loose. Do not let him manipulate you again, Hector.

 

Paris nuzzled into his chest.

 

And just like that, Hector deflated.

 

“…You are insufferable, ” he muttered, grudgingly bringing one arm around Paris’ back.

 

Paris grinned into his tunic, shameless. “But you love me,” he sing-songed.

 

Hector let out a long, long sigh. “Unfortunately.”

 

Paris hummed, entirely too pleased with himself.

 

Hector scowled over his shoulder. How did he always let this happen? His resolve was iron in war, in battle, in court… but against this ? His spoiled little brother using affection like a weapon?

 

He was helpless.

 

Paris tightened his grip just a bit more, his voice muffled against Hector’s chest. “…You’re still not going to kill me, right?”

 

Hector exhaled sharply. “Not today.”

 

Paris beamed. Success.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Ctimene sat before a polished bronze mirror, her expression calm, methodical. The flickering light of the oil lamp cast a golden sheen over her skin as she dipped her fingers into a small dish of finely crushed minerals, smoothing the soft powder over her eyelids. Her movements were precise , each stroke calculated, enhancing the sharpness of her gaze without making it seem intentional.

 

She did not paint herself into beauty—she was already beautiful. She merely sharpened her edges.

 

The kohl-lined brush dragged smoothly along her lower lashes, deepening the darkness around her eyes. A beauty mark drawn just beside her lip. A soft touch of rouge to mimic the glow of warmth, of innocence. Deceptive. She had learned long ago that men fell faster for softness than for steel.

 

She could wear the look of a queen, of a woman whose presence commanded rather than invited. But tonight, she wanted to be approachable.

 

Her fingers ghosted along her collarbone before she reached for a delicate gold chain, fastening it around her throat. Not too much. Not regal, not austere— enticing.

 

Her lips curled slightly as she admired her reflection.

 

She would make them think they had power. She would let them believe they had the upper hand.

 

And then, as always—

 

She would take everything from them.

 

The door slammed open with all the grace of a battlefield charge.

 

Ctimene, caught mid-stroke with her rouge, jerked in surprise. The motion smeared the deep red pigment past the corner of her lip, dragging an unseemly streak toward her cheek. She whirled around, ready to reprimand whoever had barged in, but her annoyance melted the moment she saw the culprit.

 

Telemachus, her little nephew, stood in the doorway, panting from exertion. His hair was tousled, his cheeks flushed from running, and his wide blue eyes sparkled with excitement.

 

“Auntie Ctimene!” he huffed, barely catching his breath.

 

Ctimene sighed, shaking her head with a fond smile. "Gods, Telemachus, you nearly gave me a heart attack!" She turned to the polished bronze mirror, grimacing at the smeared lipstick. "Look what you made me do."

 

Telemachus only grinned, completely unbothered. "You still look pretty," he said with a cheeky grin.

 

Ctimene couldn't help but laugh. With a dramatic sigh, she picked up a cloth and began wiping off the mess. "Flattery will get you everywhere, little prince. Now, what is so important that you had to come crashing in here like a wild goat?"

 

Telemachus hopped up onto the stool beside her, swinging his legs. "I found a frog!" he announced proudly.

 

Ctimene arched a perfectly sculpted brow. "A frog?"

 

"Yes! A really big one! Do you wanna see?" His excitement was infectious, and though she had far more sophisticated things to do than chase after slimy creatures, Ctimene found herself softening even further.

 

With a dramatic sigh, she leaned forward, tapping his nose. "Only if you promise not to throw it at me this time."

 

Telemachus giggled, his whole face lighting up. "I promise!"

 

Ctimene rolled her eyes, wiping the last of the lipstick smudge away. "Fine, let's go see this magnificent frog of yours."

 

She took his little hand in hers, and as they left the room, the weight of her usual cold demeanor faded. For Telemachus, she would always be soft.

 

Telemachus practically dragged Ctimene through the hallways, his grip small but insistent, his excitement vibrating through his little body. Ctimene followed with a bemused sigh, her long robes swishing as she tried not to trip over her eager nephew.

 

When they finally reached the courtyard, Telemachus stopped so abruptly that Ctimene nearly collided into him. He turned to her with a beaming grin, then pointed dramatically to a small, lumpy figure sitting in the shade of a potted olive tree.

 

"Behold!" he declared, puffing out his chest. "The biggest, bestest frog in all of Ithaca!"

 

Ctimene arched an eyebrow, folding her arms as she examined the creature. It was... certainly a frog. A fat one, green with speckled brown markings, its throat puffing in and out as it stared at them with beady little eyes. It looked wholly unimpressed with Telemachus’ enthusiasm.

 

She tilted her head, pretending to scrutinize it. "Hmm. I don’t know, little prince. It doesn’t seem that big to me."

 

Telemachus gasped, affronted. "Auntie, look at it! It’s huge! It’s the king of all frogs!" He crouched down and gently nudged it, making it hop forward slightly. He grinned, glancing up at her. "See?"

 

Ctimene fought back a smile, shaking her head. "I suppose it is rather regal-looking." She tapped a finger to her chin, playing along. "Does our mighty frog king have a name?"

 

Telemachus nodded so quickly his curls bounced. "Yes! I named him—" He paused dramatically, then spread his arms wide. "—Odysseus!"

 

Ctimene nearly choked.

 

She stared at him, blinking. "You named the frog after your father?"

 

"Yep!" Telemachus grinned, completely unaware of the way Ctimene’s lips pressed together in an effort not to laugh.

 

"And why, exactly, did you think a frog was a fitting tribute to your father?"

 

"Because!" Telemachus said proudly. "Frogs are really smart. And sneaky! And they never get caught by anything!"

 

Ctimene snorted, shaking her head. "You are ridiculous, you know that?"

 

Telemachus just grinned wider, then scooped up the frog—Odysseus the Frog—and held it up toward her like an offering. "You wanna hold him?"

 

Ctimene took a step back immediately. "Absolutely not."

 

"But—"

 

"I am not touching a slimy, warty creature, Telemachus."

 

"He’s not slimy!" Telemachus pouted, stroking the frog’s back. "He’s soft! Look, just pet him once! Please?"

 

Ctimene sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Fine. But only for you, little prince."

 

She reached out with two fingers—very hesitantly—grazing the frog’s back before immediately pulling away. "There. I touched it. Happy?"

 

Telemachus beamed. "Yes!"

 

Ctimene rolled her eyes, but the fondness was unmistakable. "You are impossible," she muttered, ruffling his curls. "Now, what exactly do you plan to do with Odysseus the Frog?"

 

Telemachus gasped. "Oh! I’m gonna make him a little throne!"

 

Ctimene groaned. "Of course you are."

 

She watched as he rushed off, babbling excitedly to the frog in his hands, completely enthralled with his newest, most ridiculous obsession. Ctimene sighed, shaking her head. Telemachus could make anything seem important.

 

And as much as she would never admit it, she wouldn't have it any other way.

 

Ctimene lingered in the courtyard as Telemachus ran off, already gathering sticks and pebbles for his so-called "frog throne." She crossed her arms, a smirk tugging at her lips as she thought back to another foolish boy with far too much energy and far too many absurd ideas.

 

Odysseus.

 

Her dear, ridiculous, insufferable brother.

 

People liked to speak of Odysseus as though he had always been the sharp, cunning, silver-tongued man they knew now. The great tactician, the brilliant mind of Ithaca. But Ctimene knew better. She knew the boy before the legend, before the name became something spoken in reverence.

 

He had been an absolute idiot.

 

She could still remember the time he had climbed onto the palace roof to “survey his kingdom”—only to fall right through the thatching and crash into their father’s war council, dazed and bruised but still grinning like an utter fool.

 

Or the time he had tried to catch a fish with his bare hands by leaping into the river, only to flail about so dramatically that he scared every fish away and nearly drowned himself in the process.

 

And, gods above, the pranks. The endless, stupid pranks. He had once convinced a visiting noble’s son that Ithacan goats could understand human speech if you spoke slowly and respectfully enough. That boy had spent the entire afternoon bowing to livestock and asking them about their day.

 

Ctimene snorted at the memory. She had been the only one who ever saw how much of a fool Odysseus could truly be. To everyone else, he was sharp, untouchable, impossibly clever. But she knew the truth—his intelligence was often paired with reckless bravado, with a childlike inability to accept that not every situation could be won with charm and a quick tongue.

 

And yet… he always found a way. Even in his worst mistakes, he twisted fate to his favor. Even as a child, he had that ridiculous, infuriating ability to talk his way out of anything.

 

She sighed, rubbing her temples. And now, like always, he had vanished into some grand scheme of his own making, leaving everyone behind to scramble in the wake of his chaos. He was a fool. An infuriating, brilliant fool.

 

Ctimene glanced at Telemachus, watching as he carefully placed a small rock in front of his frog. She felt something tighten in her chest.

 

He was just like his father.

 

And if Odysseus didn’t return soon, she was going to drag him back to Ithaca herself.

Chapter 17: ✩﹒Bakery﹐┄﹒🥐

Odysseus leaned against the rickety wooden counter of the merchant’s stall, hands resting lazily on the surface as he gave the man his best disarming smile. The merchant, an older fellow with deep-set eyes and a calculating frown, was eyeing him with suspicion.

 

“You’re telling me,” Odysseus—no, Kallias—said, voice dripping with casual ease, “that this prime piece of real estate is still available? A sturdy roof, four walls, and only some evidence of rats? Gods must be smiling on me today.”

 

The merchant scoffed, crossing his arms. “It’s a shack. And a drafty one at that. You’d be lucky if it stands through the next storm.”

 

Odysseus hummed, glancing toward the hovel in question. It was nestled at the very edge of the market district, the kind of place people passed without a second glance. The thatched roof was patchy, the wood darkened with age, and there was something unsettling about the crooked doorway.

 

Perfect.

 

He turned back, running a hand through his hair, careful as ever to keep the dyed locks covering his blue eye. “Still, I’m a humble man. I don’t need luxury. Just shelter. I’d hate to see such a fine piece of property sitting empty when I could put it to good use.” He gestured broadly, as though inviting the man to admire the absolute steal of a home he was about to hand over.

 

The merchant snorted. “Good use? What in the gods’ names are you even planning to do with it?”

 

Odysseus spread his hands. “Start a bakery.”

 

The man blinked. “A bakery.”

 

“A humble one,” Odysseus said smoothly. “For the working class. Simple, hearty breads. Something warm to fill their bellies after a hard day’s work.” He sighed wistfully, shaking his head. “The people need nourishment, don’t you think?”

 

The merchant’s expression twitched. “You don’t look like a baker.”

 

Odysseus grinned. “I don’t look like a lot of things.”

 

The man huffed, rubbing his chin. “You’ll be paying full price.”

 

“Ah, but think of the goodwill! The business! The reputation!” Odysseus draped an arm around the merchant’s shoulders, gesturing dramatically with his free hand. “You, my friend, will be the man who helped build a legacy! When people speak of Kallias’ Bakery, they’ll say, ‘It all started with a generous merchant who believed in him.’”

 

The merchant scowled. “You talk too much.”

 

“And yet,” Odysseus said, flashing an easy smile, “you’re still listening.”

 

There was a long pause. The merchant groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Half price. Final offer.”

 

Odysseus clapped his hands together. “Now that is the generosity of a true businessman.”

 

The merchant shoved a rusted key into his palm. “Get out of my sight.”

 

Odysseus took it with a flourishing bow, grinning as he strolled off toward his new, delightfully shabby home.

 

One step closer to Ithaca.

 

Odysseus jogged toward the house, the rusted key spinning between his fingers as he approached the crooked doorway. Up close, the place looked even worse than he’d anticipated. The wood was warped, the thatched roof sagged in places, and the windows were coated in a thick layer of dust, making it impossible to see inside.

 

Perfect.

 

He shoved the key into the lock, jiggling it a few times before the old mechanism finally groaned open. The door creaked ominously as he stepped inside, the dim interior swallowing him whole. Immediately, the scent of mildew and old wood filled his nose, accompanied by the unmistakable tickle of dust.

 

He exhaled sharply and looked around.

 

The first floor was a single, open space, with what must have once been a kitchen shoved into the corner. A stone hearth, blackened with soot, sat along the far wall, and a rickety wooden counter stretched across from it, its surface covered in a thick film of grime. The floor was uneven in places, boards sagging beneath his weight as he took careful steps further inside.

 

And the cobwebs.

 

Gods above.

 

They clung to everything. Thick strands stretched from the ceiling beams, draped over abandoned shelves, curled into the corners of the room. A single, massive web had formed over what looked like an old chair near the hearth, the silken threads gleaming faintly in the dim light filtering through the grimy windows.

 

Odysseus wrinkled his nose. “Fantastic. At least the previous tenants were dedicated decorators.”

 

Shaking his head, he moved toward the narrow staircase at the back of the room. The wooden steps groaned beneath his weight, dust puffing up around his boots as he ascended. The second floor was even worse—if that was possible.

 

The ceiling was lower here, slanted with the angle of the roof, and more cobwebs hung like ghostly curtains in the dim space. There were two small rooms, both empty save for more dust and a few discarded scraps of wood. A cracked mirror leaned against one wall, its surface clouded with age, and as he passed by, his own blurred reflection flickered in its depths—only half of his face visible beneath the curtain of his hair.

 

He hesitated.

 

Then, shaking the thought away, he stepped into the larger of the two rooms, rolling his shoulders as he took it all in.

 

It wasn’t much. It was barely standing. It was a far cry from the halls of Ithaca.

 

But it was his.

 

For now.

 

Odysseus rolled up his sleeves, letting out a long sigh as he scanned the filth-covered floor. Dust blanketed everything like a second skin, the cobwebs stretched across the beams swaying slightly from the movement of the air. It was going to be a long night.

 

His eyes landed on an old broom shoved against the corner of the room. It was weathered, the bristles bent and brittle with age, but it was better than nothing. He strode over, picking it up with a slight grimace as dust immediately puffed off the handle. Charming.

 

He turned back to the room and got to work.

 

The first sweep sent a thick cloud of dust billowing into the air, and Odysseus recoiled, coughing as he waved a hand in front of his face. "By the gods—what died in here?" He squinted at the dirt swirling in the dim light, then sighed and pressed on.

 

Each stroke of the broom sent layers of filth peeling away from the floor, revealing dark, uneven wood beneath. He worked methodically, pushing debris into a pile as he moved through the room. A mummified spider carcass tumbled across the boards. He raised an eyebrow at it before flicking it aside with the bristles.

 

The air thickened with dust as he continued, clinging to his skin and hair. He could feel it settling into the damp sweat at the back of his neck, into the fabric of his newly acquired clothes. His arms ached, but he didn’t stop—there was something satisfying about it. About clearing away the remnants of something long abandoned.

 

The floorboards creaked beneath him, quieter now that the thickest layer of grime had been disturbed. He moved toward the corners, attacking the worst of the filth, yanking down strands of cobwebs with the broom handle. The dust coated his hands, darkening his palms, but he didn’t care.

 

He reached the doorway and swept the last of the debris into his growing pile before pausing, resting his weight against the broom. His breathing was heavier than before, his chest rising and falling steadily as he surveyed the room.

 

It was still rough. Still old. Still nothing like home.

 

But it was better.

 

A slow smirk curled his lips. "Not bad, old man," he muttered to himself, tapping the broom handle against his shoulder.

 

He turned on his heel and headed downstairs, determined to clear the rest of the house before the night was over.

 

Odysseus rolled his shoulders, feeling the strain settle into his muscles as he descended the narrow staircase. The wood creaked under his weight, and he made a mental note to check for rot later—last thing he needed was for the stairs to give out under him in the middle of the night.

 

The lower floor was in even worse condition than the upper one. Dust coated every surface, thick enough that his footsteps left behind clear imprints. More cobwebs hung from the low beams, stretching like spectral veils across the room. A single wooden table sat in the corner, its surface warped and scarred, accompanied by two chairs with one missing a leg. A stone hearth took up most of the far wall, blackened with old soot and filled with remnants of decayed wood.

 

Odysseus ran his tongue along his teeth, exhaling sharply. “Looks like a tomb.”

 

He didn’t hesitate this time. Gripping the broom, he started at the center, dragging the filth outward in broad, steady strokes. Each pass of the bristles sent dust spiraling into the air, making his eyes water and his throat itch. He worked through it, setting his jaw and sweeping faster, pushing debris toward the walls, the corners, anywhere he could gather it into something manageable.

 

The cobwebs were next. He reached up with the broom handle and jabbed at the largest cluster, watching as thick strands clung stubbornly before finally snapping. A fat, startled spider scuttled across the ceiling in protest. Odysseus eyed it. “Not paying rent,” he muttered, then flicked the broom handle again, sending the creature tumbling down into the pile of dust.

 

He moved to the hearth next, crouching down to inspect the charred wood. It crumbled between his fingers, long since rotted to nothing. He scooped out what remained, tossing it into the pile before grabbing a rag from his bag and wiping down the stones. The soot clung stubbornly, darkening the fabric almost immediately, but he kept at it, scrubbing until his arms ached.

 

Once the hearth was clear, he moved on to the table. He ran a hand along its surface, wincing at the rough texture. Splinters waiting to happen. He grabbed a rag and dampened it with what little water he had left, wiping in broad circles, watching as years of grime peeled away. The wood beneath was still scarred, but it was usable.

 

The chairs were beyond saving—one was missing a leg, the other was so warped it wobbled dangerously. He shoved them aside for now, making a note to either fix them or toss them later.

 

The floor was the worst of all. He bent down, gripping the broom tighter, and worked the bristles hard against the stubborn layers of filth. Sweat trickled down his back, soaking into the fabric of his tunic. His breath came heavier as he pushed on, dragging dirt and dust into neat little piles, kicking up more with each stroke. He could feel it in his lungs now, thick and cloying, but he ignored it.

 

By the time he finally stepped back, straightening with a wince, the room looked... livable. Not comfortable, not yet, but better.

 

Odysseus braced his hands on his hips, surveying his work. The cobwebs were gone, the dust was cleared, the air was still stale but no longer suffocating. He could almost picture it now—a fire crackling in the hearth, a proper table, maybe a cot in the corner.

 

It wasn’t home. But it was his, for now.

 

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his now-dyed hair. “Maybe this mercenary business is overrated,” he muttered, before grabbing the broom and heading toward the small, shadowed hallway leading to what he hoped was a storage room.

 

The cleaning wasn’t done yet. But gods, it was getting there.

 

Odysseus leaned against the broom, rolling his shoulders as he surveyed the room again. The air still smelled stale—like dust, mold, and years of neglect—but at least now, it was no longer a suffocating tomb. It was something resembling a home.

 

A temporary home.

 

He inhaled deeply, then let it out through his nose. Two weeks. That was how long he had to wait before the next ship bound for Ithaca. Fourteen days. I’ve survived worse. I can endure this.

 

But gods, the waiting would be the worst of it.

 

Odysseus hated being idle. If he wasn’t moving, thinking, planning—he was vulnerable. Vulnerable to his own thoughts, to the weight pressing on his chest every time he let himself linger on what he had left behind. Ithaca. Penelope. Telemachus. The war.

 

He had spent years moving forward, step after step, scheme after scheme, making sure he always had an edge over whoever stood in his way. Now, for the first time in a long while, he was stuck.

 

His fingers twitched at the thought.

 

He dragged a hand through his hair—shorter now, uneven where he’d hacked off parts of his beard—and sighed. He hadn’t looked at his reflection since altering his appearance, but he already knew he wouldn’t recognize himself. He wasn’t Odysseus of Ithaca right now. He was Kallias, the wandering sellsword, the nobody, the man who could vanish into a crowd without a trace.

 

That should’ve made him feel safer. Instead, it left something hollow in his chest.

 

He clenched his jaw, forcing his focus back to the room. There’s still work to do.

 

His gaze flickered to the small storage room at the end of the hall. Might be something useful in there.

 

Gripping the broom again, he moved forward, the floor creaking beneath his weight. His boots stirred up the last remnants of dust, but he ignored it. His thoughts felt just as unsettled, swirling and restless.

 

Two weeks.

 

He had two weeks to wait, to exist, to figure out what came next.

 

And he had no idea what he was supposed to do with himself in the meantime.

 

Odysseus pushed open the storage room door, and it groaned on its hinges, the wood swollen with time and neglect. A thick layer of dust coated everything inside, making the air stale and heavy as he stepped in.

 

The room was small, barely more than a closet, but it held exactly what he needed. Scattered across the floor were broken planks of wood, bent nails, rusted hinges, and bits of scrap metal—forgotten remnants of whatever purpose this house once served.

 

He crouched down, brushing his fingers over a sturdy-looking board. It was old, but not rotten. With a little effort, it could be repurposed. The same went for some of the nails; they were bent, but nothing a little hammering wouldn’t fix.

 

His mind immediately began sorting through possibilities. The front door was flimsy and weak—he could reinforce it with extra planks. The window shutters creaked with every gust of wind, one barely hanging onto its hinge. If he could salvage enough metal, he could fix that too.

 

Odysseus smirked slightly. Guess I won’t be completely idle after all.

 

He grabbed a few boards, stacking them against his hip, then picked through the metal scraps. A few were too corroded to be useful, but there were some promising pieces—thin but sturdy, just enough to reinforce weak spots in the house.

 

He found an old cloth sack crumpled in the corner and shook it out, sending up a cloud of dust. He coughed, waving it away, then began loading the smaller scraps inside. As he worked, his thoughts drifted.

 

This felt almost normal.

 

Back in Ithaca, when he was young, he had spent plenty of time fixing things—boats, walls, old weapons that needed reforging. He had always been good with his hands, always known how to make the most of what little he had.

 

It was an odd thing to take comfort in, but as he gathered the materials, a familiar sense of control settled over him.

 

He could do this. He could make this place livable for two weeks. And then? He’d make his way back home.

 

His fingers tightened around the sack as he stood.

 

Home.

 

He needed to keep moving. He had wasted enough time already.

 

With that, Odysseus turned and strode back into the main room, already mapping out his next steps.

 

Odysseus pushed open the door to the kitchen, only for his nose to immediately wrinkle in disgust. The stench of dust, mildew, and something vaguely rotten clung to the air, thick enough to make his stomach turn.

 

The room was a disaster.

 

The stone countertops were covered in a fine layer of grime, the wooden cabinets warped and cracked with age. A few of the doors hung loose on their hinges, and when he nudged one open, dust poured out in a thick cloud. The shelves inside were empty—no dishes, no utensils, just cobwebs and the dried husks of long-dead insects.

 

The floor had stains he didn’t want to investigate too closely. Something had definitely spilled years ago and had never been properly cleaned. It left dark, sticky remnants in the corners, hardened with time.

 

Odysseus sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Great.

 

At least there was a basin for washing, though it was caked with filth. He turned the spout experimentally, and to his surprise, a thin trickle of water sputtered out before going dry. He smirked. At least the plumbing still exists. Might just need to be coaxed back to life.

 

Shoving up his sleeves, he grabbed the nearest rag—well, a strip of cloth that had probably once been a curtain, now moth-eaten and useless—and began wiping down the counters. The grime smeared rather than came off, which only frustrated him more.

 

So he switched tactics.

 

He found an old clay bowl tucked in the corner, wiped it down as best as he could, then poured in some of the clean water he had stolen. Dipping the cloth in, he scrubbed harder this time.

 

Slowly, inch by inch, the stone beneath began to show its original color. It was tedious, frustrating work, but he had survived worse. If he could outwit gods and kings, he could outwit a damn kitchen.

 

Two weeks, he reminded himself. Just two weeks.

 

But as he worked, his mind wandered.

 

There was something oddly familiar about this—about cleaning up a mess left behind by careless hands, about turning something broken into something functional. It reminded him of Ithaca, of working alongside his father as a boy, fixing their home before he had ever dreamed of war.

 

A pang of something sharp and unfamiliar twisted in his chest, but he shoved it down.

 

No time for nostalgia.

 

He scrubbed harder, determined to make this place at least somewhat livable before nightfall.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　∿

 

Athena sat perched atop a temple rooftop, her arms crossed tightly as she glared down at the world below. The wind whipped through her dark hair, but she paid it no mind, too lost in her own storm of frustration.

 

Odysseus.

 

That idiot. That absolute menace of a man. That infuriatingly brilliant, stupid, reckless mortal.

 

She dragged her hands down her face, exhaling sharply through her nose. How had she let things get to this point? How had she—the Athena, goddess of wisdom, strategy, and rational thought—become so emotionally invested in the survival of one singular, stubborn, maddening Ithacan?

 

She should have known better. She did know better.

 

And yet here she was.

 

He was out there, wandering around some foreign city, probably lying and cheating his way into and out of trouble, probably smiling to himself like the smug bastard he was. He was probably proud of whatever scheme he had going on, completely unaware that she was this close to ripping her own hair out over his nonsense.

 

She scowled.

 

It was supposed to be simple. She was supposed to guide him, nudge him toward victory when necessary, not get attached. Not care.

 

But she did.

 

And that pissed her off.

 

Her fingers twitched with the urge to do something. To march down to wherever he was and shake some sense into that thick skull of his. Or better yet, drag him back to the Greek camp herself and throw him at Diomedes’ feet just to watch the inevitable lecture unfold.

 

And yet… she didn’t.

 

She sighed heavily, dropping her face into her hands again.

 

"Why are men like this?" she muttered to herself.

 

The worst part? She knew he was enjoying himself. He was probably laughing, probably getting into ridiculous situations, probably charming his way through half the city while she sat here, wasting precious divine energy worrying about him.

 

By the gods, she needed a drink.

 

Athena’s fingers dug into her scalp, gripping her hair as if she could squeeze the frustration out of her own head. Her foot tapped rapidly against the stone rooftop, a steady, agitated beat that only served to remind her of her own helplessness.

 

She didn’t know where he was.

 

She always knew where he was. Always had an idea, a whisper of intuition, a divine sense guiding her to him. But now? Nothing. No flicker of presence, no pull in the weave of fate, no telltale sign of his usual brand of chaos stirring up trouble in some back alley.

 

It was infuriating.

 

It was terrifying.

 

She had scoured the Greek camps, turned her attention to every known road, every harbor, every likely escape route. She had searched Troy, she had searched the coastline, she had even—gods help her—lowered herself to asking Hermes if he had seen him.

 

No one knew.

 

And that pissed her off more than anything.

 

Because if she didn’t know where he was, that meant something was wrong. It meant he was hiding too well, or worse, something had hidden him. And if something had hidden him, that meant—

 

No. She refused to entertain the thought.

 

Odysseus was too stubborn to die. He was a rat, a cockroach, a creature that thrived in impossible situations. He’d survived so much already—he wouldn’t die here, in some nameless city, far from the battlefield, far from her sight.

 

But she hated this. She hated this.

 

She had spent years shaping him into the perfect weapon, the sharpest mind, the most cunning strategist. She had whispered in his ear, guided his hands, steered his fate.

 

And now?

 

Now she was powerless.

 

She was a goddess, and yet she was reduced to worrying over some mortal like a fretting mother whose child had wandered off into the woods.

 

It was humiliating.

 

Her nails scraped against the stone as she clenched her fists.

 

She needed something to go on. A lead, a rumor, a whisper of his voice on the wind. Anything.

 

And if she didn’t find him soon?

 

She was going to burn down half of Greece until she did.

 

Athena forced herself to take a slow, measured breath. Think. She was a goddess, not some fool running around in blind panic. Odysseus had to be somewhere. And there were only so many places he could have gone.

 

She closed her eyes, forcing her mind into clarity. The battlefield was behind him. The Achaeans would have noticed if he tried to return. The Trojans would have sounded an alarm if they had him. That left the surrounding neutral territories—places where he could slip into the crowd, where no side had a vested interest in hunting him down.

 

Mysia, Lycia, Paphlagonia, Bithynia, Thrace, or Caria.

 

Six choices.

 

Her jaw tightened. That was still too broad. But if she broke it down further—

 

Mysia and Paphlagonia were closest. If he was desperate, if he had no real plan, it would have been the easiest places to reach. Lycia and Caria were further south, meaning he would have had to go out of his way to get there, making them less likely. Thrace was north and unpredictable—he could be there, but she doubted he would risk unfamiliar terrain unless forced.

 

Which left Mysia, Paphlagonia, or Bithynia as the most reasonable options.

 

She cursed under her breath.

 

If she had been able to track him earlier, she could have cut this guesswork down. But now? He could have changed his appearance. He could have gotten work. He could have found allies. Odysseus was adaptable in a way most men were not. She had seen it countless times before—if anyone could disappear into a foreign land and make himself at home within days, it was him.

 

Athena ground her teeth.

 

She needed confirmation.

 

If Odysseus had gone into hiding, she needed to figure out why. And if he had a plan, she needed to know it before it was too late. Because no matter how much she had trained him, no matter how brilliant he was—

 

He was still mortal. And mortals made mistakes.

 

She exhaled sharply.

 

If Mysia and Paphlagonia were the most immediate option, then that was where she would begin. She wasn’t about to waste time waiting for divine intervention—she would find him herself.

 

And when she did?

 

She was going to kill him for making her worry this much.

 

Mysia first.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Odysseus wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, smearing dust and grime across his skin. He let out a long sigh, leaning against the now-scrubbed wooden counter. The kitchen, once a disaster of dirt, cobwebs, and forgotten filth, finally looked livable.

 

The floor, previously coated in layers of dust, had been swept and washed until the aged wood peeked through. The counters were wiped down, the cabinets—after an aggressive battle with cobwebs—were finally free of their unwanted eight-legged tenants. He had managed to salvage a few rusted pots and utensils, setting them aside for later cleaning.

 

He stretched his arms above his head, feeling his muscles ache from hours of work. Gods, he hadn’t done this much physical labor outside of war in years. It was almost meditative in a way—mindless, repetitive, productive. No blood, no battle, no screaming. Just him, his own two hands, and a ruined home he had decided to claim as his own.

 

He glanced toward the doorway leading back into the main room. There was still plenty to do. The second floor remained untouched, and he had yet to check the state of the roof. And the furniture—what little there was—needed repairs.

 

Still.

 

A small, satisfied smirk tugged at his lips as he leaned against the counter. The house wasn’t much. It was old, falling apart, and in desperate need of more work. But for the first time in days—hells, maybe weeks—he had something that belonged to him.

 

He ran a hand through his now-dyed hair, the rough texture still unfamiliar under his fingers.

 

Kallias, he reminded himself.

 

He wasn’t Odysseus right now. Odysseus had too many enemies, too many eyes watching for him. But Kallias? Kallias was just some wandering man looking to settle down. Maybe open a bakery. Maybe pass the time until a ship to Ithaca was available.

 

Maybe—just maybe—figure out what came next.

 

With one last glance at his work, he pushed himself off the counter and headed toward the stairs. Time to see what disaster awaited him on the second floor.

 

Odysseus stood at the base of the stairs, staring up at the shadowed second floor. His body ached, his hands were sore from scrubbing, and he still had the entire upper level to deal with.

 

But the thought of more dust, more cobwebs, and more cleaning made him pause. He needed a break.

 

His stomach rumbled, as if agreeing.

 

That settled it.

 

He exhaled through his nose, shaking off the lingering exhaustion, and grabbed a pouch of the local currency he had swindled. He tucked it safely beneath his tunic, adjusted his belt, and ran a hand through his hair.

 

If he was going to survive the next two weeks, he needed more than just a place to stay—he needed food.

 

And what better way to pass the time than baking his own damn bread?

 

The idea had struck him earlier, half in jest, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Baking was methodical, practical, and—more importantly—it would let him blend in. No one would suspect a simple baker of being anything more than what he appeared.

 

Besides, it wasn’t like he could spend every waking moment stabbing things. As much as he enjoyed that particular skill set, it wasn’t exactly subtle.

 

Decision made, he grabbed his dagger—just in case—and stepped out onto the streets of Mysia.

 

The marketplace would have everything he needed: flour, salt, oil, maybe even a bit of honey if he was lucky. The thought of warm, freshly baked bread was enough to make his mouth water.

 

And if he happened to pick up some useful information while he was out?

 

Well. That would just be a bonus.

 

Odysseus navigated through the bustling marketplace, his sharp eyes scanning the rows of vendors. The scent of fresh produce, sizzling meats, and spiced wine filled the air, mingling with the murmur of bartering voices.

 

He had already picked up a sack of flour and a small vial of oil, both tucked securely beneath his arm. He needed salt next, and maybe some honey—if he could charm a vendor into giving him a discount.

 

But just as he turned a corner, he collided hard with something—or rather, someone. His grip on the flour sack nearly slipped, but he managed to hold onto it.

 

"Oi, watch where you're going—" he started, only to stop short when he looked up.

 

Maldovin.

 

The tall, lanky swordsman with that irritatingly pretty face.

 

Maldovin blinked at him before recognition sparked in his dark eyes. "Kallias?" he asked, his lips curling into a smirk. "What are you doing here? I didn’t take you for a man who shops for grain."

 

Odysseus recovered quickly, adjusting the sack beneath his arm. "And I didn’t take you for a man who loiters in markets, but here we are." He gave an easy smile, tilting his head slightly. "Didn’t peg you for the type to browse stalls like an old woman."

 

Maldovin chuckled, folding his arms across his chest. "Old woman, huh? That’s a bold insult for a man whose hands are covered in flour."

 

Odysseus glanced down. Damn. He had, in fact, gotten flour all over his fingers.

 

"Tch," he clicked his tongue and wiped them off on his tunic, not breaking eye contact. "I am an old woman now, didn’t you hear? Thinking of opening up a bakery. Might sell sweetcakes. You still interested?"

 

Maldovin raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "You, a baker?" He shook his head, laughing softly. "That I’d like to see."

 

Odysseus just shrugged. "Stick around, then. You might be surprised."

 

Maldovin studied him for a long moment, his smirk fading into something more thoughtful. "So, you really plan to stay in Mysia?"

 

Odysseus met his gaze evenly, forcing himself to hold his casual, easygoing demeanor. "For now."

 

The answer seemed to satisfy Maldovin—for now. He grinned and stepped aside. "Don’t let me keep you from your flour."

 

Odysseus gave him a mock salute before slipping past him, heart still hammering in his chest.

 

That had been too close.

 

 

Odysseus kept walking, forcing his body to relax as he weaved through the crowd. The encounter had rattled him more than he wanted to admit—Maldovin was perceptive, and he had already been suspicious of him back at the harpy nest.

 

He needed to be careful.

 

His fingers tightened around the sack of flour as he stopped at a spice vendor’s stall. The merchant, a broad-shouldered woman with graying hair, gave him an appraising look.

 

"You look like you know your way around a kitchen," she said, eyeing the flour in his arms. "What are you looking for?"

 

Odysseus leaned on the stall, flashing an easy grin. "Salt, honey, maybe some cinnamon if it won’t cost me a fortune."

 

The woman smirked. "That depends on what you plan to make, stranger."

 

"Bread," Odysseus said, watching her reaction. "Good bread. The kind that keeps men coming back."

 

The merchant chuckled, reaching beneath the stall and pulling out a small pouch of salt. "If you want good bread, you’ll want finer grain salt than this. But since you seem the type to make do, this will work."

 

Odysseus accepted the pouch with a nod. "And the honey?"

 

She reached for a clay jar, setting it down between them. "This is fresh. Best in the market."

 

Odysseus pulled out a few coins from the pouch he had swindled earlier. "And cinnamon?"

 

The merchant scoffed. "That’ll cost you extra, stranger."

 

He hummed, tapping his fingers against the wooden stall. "What if I trade you a story instead?"

 

She raised an eyebrow. "A story?"

 

Odysseus grinned. "A damn good one."

 

The woman studied him for a long moment before sighing, shaking her head. "Fine. But it better be worth the cinnamon."

 

Odysseus leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "Did you know that once, not long ago, a man tricked a king into waging a ten-year war over a woman? And that same man—brilliant, clever, somewhat handsome—once talked his way out of certain death with only his words?"

 

The merchant snorted. "That’s a legend. You expect me to believe you knew this man?"

 

Odysseus grinned. "I didn’t say I knew him. I only said I heard the story from someone who did."

 

She laughed, shaking her head. "You’re a damn good liar."

 

"I prefer the term ‘storyteller,’" Odysseus corrected smoothly.

 

The merchant rolled her eyes but handed him a small bundle of cinnamon sticks. "Here. Consider it payment for the entertainment."

 

Odysseus tucked the bundle into his pouch, giving her a wink. "A pleasure doing business with you."

 

As he turned away from the stall, he caught sight of Maldovin again, standing near another vendor, watching him.

 

Odysseus’ grip tightened slightly on his pouch.

 

He really needed to be careful.

 

Odysseus took a longer route back to his newly acquired home, weaving through the marketplace in a deliberate attempt to lose any lingering gazes—particularly Maldovin’s. He kept his pace natural, stopping to glance at some clay pottery, feigning interest in a rack of cured meats, even tossing a coin to a street performer plucking a lyre.

 

Once he was satisfied that no one was tailing him, he slipped through the narrow alleyway that led to his new home. The building still looked worn-down from the outside, the kind of place people wouldn’t bother robbing because they’d assume there was nothing worth taking inside.

 

Perfect.

 

He pushed the door open with his shoulder, stepping inside and shutting it behind him. The air smelled faintly of dust and the lingering scent of the cleaning he’d done earlier. It wasn’t home—not by a long shot—but it would do.

 

He placed his purchases on the rough wooden counter in what he was now calling the kitchen. Flour, salt, honey, cinnamon. Not a grand haul, but enough to make something decent. He rolled his shoulders, exhaling as he moved toward the storage room.

 

There, leaning against the wall, was the collection of wood and metal scraps he had found earlier. He knelt, running his fingers over a few of the pieces, sorting through them with a practiced eye. The hinges could be reforged. The wooden slats—some were too warped to be useful, but others could be repurposed.

 

He wasn’t a builder, but he’d learned enough over the years to fake it.

 

Setting that aside for later, he moved back to the kitchen, dusting off the counter. He grabbed a bowl, pouring in some of the flour before adding a pinch of salt. With practiced ease, he reached for the jar of honey, popping it open and drizzling just enough into the mixture before stirring it in with his fingers.

 

The feel of the ingredients beneath his hands brought back memories. Not of Ithaca, not yet—but of the long journey at sea, of makeshift meals shared among his men, of rationing supplies and making something out of nothing.

 

Odysseus exhaled sharply, shaking the thought away.

 

This wasn’t then.

 

He was here. Alone.

 

Starting over.

 

And if he wanted to last in this city long enough to find a way home, he needed to make sure no one suspected a thing.

 

A humble baker. That’s what they’d see. Nothing more.

 

Chapter 18: ⤷﹐🍇﹒Dionysus，₊°｡

Achilles stirred the pot with more force than necessary, the wooden spoon scraping harshly against the metal. The scent of boiling broth and simmering meat filled the air, mingling with the usual grime and sweat of the Greek camp. He had tied his hair back messily, sleeves pushed up, his entire focus poured into the bubbling stew before him. Anything to keep his hands busy. Anything to stop his mind from circling back to the one thought that had plagued him for days.

 

Odysseus is gone.

 

His fingers tightened around the spoon. His knuckles went white.

 

He threw in another handful of herbs, barely paying attention to what he grabbed. It didn’t matter. The soldiers would eat anything. He needed to do something— anything —that wasn’t sitting in his tent, staring at the empty space where Odysseus should have been.

 

Patroclus sat nearby, pretending not to watch him too closely. He had seen the way Achilles' shoulders tensed whenever someone dared mention Odysseus' name. The way Achilles had thrown himself into whatever menial labor he could find—sharpening weapons, fetching supplies, and now, cooking, of all things.

 

“He’d laugh at you, you know,” Patroclus said finally, his voice light but careful.

 

Achilles stopped stirring. His jaw tightened.

 

“What?”

 

“If he were here,” Patroclus continued, watching him from the corner of his eye. “He’d take one look at you cooking and call you a little housewife.”

 

Achilles’ face flamed . He whirled on Patroclus, ears burning. “Shut up —”

 

Patroclus smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m just saying,” he shrugged, “it’s kind of funny.”

 

Achilles turned back to the stew with a huff, aggressively stirring again, but his movements had lost some of their edge. His lips twitched, just barely.

 

Odysseus would have laughed.

 

And Achilles hated that he missed it.

 

Achilles kept stirring, the rhythm of the spoon against the pot the only thing keeping his mind from spiraling. But then—warm arms wrapped around him from behind, pulling him into a firm, steady embrace.

 

Patroclus.

 

Achilles stiffened at first, his hands tightening around the spoon. But Patroclus didn’t say anything. He just held him, resting his chin against Achilles’ shoulder, his warmth seeping into Achilles’ back like the embers of a dying fire—gentle, persistent, grounding .

 

“It’s okay,” Patroclus murmured, barely above a whisper.

 

Achilles swallowed hard. His grip loosened. He hadn’t realized how much tension he had been holding in his body, how tightly wound he had become.

 

“I—” He stopped. His throat felt tight. He didn’t know what to say. I’m fine would be a lie. I don’t care would be an even bigger one.

 

Patroclus didn’t press him. He just stayed there, arms firm but not constricting, his presence a quiet reassurance.

 

“You don’t have to talk about it,” he said softly. “But you don’t have to do this alone either.”

 

Achilles let out a shaky breath. Slowly, his hands stilled, resting against the wooden spoon.

 

Patroclus was right.

 

But that didn’t make the ache in his chest any easier to bear.

 

Achilles let out a long, dramatic sigh, tilting his head back slightly against Patroclus’ shoulder.

 

“This is stupid ,” he muttered, his voice tinged with frustration. “I shouldn’t be here stirring some gods-damned stew like a camp wife while he —” His grip tightened on the spoon again. “Who knows where he is? Probably getting himself into trouble, like he always does.”

 

Patroclus hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t let go.

 

“He could be starving, or injured, or—” Achilles groaned, cutting himself off before his thoughts spiraled further. “And yet here I am, chopping vegetables and pretending that everything is fine.”

 

Patroclus chuckled lightly against his shoulder. “You’re not pretending very well.”

 

Achilles scoffed. “No shit.” He twisted slightly in Patroclus’ grip to glare at him. “And why are you so calm about this? Do you not care that he’s missing?”

 

Patroclus sighed, his grip loosening just enough to let Achilles turn around in his arms. “Of course, I care, Achilles. But you losing your mind over it won’t bring him back any faster.”

 

Achilles frowned, his jaw tightening. He wanted to argue. Wanted to shout that he wasn’t losing his mind, that he was perfectly rational—except he wasn’t, and they both knew it.

 

Patroclus gave him a small, knowing smile. “Besides, do you really think Odysseus would let himself die that easily?”

 

Achilles opened his mouth to retort but hesitated.

 

Damn it. He hated that Patroclus had a point.

 

“…No,” he admitted reluctantly, crossing his arms. “That bastard is too slippery.”

 

Patroclus smirked. “Exactly. So stop pouting and finish your stew. The others are expecting food, and if you ruin it, I’ll make you cook again tomorrow.”

 

Achilles groaned but turned back to the pot. “You’re insufferable.”

 

Patroclus just laughed, pressing a kiss to Achilles’ shoulder before finally letting go. “And you’re adorable when you sulk.”

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Agamemnon pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply as he stared at his younger brother, who stood in front of him with crossed arms and an expression that was far too stubborn for his liking.

 

“Menelaus,” Agamemnon began, forcing patience into his tone, “we cannot drop the war at a moment’s notice to look for Odysseus.”

 

Menelaus scoffed. “Why not?”

 

Agamemnon’s eye twitched. “Because, Menelaus, we are in the middle of a war. A war that, might I remind you, is being waged on your behalf.”

 

Menelaus bristled. “And Odysseus has been essential to that war effort! You think we can afford to lose him?”

 

“We haven’t lost him,” Agamemnon snapped. “He went missing. That’s different.”

 

Menelaus huffed. “It’s been days , Agamemnon.”

 

“And? What do you want me to do?” Agamemnon threw up his hands. “Order the entire army to comb the Aegean for one man?”

 

Menelaus didn't even hesitate. “Yes.”

 

Agamemnon groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re an idiot.”

 

Menelaus glared at him. “And you’re a bastard.”

 

Agamemnon rolled his eyes. “That’s beside the point.”

 

“Look, brother,” Menelaus said, his tone shifting to something quieter, more serious. “You know as well as I do that Odysseus is the one keeping half this army from turning on itself. He keeps Achilles in check. He keeps Diomedes entertained so he doesn’t start murdering people out of boredom. He keeps Ajax from walking into battle without a second thought. He keeps you from making stupid decisions. ”

 

Agamemnon scowled. “I do not make stupid decisions.”

 

Menelaus gave him a flat look.

 

Agamemnon sighed through gritted teeth. “Fine. I don’t make many stupid decisions. ”

 

Menelaus folded his arms. “And yet, you think not searching for Odysseus is a good decision?”

 

Agamemnon clenched his jaw. Damn it, why did Menelaus have to make sense when he was being insufferable?

 

He sighed. “I can’t send the entire army. But I will allow some men to search for him.”

 

Menelaus immediately straightened, looking hopeful. “How many?”

 

Agamemnon narrowed his eyes. “ Some. ”

 

Menelaus groaned. “You’re impossible.”

 

“And you’re annoying .” Agamemnon crossed his arms. “Now get out of my tent before I change my mind.”

 

Menelaus huffed but turned to leave. “You know, if Odysseus were here, he would have talked you into letting the whole army go after him.”

 

Agamemnon exhaled sharply through his nose. “Yes, well, Odysseus isn’t here, is he?”

 

Menelaus said nothing, but the look he shot Agamemnon before leaving the tent made it very clear that he thought it was Agamemnon’s fault.

 

Agamemnon exhaled sharply once Menelaus was gone, rubbing his temples as if that would somehow ease the growing headache his brother had left him with. He turned to his desk, but before he could focus on anything, his fingers instinctively reached for the small pouch at his belt.

 

With a soft sigh, he pulled out a simple hairclip—one that Odysseus had made for him ages ago. It was nothing extravagant, just a sturdy piece of bronze, carefully bent and smoothed out, with faint engravings along the edges. It had been a gift—though why Odysseus had bothered, Agamemnon had never really understood.

 

“Your hair’s a mess,” Odysseus had said when he’d handed it to him, smirking in that insufferable way of his. “If you’re going to be king of kings, at least look the part.”

 

Agamemnon had scoffed at the time but had kept the damn thing anyway. And, despite himself, he had used it more often than he cared to admit. It was practical, after all—kept his hair out of his face when battle plans stretched long into the night.

 

His fingers tightened around it.

 

Damn you, Odysseus.

 

He didn't have time for this. The war wouldn't wait for one missing man.

 

And yet…

 

His grip loosened, and before he could think better of it, he slipped the hairclip into his hair, securing back a few loose strands.

 

Just for now.

Just until they found him.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Athena stared into the mirror, her breath slow and steady, yet her heart pounded like war drums in her chest. The room around her—familiar, solid, real—seemed distant, blurred at the edges. Only the reflection mattered.

 

At first, she saw herself. The sharp eyes, the stern brow, the lips pressed into an unyielding line. But then—like a phantom emerging from the depths of memory—another face began to take shape over hers.

 

Pallas.

 

Her soft, knowing eyes stared back, layered over Athena’s own. Her lips, parted just slightly, as if about to speak, moved when Athena moved. A perfect mirage, yet not a mirage.

 

Athena’s fingers curled over the edge of the basin in front of her. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t.

 

"You’re slipping," the reflection whispered—except the sound came from nowhere and everywhere all at once.

 

Athena’s breath hitched. She did not break, she did not slip .

 

"All of this over a mortal?"

 

Athena’s eyes darkened. No. Not just a mortal.

 

Her grip tightened. "I am not slipping," she hissed. "And he is not just a mortal."

 

The reflection smiled—Pallas smiled, sad and knowing.

 

"No, of course not. He’s Odysseus."

 

Athena clenched her jaw.

 

She did not answer.

 

She did not have to.

 

The reflection warped.

 

Pallas’ face, gentle and knowing, flickered—just for a moment. And then—

 

Odysseus.

 

Athena’s breath caught.

 

His sharp smirk. The glint of mischief in his mismatched eyes. The way he always dared the world to try him. But then, in the next instant—

 

Pallas again.

 

Then Odysseus.

 

Faster. Back and forth.

 

A dead girl. A missing man. A friend lost. A friend slipping away.

 

Her fingers twitched against the basin, the marble growing slick beneath her grip as her vision blurred with something she refused to name.

 

She squeezed her eyes shut.

 

"Enough."

 

When she opened them, the mirror had stilled.

 

Her own face stared back at her.

 

And yet—somewhere in the depths of the glass, she swore she could still see them both.

 

Crack.

 

The first fracture split across the glass like a jagged lightning bolt, distorting her reflection—warping Pallas’ face, warping his face. Athena's chest rose and fell with ragged breaths as she stared at the web of broken lines.

 

Then, with a sharp exhale, she struck again.

 

Shards flew. A sharp, splintering shatter echoed through the room as the mirror gave way beneath her fist. Slivers of silvered glass rained down, scattering across the floor, reflecting fractured pieces of her face—her eyes, her lips, her fury—until nothing was whole.

 

She pulled her fist back, drops of gold welling where the glass had kissed her skin. The pain was distant, insignificant.

 

Her hands trembled.

 

Not from the wound.

 

Not from the ichor.

 

But because—

 

She could still see them.

 

Even in the shattered remnants, even in the broken reflections—Pallas’ knowing eyes, Odysseus’ smirking defiance.

 

Both of them were gone.

 

But neither of them would leave her.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Demeter reclined lazily on a grassy hill, the golden fields of wheat swaying below her like a rolling sea. The mortals bustled about in their usual fashion—bartering, farming, gossiping, arguing, loving, scheming. It was the same as always.

 

She took a slow bite of her apple, savoring the crisp sweetness as she watched them. Her golden eyes flicked across the cityscape below, picking out the finer details—the way a merchant subtly palmed a few extra coins from an unsuspecting customer, the quiet desperation in a mother’s hands as she counted out her last few drachmae for bread, the laughter of a group of children playing near a well, their world still untouched by suffering.

 

She exhaled through her nose. Mortals were amusing in small doses, but they rarely surprised her anymore.

 

Another bite.

 

A familiar presence tugged at her awareness, like a thread of divine energy brushing against her own. Athena .

 

Demeter didn’t need to turn her head to sense the tension rolling off the goddess. Even from here, she could tell—Athena was spiraling.

 

Again .

 

She smirked faintly, chewing slowly as she watched a farmer’s ox break free from its yoke and send him tumbling into the mud. At least some things still entertained her.

 

Demeter stretched out lazily, rolling the apple between her fingers as she turned her gaze towards Mysia. Her divine sight cut through distance and mortal veils with ease, honing in on the small, shabby home in the marketplace.

 

Her lips curled into a smirk. There you are, Ithacan.

 

Odysseus—no, Kallias , as he had so charmingly named himself—was moving about his new home with purpose. He had flour on his hands, dust in his hair, and a gleam in his eye that told her he was up to something. Again.

 

She watched as he kneaded dough with the same practiced efficiency that he once used to string his bow. His strong hands pressed into the mixture with measured force, his fingers curling, twisting, folding—working the air and tension out of it, much like he did with the people around him. He was methodical. Focused.

 

Yet there was a stiffness in his shoulders. A lingering restlessness in the way he moved. He wasn’t meant to stay here. This was temporary.

 

Demeter leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand as she observed him, chewing on her apple thoughtfully.

 

"So," she murmured to herself, "Ithaca's lost fox has decided to play the humble baker."

 

She let out a quiet chuckle.

 

The others were frenzied in their search for him—Athena was cracking, Achilles was spiraling, Agamemnon was pretending he didn’t care while clutching onto some little trinket Odysseus had made him. It was all so very dramatic.

 

And here was the man himself, casually kneading bread .

 

Gods, she loved mortals.

 

Her gaze swept over him again. His hair was darker now, his beard shorter, his blue eye half-hidden by his newly styled locks. A clever disguise, but it was still him .

 

And if she could find him, it was only a matter of time before the others did, too.

 

Demeter took another slow bite of her apple, smirking.

 

This would be fun to watch.

 

Demeter’s smirk widened as she rolled the core of her apple between her fingers. It wasn’t just any apple—it was hers . A fruit of the earth, rich with her power, ripened under her gaze. And Odysseus, ever the opportunist, had snatched one up and eaten it without a second thought back in the Greek camp.

 

She could still feel the lingering trace of it inside him, a tether between them—faint but undeniable.

 

"Ah, clever little fox," she murmured, watching him dust flour from his hands. "But even the cleverest of creatures leave a trail."

 

It was almost amusing how unknowing he was. While the gods searched, fretted, and broke things in their desperation to find him, Demeter merely had to sit back and watch . He had marked himself the moment his teeth had sunk into her fruit, carrying a taste of her wherever he went.

 

And he was still running, still building up that temporary little life of his in Mysia, oblivious to the divine eyes now resting upon him.

 

Demeter stretched, letting out a satisfied sigh.

 

"This is going to be very interesting."

 

Demeter let herself flop onto her bed, sliding down until her head dangled off the edge, her golden hair pooling against the floor. She kicked her legs idly in the air, rolling the apple core between her fingers as she mulled over the logistics of telling Athena where her precious mortal was hiding.

 

It would be amusing. Athena, so tightly wound, so furious, so desperate—it wasn’t often that the war goddess lost her composure, and Demeter lived for these little dramas among the immortals.

 

But then again… what would she get out of it?

 

Sure, the chaos would be entertaining, but Athena owed her nothing. If she just handed over Odysseus' location, she’d get, what? A curt nod? A begrudging thank you ? No, no, no—that wasn’t nearly enough.

 

She tapped the apple core against her lips.

 

Maybe a favor? Athena was prideful, but she wasn’t stupid . She would bargain if it meant getting Odysseus back.

 

Or maybe she’d let things play out a little longer.

 

It wasn’t like Odysseus was dying . He was just… baking bread in Mysia. Mysia, of all places. A mortal king’s problem, not a god’s. Let the poor man have his fun.

 

Demeter smiled to herself.

 

She’d sleep on it. Maybe by morning, she’d feel generous.

 

Maybe not.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Odysseus stood in the dimly lit kitchen of his shabby little home, staring down at the lump of dough in front of him as if it had personally insulted him. Flour coated his fingers, dusted his arms, and somehow managed to get on his face. He had kneaded, folded, and wrestled with the dough for what felt like an eternity, but it still wasn’t right . It was too sticky one moment, too dry the next, refusing to obey his hands the way a blade or a bowstring did.

 

He let out a slow breath through his nose, rolling his shoulders back. Alright. Think. How did the bakers do it?

 

His fingers dug into the dough again, stretching and folding, his muscles instinctively mimicking the motions he’d seen countless times before. He pressed his weight into it, feeling the resistance, the way it pushed back like an opponent testing his strength. It should be smooth, elastic—but instead, it tore in places, refusing to form the soft, supple consistency he was aiming for.

 

" You’re mocking me, aren’t you? " he muttered to the stubborn mass.

 

The dough did not respond.

 

He rubbed his forehead, only to smear more flour across his skin.

 

Fine. He had seen Penelope do this before. The key was patience. Something he supposedly had.

 

Odysseus picked up the dough and slapped it down on the wooden table with a satisfying thud , watching as it jiggled slightly before settling. He tried again, kneading, folding—his fingers sinking into it with firm pressure. He was met with the same defiance.

 

He growled under his breath.

 

"This is worse than negotiating with Achilles," he grumbled, yanking off a small piece and rolling it between his palms. It stuck. Badly.

 

He scowled at it.

 

He had conquered cities, outwitted kings, and tricked men into selling their souls for a fleeting advantage. And yet.

 

He poked the dough. It poked back.

 

His scowl deepened.

 

Maybe bread was just a different kind of war.

 

Odysseus stared at the dough, the dim light flickering above his head like a mocking god. The smell of flour and yeast filled the small kitchen, and his stomach rumbled in protest, as though it, too, was judging his inability to make even a simple loaf of bread. He stood there for a moment, his fingers twitching, trying to summon the patience he knew he had to have in battle, to hold his ground and wait for his opponent to slip up. But the dough wasn’t slipping up. It was mocking him.

 

“Alright,” he muttered to himself, “no more excuses. You’ve outwitted gods. You can outwit dough.”

 

His hands dove back in, pressing and folding with renewed resolve. He adjusted the angle, shifting the weight of his palms just right, feeling the dough give way beneath him. For a brief, shining moment, it felt just right. Smooth, elastic. He smiled in triumph. This is it.

 

But then, just as he was about to let the dough rise, a section of it split apart. He cursed and pressed the pieces together again. Fine. He would just need to be a little more precise, a little more careful.

 

He let out a deep breath and tried again, his hands moving with more finesse now, less brute strength, as he worked the dough into a ball, shaping it. It was a small victory. He didn’t let himself get too excited—he still had to let it rise, to let it rest before it could even think of becoming bread.

 

As he set it down on the floured surface and covered it with a cloth, Odysseus leaned back against the counter, staring at the small lump of dough. He couldn’t help the grin that tugged at his lips. Maybe he wasn’t as terrible at this as he thought.

 

There was still the baking to do, though.

 

“Alright, you’ve come this far. Time to make sure you don’t burn it.” He paced around the kitchen, gathering what he needed. The fire in the hearth was already burning low, a steady crackle of embers. He stoked it, built it up a bit, and set his baking stone in place.

 

The wait was agonizing. He tapped his foot, the hours dragging as the dough slowly rose, little by little, into something resembling a loaf.

 

When the time finally came, he moved with precision, transferring the risen dough to the stone, setting it in the oven. The heat licked at his skin as he closed the door, but there was something satisfying about it—the promise of food. The bread.

 

Now, all that was left was to wait. And pray it didn’t turn into a charred disaster.

 

He stared at the oven, arms crossed over his chest. "You’d better not fail me now," he muttered, tapping his fingers against his elbow. "Not after all this."

 

The quiet of the room settled in around him. The bread was on its way.

 

A loud knock echoed through the small, musty room, breaking the tension in Odysseus’ chest. He glanced toward the door, his brows furrowing. It was well past the time when anyone should be out here looking for him. A customer? Or maybe a curious neighbor?

 

The door creaked open with a hesitant push, and there stood a figure, half-covered in shadows. His hair—long, black, with an odd tint of purple—obscured his face, and his chiton was draped loosely, as though he had stumbled into the place on a whim. The man swayed slightly on his feet, clearly intoxicated.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Dionysus staggered through the streets of Mysia, his head pounding like the gods themselves were hammering nails into his skull. His body swayed dangerously, each step a precarious battle against the overwhelming nausea that churned within him. The day’s sunlight was a cruel mockery, searing into his eyes and making everything seem... too bright .

 

Wine had been his faithful companion last night, and now it had repaid him in full. The gods be damned, his head felt like it was going to split open, and his stomach was a battlefield of its own. But there was something worse than the hangover—the hunger .

 

It wasn’t just any hunger. It was an animalistic craving for something, anything, that would take away the sour taste in his mouth and the endless twisting ache in his gut. Something greasy, something hearty. Something real .

 

And then... he caught it. The scent.

 

Bread. Freshly baked bread, still warm from the oven.

 

"Gods damn it," Dionysus muttered to himself, squinting against the sunlight as he stumbled toward the smell. It was almost like a beacon guiding him to salvation.

 

His steps grew more frantic as he got closer to the source, and he didn’t even bother with any sense of dignity. His chiton was askew, his hair a mess, and his drunken stupor was so thick that he could barely focus on anything. But that smell... it was drawing him in like a moth to a flame.

 

He reached the door of a small, unremarkable bakery and knocked loudly, his fist banging against the wood with more force than necessary. He didn’t have time for politeness. The bread. The bread had to be now .

 

The door creaked open, and a man with oddly styled hair appeared, looking calm as ever despite the wild-eyed drunken god standing in front of him.

 

Dionysus blinked slowly, trying to focus his eyes, and then grinned wildly.

 

“I want bread," he slurred, swaying slightly on his feet. "You make bread, right? Not that I care who the hell you are, just give me the damn bread.”

 

“.. Uhm.. Yes. My name is Kallias, sir.” 

 

The man—Kallias, or whatever he called himself—gave him a look that was almost too patient for someone being bombarded by a drunkard at midday.

 

“Uh... sure,” Kallias said, stepping back to allow Dionysus inside. “Sit down. I’ll have it ready soon.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just make it quick,” Dionysus grumbled, swaying slightly as he stumbled over to the table, practically collapsing into the chair. His hands were shaking, his stomach growling louder than his pounding headache. He could already taste the bread, feel its warmth in his hands, and he couldn’t wait another second.

 

Kallias went to work, but Dionysus didn’t have the patience to sit quietly. He kicked his legs back and forth, the motion making him dizzy. His hand reached for his wineskin that was still hanging loosely from his belt, and he took a swig, grimacing at the taste. It wasn’t the best—hell, it wasn’t even close—but it was alcohol, and that was all he had.

 

"Come on!" Dionysus growled at Kallias, who was still working in the kitchen. "Are you going to stand around all day? I’m dying here."

 

Kallias didn’t seem too concerned, though. He kept moving around calmly, preparing the bread as if dealing with a drunk god was the most ordinary thing in the world.

 

"Patience," Kallias said, his voice annoyingly steady. “It’ll be ready when it’s ready.”

 

Dionysus let out an exaggerated sigh, but his eyes flickered toward the oven, watching the bread rise slowly.

 

“I could make better bread with one hand tied behind my back,” Dionysus muttered under his breath. The pride of a god who knew what he was capable of, even in his drunken stupor. “But fine, take your sweet time.”

 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity to the starving god, Kallias came back over, placing a loaf of bread in front of him.

 

Dionysus grabbed it immediately, tearing into it like a wild animal. There was no grace, no elegance—just a frantic, desperate need to eat . The bread was warm, soft, and fresh, and it filled him with a sense of relief that only hunger could bring.

 

“Finally,” Dionysus muttered, stuffing another piece into his mouth. “Gods, I was about to—” He stopped mid-sentence, blinking at the loaf in his hand. He was about to say something else, something sharp, but... for some reason, Kallias’ calm demeanor was starting to get under his skin.

 

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at Kallias with a squint, almost as if seeing him for the first time.

 

"Hey," Dionysus said, his tone suddenly switching to one of annoyance, "Who the hell are you, anyway? Kallias, right? What kind of name is that?"

 

Kallias gave him an unbothered look, which only made Dionysus want to press further.

 

“What’s the deal with you?” Dionysus continued, his words slurring even more. "What kind of man... makes bread... and isn’t drunk on wine? Weird.”

 

Kallias didn’t respond, just watching him with that irritating, calm expression. Dionysus scowled at him.

 

"I mean, if you’re going to just make bread and pretend like you’re some goddamn... perfect baker or whatever, at least enjoy life,” Dionysus said, his hand reaching for another piece of bread. He wasn’t about to pass up more food. "It’s not like anyone around here’s perfect. You’re gonna go crazy like everyone else if you keep living like this."

 

With that, he slammed the bread back into his mouth, chewing loudly. He wasn’t interested in a philosophical conversation or whatever Kallias was trying to do. He was here for one thing: bread.

 

After a few more moments of silence, he wiped his mouth and glared at Kallias. “Maybe next time I’ll just steal the damn thing,” Dionysus muttered, though there was no malice behind his words, just the drunken hum of a god who couldn’t be bothered with the details anymore.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Odysseus, still trying to calm the storm of thoughts racing through his mind, gave the drunkard in front of him a once-over. He was clearly in no state to be coherent, eyes glassy and breath heavy with alcohol. His voice, though demanding, had a slurred edge to it. The man was... just another drunkard, a wanderer looking for bread and trouble.

 

Odysseus wiped his hands on his apron, then placed the bread on the counter. "You're lucky I even have the time for this," he muttered under his breath, eyeing the man warily. “You're no better than any of the other drunks who stagger through here. And you’ve probably forgotten your manners already, too.”

 

The man’s posture wavered, and he gave Odysseus a rather exaggerated, drunken grin. "I—uh—" The drunk stumbled over his words, still holding the bread in his hand as if it were the most important thing in the world. "I just... needed food. You know? Some bread. You look like you know what you're doing with that dough."

 

Odysseus didn’t respond to the compliment, too busy sizing him up with that same calculating look he always wore. The man reeked of wine, and he was loud, obnoxious, and completely out of sorts. Typical for a drunkard.

 

"You really think you can come in here, stagger around and talk like that, and still expect me to serve you?" Odysseus asked, his voice holding a sharp edge. "You must be out of your mind. If you’re looking for entertainment, you’re in the wrong place."

 

The man tilted his head slightly as though trying to focus, then gave a little, drunken laugh. “You got a sharp tongue for someone in a—what do you call this place? A bakery?” He waved his hand as if dismissing the concept altogether.

 

Odysseus eyed him, shaking his head. He wasn’t in the mood for games, especially not with someone like this. "Whatever you want to call it, drunkard, I’m here making bread, not looking for trouble. But if you keep being an annoyance, I'll have no problem telling you to leave."

 

The man—who Odysseus assumed to be nothing more than a rambling drunk—suddenly moved closer, and for a brief moment, Odysseus tensed. But the man only took a seat at the counter, still clutching the bread, oblivious to the fact that Odysseus had already written him off. He wasn't important enough for Odysseus to waste any more energy on.

 

"Damn," the man mumbled, rubbing his face. "You’re tough, you know that? I think I’m starting to like you."

 

Odysseus, now returning to the work he was attempting to finish, let out a sigh. "Just don’t break anything. You’re lucky I’m even giving you this."

 

The man’s eyes flashed momentarily, but he only shrugged, taking another bite of the bread. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Bread’s bread. But you... I don’t know. You’re different, Kallias ."

 

The name hit Odysseus like a sudden reminder that he was far from being alone in his misery. Still, he didn't bother to correct him. It was a good enough alias for the time being.

 

"Keep eating. You’ll find your way out soon enough," Odysseus muttered.

 

The man let out a lazy laugh. “I think I’ll stay a bit longer. You might just be the most interesting mortal I’ve met in a while.” He raised his drink in some drunken salute, then turned back toward Odysseus with that irritating, intoxicated grin still plastered on his face.

 

Odysseus just shook his head, deciding it wasn't worth engaging further. He'd just keep making bread and ignoring this annoyance—whoever this drunkard was.

 

 

Chapter 19: ✩﹒Bread Disaster﹐┄﹒🍞

Odysseus stood at the counter, the warm glow of the fire flickering in the corner of the room, casting shadows on the stone walls. His hands moved methodically, instinctively, as he kneaded the dough. He was no baker by trade, but this had become a strange, newfound obsession.

 

The bread was nearly done. He had the basics: flour, water, salt, and yeast. But something was missing. The idea had come to him earlier that day, as he stared blankly at the market, surrounded by fresh fruits and vegetables. He could add a twist to it—a sweet, tart touch. Raspberry swirls, perhaps.

 

Odysseus didn’t expect it to be so difficult, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized it wasn’t just a matter of adding fruit to dough. No, there had to be a technique. The raspberry should be infused into the bread without overwhelming the texture. Too much, and it would collapse; too little, and it would be just another plain loaf.

 

He found himself wandering over to a nearby counter where a small wooden bowl sat, the ripe raspberries he’d picked earlier glistening under the light. He gently crushed them with a fork, releasing their juices, careful not to make it a puree. It had to have a texture, a contrast to the soft bread.

 

The first time he tried mixing the raspberries in, it didn’t go as planned. The dough became sticky, too wet, too saturated, and it didn’t hold together. It was a disaster. He nearly gave up, standing there, staring at the mess, his brow furrowed with frustration.

 

But no, he wouldn’t let it defeat him. He had faced worse. Much worse.

 

Odysseus wiped his hands, taking a deep breath. He needed a different approach. He remembered seeing the bakers in the camps back in Ithaca work the dough with patience. They didn’t rush, didn’t panic. They worked in rhythm, each movement measured.

 

Grabbing another handful of flour, he sprinkled it across the countertop. Carefully, he started kneading again, adding the raspberries in stages, just enough at a time, folding them in gently like a secret. The dough became pliable again, no longer sticky, no longer unruly. Each time he added a little more fruit, he could feel it working—feel the balance shifting.

 

Once the dough was prepared, he began to roll it out, forming long, delicate twists, carefully placing the sweet berries into the folds, making sure the raspberry swirls were evenly spaced, giving the bread a marbled effect. The swirls ran through the soft dough like veins of color, their ruby red a contrast to the pale dough.

 

Odysseus smiled at his work, finally pleased with the results. He didn’t know what possessed him to try such an intricate thing, but there was something oddly satisfying about it. There was still so much unknown about this place, this life he was leading. The bread had become a small comfort, a challenge that grounded him, that helped him escape the overwhelming thoughts of his past.

 

He slid the dough into the oven, leaning back against the counter, his hands on his hips. The smell of baking bread, with the tart sweetness of raspberries, filled the small room. It was peaceful in here, if not a bit lonely.

 

But perhaps it was a new beginning. Maybe he could find some small solace in the simplicity of bread.

 

Odysseus stood near the oven, his anticipation growing as the smell of baking bread swirled around the room. He could already imagine the first bite—the soft, warm dough, sweetened with a hint of raspberry, the swirls of fruit that would break apart on the tongue. This was going to be it , he thought.

 

He checked the bread every few minutes, carefully watching it rise, the smell becoming more intoxicating. But as the minutes stretched on, he began to grow impatient, feeling the time slip by. Maybe it needed just a little more. A little longer in the heat. He couldn’t resist.

 

After what seemed like an eternity, Odysseus finally opened the oven door, a wave of steam escaping, and— the sight was not what he had expected .

 

The bread had blackened on top, the once-soft surface now charred and cracked. The raspberries that had once looked so perfect had melted into a sticky, burnt mess, and the dough—well, it was no longer dough. It was a hard, shriveled thing, browned and overcooked.

 

Odysseus blinked, staring at the disaster before him, his shoulders slumping in disbelief. He had failed . Again.

 

He rubbed his eyes, pressing a hand to his face, the frustration rising in him. What was wrong with him? How could he get this wrong so many times? Bread, of all things. It was supposed to be simple. Yet here he stood, staring at the burnt remains of what was supposed to be a comforting meal.

 

“No. No, this can’t be it.”

 

He muttered to himself as he grabbed the oven mitts and carefully pulled the burnt loaf out. The heat didn’t bother him anymore; he was too far gone in his self-imposed frustration. Holding the loaves, he gently tapped them on the counter. A hollow sound echoed. Not a good sign.

 

He stared at the mess for a long moment, then sighed deeply, the weight of his frustration heavy on his chest. For a brief, fleeting moment, the thought of abandoning the whole thing crossed his mind. Maybe he wasn’t cut out for this. Maybe he should just go back to wandering, back to his old ways, where failure wasn’t this... personal.

 

But then, as quickly as the thought came, it left. He had no choice but to press on. He had been through worse, much worse. And this... this was just bread. He could make it again.

 

With a scowl, he gathered the burnt loaf and threw it into the corner, out of sight. He wasn’t going to let this ruin his day.

 

“No,” he muttered to himself again, more firmly this time. “We’ll try again.”

 

He quickly moved back to the counter, pushing the ingredients back into place. The flour, the yeast, the water—he would measure everything more carefully this time. No more rushing. He needed to be methodical, like the way he once planned his strategies in battle. Precision. Patience.

 

Odysseus cracked a faint smile at the thought. It was just bread, after all. He had conquered much harder challenges than this.

 

And this would be no different.

 

Odysseus stood before his cluttered counter, a sense of determination washing over him. His first attempt had been a disaster, but he was far from giving up. If anything, the failure spurred him on. He had faced impossible odds before and come out on top, so why should bread be any different?

 

"Alright," he muttered to himself, cracking his knuckles. "Let's get this right."

 

He decided on an ambitious approach: four loaves, each made in a completely different way. Let’s see what works.

 

The first loaf he would attempt was his classic—simple, straightforward, no frills. Just flour, water, salt, and yeast, with no extra additives or complications. He wanted to master the basics before moving on to anything wild. His hands moved quickly, measuring the flour with practiced precision. The warm smell of yeast began to fill the air as he mixed the dough, the texture soft and sticky under his fingers.

 

“This one’s got to be perfect,” Odysseus murmured, kneading the dough as if his life depended on it. It was oddly meditative, feeling the resistance of the dough under his palms. He could imagine the satisfying rise, the soft texture inside when it came out of the oven.

 

Once it was kneaded to his satisfaction, he covered it with a cloth and placed it in the corner to rise. He moved to the next loaf with a quiet determination.

 

For the second loaf, he decided to experiment. A sweet bread. Something with a touch of honey to soften the flavor. He reached for the honey jar and poured a generous amount into the mixture, watching the golden liquid swirl into the dough. Then, he added cinnamon, raisins, and a dash of vanilla. The scent already reminded him of the kitchens back at Ithaca, where Ctimene had once baked pies and cakes. The thought of home made him smile bittersweetly.

 

“This will be a nice change,” he said as he mixed the ingredients together. The dough came together easily, soft and aromatic. He was starting to feel more confident now. After all, he had been through worse situations. A little bread couldn’t break him.

 

Loaf number three would be savory—a hearty bread. Odysseus decided on a more robust recipe, adding olive oil, garlic, rosemary, and some shredded cheese. As he mixed these ingredients together, the dough became rich with flavor, the scent of the rosemary already filling the room. The olive oil gave it a glossy sheen as he kneaded it, and the sharp scent of garlic was comforting in its own way. It was the kind of bread that would pair well with roasted meats. The thought made his stomach growl.

 

“Yeah, this one’s going to be good ,” he muttered with a grin, giving the dough a final fold before leaving it to rise in its own corner of the counter.

 

Finally, the fourth loaf. The most ambitious. A rustic, hearty, multigrain bread. Odysseus gathered the ingredients: a mix of whole wheat flour, oats, flaxseeds, and sunflower seeds. This one was going to require extra care, especially with the uneven textures and the grains that needed to be incorporated perfectly into the dough. He carefully mixed the grains in with the flour, taking his time with each fold. The texture was rougher, a little denser, but he could feel it coming together.

 

As he worked on the multigrain loaf, he couldn’t help but think of his companions—his men, his comrades, even those he didn’t particularly like. Would they be impressed with his bread? He couldn't help but chuckle softly. In a way, this bread represented something more than just sustenance. It was his chance to prove something to himself. A simple, humble task. But it was one he had control over, unlike so many other parts of his life.

 

Once all four loaves were prepared, he set them aside, wiping his brow as he gazed at his work. There they were—four distinct creations, each with its own identity. His mind already drifted to how he would bake them, the different methods of heat and timing he’d need for each.

 

Odysseus paused for a moment, letting the quiet satisfaction of his hard work wash over him. The bread doughs sat, proofing and waiting. In the silence, he allowed himself a moment of peace, free from the weight of the gods, the war, and all the tumult that had once followed him around.

 

"Let’s see which one of you will rise to the occasion," he muttered with a half-smile, before moving on to prepare the oven.

 

The bread would be ready soon. And, for once, he would be ready for it.

 

Odysseus opened the oven, the heat nearly hitting him like a wave. The bread had been in there longer than he'd intended—he’d lost track of time while he was lost in his thoughts. The scent of burnt dough immediately assaulted his senses.

 

He pulled each loaf out, one by one, and his heart sank as he stared at the charred remains. The first loaf, the simple one—its edges were blackened, a hard crust that had risen unevenly. The second, the sweet honey-cinnamon bread, was a mess of overcooked raisins and a burnt scent that made his stomach twist. The garlic and rosemary loaf? The cheese had melted and turned into an unrecognizable blob of burnt goo, the bread underneath a thick, brittle mass.

 

But it was the multigrain loaf that made him feel like he might snap. It was beyond redemption. The grains had stuck to the pan in patches, leaving it uneven and scorched. The whole thing had collapsed under the heat, looking more like a burnt pancake than any kind of bread.

 

Odysseus slammed the oven door shut and exhaled through his teeth, his shoulders slumping. “This... this is some kind of joke.”

 

He stood there, holding the scorched loaves in his hands, staring at them in disbelief. Was Demeter—goddess of harvest and grain—somehow messing with him? Was she looking down from the heavens, cackling as she watched his efforts turn to ash? He was pretty sure it had to be her at this point. Who else could make his efforts fail so spectacularly?

 

"Demeter, you bitch ," he muttered under his breath, tossing the loaves onto the counter in frustration. The remnants of his failed baking attempts looked like they were mocking him, each blackened loaf a symbol of his inability to succeed at something so simple.

 

He placed his hands on his hips and took a long, steadying breath, trying to calm himself. He wasn’t going to lose to bread. No. He had lost battles, wars, even his crew—but he wasn’t going to let dough defeat him. No way in hell.

 

“I’ll do it again. I’ll fix this,” he muttered, pacing around the tiny kitchen. “Next time, I’ll time it better. I’ll—”

 

He glanced at the burnt bread again, then back at the empty oven. Something in him just… snapped.

 

“Maybe I’ll just go back to fighting harpies or whatever the hell else,” he grumbled, as if the world had truly conspired against him.

 

But just as he was about to turn and walk out, the faintest thought flickered in his mind: This isn’t the end.

 

Odysseus grabbed the burnt loaves and, with a last defiant look at the oven, shoved them into a basket. Maybe, just maybe, the gods had more to teach him.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Demeter sat perched comfortably on a cushioned chair in the divine space she had claimed for herself—a place where she could enjoy the fruit of her own hard work, away from the mortal realm. A perfectly ripe apple lay in her lap, and she was lazily nibbling at it, her eyes flickering with mild interest as she observed the mortal world through the veil that separated them.

 

She had been keeping an eye on Odysseus for a while, curious about what he was up to. Of course, she wasn't directly involved in his cooking mishaps, nor was she particularly invested in his bread-baking journey. But she couldn’t help but watch as the former king, now disguised as “Kallias,” floundered in his humble little kitchen.

 

Demeter raised an eyebrow as Odysseus pulled out his first burnt loaf, the scent of overcooked bread wafting through the air even from this distance. Really? She thought, her lips curling into an amused smirk. The man had failed to bake bread. Of all the mortals she had watched over, he was... perhaps the most disappointing baker.

 

Another loaf came out, equally disastrous, followed by another, and another, each one looking more burnt and irredeemable than the last. Demeter tilted her head, her expression flickering between disbelief and genuine bafflement.

 

“How does he...?” she trailed off, shaking her head. “How can a mortal fail at bread this badly?”

 

She set her apple aside, unable to tear her eyes away from the chaotic mess Odysseus had turned his kitchen into. Her fingers lightly tapped the arm of her chair in contemplation. Is he just that incompetent? She couldn't fathom how someone with so many other qualities—survival, wit, tactical brilliance—could be so utterly useless at something so simple. The gods’ creations—grain, wheat—had been the backbone of civilization for ages, and here he was, turning it into charred dust.

 

With an almost imperceptible sigh, Demeter ran a hand through her hair, her expression unreadable. He really is hopeless with bread, she mused. But I had nothing to do with this. Not my doing.

 

The goddess of the harvest allowed herself a moment of quiet amusement at the absurdity of the situation. Maybe Odysseus wasn’t quite as perfect as he liked to think. Maybe it was just his fate to be baffled by the simplest things— like bread.

 

As she thought about it, Demeter’s expression softened ever so slightly. "Well, at least he’s trying. I suppose that counts for something..."

 

But she wasn’t about to give him any help. Odysseus had never really asked for her assistance before—why should he now? No, this was something he’d have to figure out on his own. Even if it was just bread.

 

After all, Demeter’s powers were reserved for the fields and harvest, not the ridiculous, unglamorous task of perfecting a loaf of bread. He’s on his own for this one, she concluded with a half-smile.

 

As Demeter sat back in her chair, watching the mortals below in their ceaseless struggles, she heard it.

 

A voice, loud and clear, echoed through the veil—a sharp, irate cry that made her roll her eyes.

 

"Demeter, you bitch !"

 

Her hand froze midair, the apple she'd been nibbling on pausing near her lips as the words cut through her thoughts like a blade. For a moment, there was a stunned silence. Then, as the words sank in, her expression shifted, a mixture of surprise and amusement tugging at the corners of her lips.

 

"Did he just—" Demeter murmured to herself, incredulous.

 

She blinked slowly, absorbing the audacity of the comment. "Oh, he did," she mused aloud, her voice rich with both offense and amusement.

 

Her fingers drummed on the armrest of her chair as she thought for a moment. Well, that's a first. A mortal calling me a bitch... She let out a breath, half annoyed, half entertained.

 

A small chuckle escaped her as she recalled Odysseus’ latest culinary disaster—his bread was practically inedible, and now he was directing his frustration at her? It was almost funny, in a way. She could almost picture him, hands on his hips, glaring at the sky as he cursed her name for... well, bread.

 

She let out another low, amused breath, the corners of her mouth curling upward. That’s the spirit, Odysseus, she thought, shaking her head. He’s stubborn, I’ll give him that. But... A sly smile tugged at her lips. He’s blaming me for bread now. That’s rich.

 

Her amusement deepened as she visualized his frustrated face, his unkempt hair falling over his brow, and that unmistakable arrogance in his posture—assuming, of course, that she would intervene just because he couldn't get a loaf right. She thought about how he probably felt entitled to some divine assistance, but... Nope. Not today, Odysseus.

 

"Well, I’m not helping him now," she muttered, a trace of mockery in her voice as she leaned back in her chair.

 

It wasn’t so much the insult that irked her, but the fact that he was blaming her for his own shortcomings in the kitchen. Demeter had little patience for people who tried to sidestep their own responsibility, and if Odysseus couldn’t handle his own bread-baking failures, she was in no mood to clean up his mess.

 

She continued to chuckle, shaking her head at the absurdity of it all. Who does he think he is, anyway?

 

Her grin widened, a little wickedly, as she let the feeling pass. "Well, if he’s going to call me a bitch, I guess I’ll let him work it out on his own."

 

The sound of Odysseus’ continued failures—the hissing of the bread burning and his frustrated sighs—drifted up into her divine space. It was a reminder that even the gods couldn’t protect mortals from their own follies... especially when it came to something as simple as baking.

 

“Good luck with that, Odysseus,” Demeter murmured under her breath, taking another bite of her apple, her expression softening with a hint of fondness. “You’re on your own for this one.”

 

Her eyes glinted with both affection and amusement as she resumed her lazy lounging, content to watch him, the persistent idiot, as he fumbled his way through it all.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Odysseus stood in the middle of his tiny kitchen, sweat dripping from his brow as he glared down at the flour-covered countertop. His hands, still shaking from the failed attempts, grasped the bowl of dough like it was his last hope. His patience was running out faster than the sand in an hourglass.

 

He had failed—again. The bread was burnt, the dough too stiff, and now... he was out of ingredients. It was a catastrophe. He growled under his breath, eye twitching in frustration as he took in the wreckage of his latest attempts.

 

"Dammit..." he muttered, slamming his fist lightly on the counter. "This isn't hard, this is just... food!"

 

He'd tried everything—the raspberries, the perfect measurements, even extra salt to make it more palatable. Yet, each loaf that emerged from the oven was either burnt to a crisp or an undercooked, soggy disaster. The smell was unbearable, the bread a charred ruin.

 

His gaze drifted back to the oven, where his latest creation sat—blackened, completely unsalvageable. He was done.

 

"I swear to the gods, if Demeter is messing with me..." Odysseus growled, half under his breath as he dragged his hands through his now-disheveled hair, eyeing the door as if it were the culprit of his misfortune.

 

A burst of frustration shot through him. It was his last loaf of bread, the one he had tried to perfect. His mouth watered at the thought of a simple meal—just a loaf of bread to call his own—but all he had was ash and charred disappointment.

 

I could go out and beg for food, he thought, but the idea was too humiliating. He wasn’t about to lose his pride by begging for scraps in the middle of Mysia.

 

Odysseus’ gaze shifted to the counter where the dough lay waiting. Maybe... one more try?

 

With a heavy sigh, he began to knead the dough again, desperately throwing more flour into the mix. His hands worked mechanically, his mind frazzled from the failures, but he wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet. He could fix it—he had to.

 

The pressure to succeed mounted in his chest. Not for the bread, not for hunger, but for himself. To prove that he could do this. Something, anything, right.

 

But as he pounded the dough, another thought crossed his mind—a half-formed idea that hit him like a bolt of lightning.

 

What if Demeter is really toying with me? He hadn't met her, but if she was upset with him for running off—well, he wouldn't put it past her to sabotage a simple loaf of bread.

 

Another curse slipped from his lips, a mix of desperation and amusement. As much as he wanted to deny it, Odysseus couldn't shake the feeling that the gods were watching him. And for the first time in a long while, he truly had no idea what to do next.

 

Odysseus stood there, glaring at the dough. His hands trembled as he took a deep breath, wiping the sweat off his forehead. He had no idea what he was doing at this point. He had never even spoken to Demeter, nor seen her—yet somehow, he couldn’t shake the suspicion that someone was screwing with him. And if it was Demeter, well, he’d rather deal with her wrath than let this damn bread defeat him.

 

With a growl, he slapped the dough down on the counter. "Fine. Let's see what happens now." His voice was low, almost a growl as he grabbed the rolling pin and flattened the dough with a little more force than necessary. The dough yielded easily, and he wasn’t sure if it was his hands or his sheer irritation driving him, but for once, everything seemed to fall into place.

 

He shaped the dough with a little more care, rolling it into perfect little loaves. It felt... right. It felt like he was doing something that wasn’t a complete failure for once.

 

"Finally," he muttered to himself. "For the love of the gods, finally. "

 

Odysseus turned to the oven, preheating it with a sense of finality. He had the fire in his chest now. This bread was going to work. It had to.

 

As the loaves baked in the oven, he paced back and forth impatiently, his mind racing. Could he really pull this off? Could he make something worth eating? He had made hundreds of plans on the battlefield, countless tricks and strategies—was baking bread really the thing that was going to break him?

 

He stopped his pacing and gave a quick, frustrated laugh. Who knew it would be this hard?

 

After what felt like a century, the smell wafted through the air. He stopped dead in his tracks and took a deep breath. The scent of bread, actual bread , filled the room—warm, golden, and comforting. He rushed over to the oven, heart pounding, and opened the door with trembling hands.

 

The bread was perfectly golden, crisp on the outside, and soft on the inside.

 

Odysseus stared at it for a moment, utterly stunned. There were no burns, no sagging loaves. Just perfect bread.

 

" Finally, " he muttered again, this time with a genuine grin spreading across his face. He pulled the loaves from the oven, letting them cool for a few moments. His stomach growled loudly, but he didn’t care. He was staring at the fruit of his labor—and it was glorious.

 

It was finally going right.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

Eurylochus sat slumped at the table in their makeshift camp, his eyes bloodshot and rimmed with exhaustion. His fingers drummed against the wooden surface, a nervous tick he hadn’t been able to shake. It had been days since they had last heard from Odysseus. And as each day passed, Eurylochus felt the weight of his responsibility bear down on him more and more.

 

The men were getting restless. The supply lines were thin, and every decision he made was met with harsh criticism. He wasn’t Odysseus. He didn’t have the same charisma, the same cleverness, the same ability to make the impossible seem like a strategy. Eurylochus was good in his own right, but in the absence of his commander, it felt like everything was crumbling.

 

The camp was quieter than usual today—too quiet. The men were all exhausted, not just from the physical toll of war, but from the mental strain of worrying about their missing leader. Every day without Odysseus felt like another day they were losing the war.

 

Where the hell are you, Odysseus?

 

Eurylochus rubbed his face, trying to stave off the crushing fatigue. He could feel his sanity fraying at the edges, the exhaustion slowly turning into something deeper. Something darker. He had taken over when Odysseus went missing, but he knew he was failing. He could see the doubt in the eyes of the men who had once followed their commander so easily.

 

Even Achilles had been oddly distant lately. The younger warrior’s brashness and fiery spirit had been tempered by worry, a worry that had only grown with time. They all felt it. They all feared the worst.

 

Eurylochus pushed back from the table, standing up too quickly and nearly falling over. His vision swam for a moment, but he shook his head and steadied himself. He could barely remember the last time he had slept properly, or even eaten. His body ached, his mind was clouded, and all he could think about was Odysseus .

 

What had happened to him?

 

"Dammit," Eurylochus muttered under his breath, pacing in the small space. "Dammit all..."

 

He had done everything he could. He’d sent out scouts, kept the men in line, tried to keep the peace, but no matter what he did, the feeling of losing haunted him. The men needed their captain back. They needed Odysseus.

 

But what if he was gone for good? What if the gods had taken him? What if they were all left in this war, stranded without the one man who could turn everything around?

 

The thoughts clawed at him, each one more frantic than the last. He stopped pacing for a moment, his hand resting on the side of his head as he leaned against the post.

 

"Where are you?" Eurylochus whispered, his voice breaking. He closed his eyes, as if trying to will Odysseus back into existence. But there was no answer. Just silence.

 

He wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hand, suddenly feeling the full weight of what he had been holding inside for so long. His resolve was crumbling, and he didn’t know how much longer he could keep pretending that everything was okay.

 

They needed Odysseus. And he was running out of time to fix everything before they all fell apart.

 

With a shaky breath, Eurylochus finally straightened up, trying to gather some semblance of strength. He had to be the leader now, even if it hurt. Even if he didn’t want to. But the pain of losing Odysseus was threatening to consume him.

 

"Stay strong," he whispered, though the words sounded hollow in the silence of the camp. "Stay strong for them, Eurylochus."

 

But even as he spoke, he knew. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep up the act.

 

It had only been three days.

 

Three days without Odysseus.

 

But to Eurylochus, it felt like years. Each hour stretched endlessly, suffocating him with its weight. The men had looked to him for leadership, but with every passing moment, the doubts gnawed at him, made his confidence slip away.

 

The food stores were low, and morale had already started to plummet. They were supposed to be regrouping for the next push, but instead, they were stuck in limbo, waiting for their leader to return.

 

The pressure felt unbearable.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Odysseus stood in the cramped kitchen of his shabby little rented space, flour dusting his face like a badge of honor. His hands were sticky with dough, and his once-perfectly styled hair now looked like a wild, flour-covered mess. He had been at this for hours, kneading, mixing, cursing under his breath as loaf after loaf came out either too burnt or too undercooked. But now, this batch, this one, this was finally it.

 

He had never thought bread would be the thing to break him. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been through literal wars, the wrath of gods, and endless chaos. But the art of making bread? That was a challenge he never anticipated. How had something so simple become so infuriating? The gods had to be laughing at him right now.

 

The dough on the counter had finally, finally come together. It wasn’t perfect. There were some weird lumps here and there, but nothing Odysseus hadn’t seen in worse battles. This was the bread that would not fail. He could feel it in his bones, even though they were aching from kneading too much.

 

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, but instead of finding cool skin, he was greeted by a handful of flour. With a groan, he wiped his hand across his apron, realizing too late that it only smeared the flour more. His clothes, which had been new just a few days ago, were now looking like he had been in the thick of battle—bread battle, but a battle nonetheless.

 

His eyes lingered on the bowl where the dough was slowly rising, the warm air from the fire making it swell nicely. He had, at long last, gotten it to the perfect consistency. The gods, even if they weren’t actively trying to ruin his life right now, must have taken pity on him. And yet, the fact that he was so damn proud of bread seemed a little beneath him. He had single-handedly tricked an entire city with a wooden horse, but here he was, patting himself on the back because his dough was… adequate.

 

Still, he couldn’t deny the sense of relief washing over him as he gazed at the proofing dough. This was progress. This was success .

 

“Who knew all it took to be great,” he muttered to himself, “was flour, yeast, and a hell of a lot of patience.”

 

He let out a breath, leaning against the counter, surveying the small kitchen around him. His fingers were covered in sticky dough, and his shirt was splattered with flour. He had the look of a man who had just fought a great battle—a battle with bread. And yet, this was the calmest he'd felt in days. Not in months, not in years— days .

 

It was strange, really, how his mind seemed to settle into a rhythm here. The kitchen didn’t have the constant pressure of impending doom. There were no warriors looking for his command or gods with axes to grind. No one expected him to come up with some brilliant, world-altering idea. There was only the bread. And for once, that was enough.

 

And yet, a small, quiet part of him—probably the part that had been honed through years of war and strategic thinking—kept wondering if something was wrong. Was it really this simple now? Was he really going to be okay living out the rest of his days in this... rustic bakery, making bread for the people of Mysia? How would that even work?

 

“Well, it’s a hell of a lot more peaceful than Troy,” Odysseus muttered to himself, flinging a towel over his shoulder as he checked the oven.

 

He still didn’t know what he was going to do next. But at least he had bread now. Which was more than he could say yesterday. He gave the dough one last look of approval, nodding to himself like a man who had just solved the greatest puzzle of his life.

 

The bread was still in the oven, but as he wiped the sweat off his brow with a flour-coated hand, a small, rather embarrassed part of him had to admit it: he was actually kind of enjoying this. Who would have thought that, after everything he had done, his greatest success would be baking bread? Maybe it was the gods who were really messing with him, not the other way around.

 

Odysseus stood there, silently contemplating the absurdity of it all. The greatest strategist of the Trojan War, conqueror of cities, master of strategy, former king of Ithaca, reduced to… bread baker . He laughed to himself.

 

“You couldn’t have warned me about this, could you, my lady?” he asked aloud to the empty room, though the goddess was, of course, nowhere to be found. He half expected her to come down and strike him with lightning for his insolence, but all he heard in response was the quiet crackling of the fire and the soft bubbling sound of the dough.

 

“Well, it’s not so bad, I suppose,” he said with a shrug. "Maybe I’ll be a baker ."

 

The gods might be cursed, but for now, Odysseus could at least have bread. And as he glanced at the small loaf coming out of the oven, he couldn't help but smile. It wasn't just any loaf—it was his loaf.

 

A smile spread across his face, and he let out a satisfied sigh.

 

“Not so bad at all.”

 

Odysseus placed the freshly baked bread on the cooling rack, admiring it for a moment. It wasn’t perfect, but it was his, and that was enough. He stepped back and wiped his hands on the rag hanging from his belt. The scent of the warm, yeasty bread filled the room, and for a moment, it felt like the simplest, most peaceful life he could have imagined. No battles, no gods demanding favors, no kings or soldiers at his feet.

 

But as the heat from the oven faded and the cool breeze from the open window swirled through the room, the nagging pull of Ithaca returned to his mind.

 

Two weeks, he thought. That was the plan. He had made up his mind. The ships would be coming to the docks soon—two weeks was all he had left. He could finish out this quiet life here, in Mysia, baking bread, maybe. But there was one thing that kept dragging him back to Ithaca—the unfinished business. His kingdom, his wife, his son.

 

Penelope. Telemachus. His heart twisted at the thought of them. He had been gone for so long now that he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to sleep in his own bed, to see Penelope’s smile when she teased him for being too serious. Telemachus, still a boy, growing up without his father.

 

A deep sigh left Odysseus as he stared out the window, watching the gentle ebb and flow of the sea. The ships—his way home—would be docking soon. He had been trying to push the thought of returning out of his mind. Mysia was peaceful, and for the first time in years, he felt like he could breathe. He had bread, he had space, he had quiet. It was everything he could have asked for... almost .

 

The weight of responsibility, though, was a heavy thing. It hung over him like a shadow, a reminder of his past life, his choices, the unfinished war, and the people waiting for him.

 

"Ithaca," he muttered softly to himself, the word feeling like a foreign land he hadn’t visited in too long. But the ships would come in two weeks. His stomach churned at the thought. It had been too long since he had seen his son, since he had held his wife in his arms.

 

Odysseus turned back toward the cooling bread, the scent still hanging in the air, a reminder of the simple pleasures he had here. He could stay. He could keep baking bread for the rest of his days. The thought of it almost felt comfortable—he would be content. But it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t just some baker. He wasn’t just a merchant wandering from place to place. He was Odysseus of Ithaca. King. Father. Husband.

 

He had unfinished business to take care of. It was time to go back.

 

But first, he thought, glancing one last time at the bread—he needed to make sure it would last. This would be his last day in Mysia. After all, it wasn’t wise to leave a perfectly baked loaf behind.

 

Two weeks, he reminded himself. Two weeks until the ships came. Until he could go back and face everything he had left behind. Until he could finally set foot on Ithaca once more.

 

He took one last look around the little bakery, the simple kitchen, and his heart did a strange thing—squeezing with a mixture of warmth and regret. Mysia had been a good place to heal, but it was time for him to move on. Time to face the world he had once ruled and the life he had abandoned.

 

He picked up the first loaf he’d made and smiled at it, just a little. "Well, guess I better say goodbye to the bread for now," he muttered.

 

In two weeks, he would leave Mysia. But for now, he had bread to sell.

 

And maybe, just maybe, he’d be a little more ready for what awaited him back in Ithaca.

Chapter 20: ◼﹒→﹐✶﹒Customers

Odysseus stood outside his little shop, hands on his hips, surveying the front like it was a battlefield. The wooden counter was sturdy enough—he’d made sure of that after kicking it earlier to test its strength—but the real problem lay in the display.

 

How did one arrange bread in an appealing way? He’d seen plenty of merchants do it before, but he’d never paid attention. At the time, it had seemed like trivial nonsense. Now, it was his problem.

 

"Alright, think," he muttered to himself, rolling up his sleeves. "I’m Odysseus. I’ve outwitted kings and gods, led men through storms and monsters. I can definitely figure out how to put some gods-damned bread on a table."

 

His first attempt was simple—loaves stacked on top of each other in a neat little pyramid. But the top one immediately wobbled and slid off, smacking against the counter with a sad little thud.

 

"Right. Not that."

 

He tried something different, arranging the loaves in a row, side by side. It looked... boring. No appeal. No pizzazz , as some merchant had once described his wares.

 

A sigh left him as he leaned on the counter, staring down the bread like it was a rival general across the field. His fingers absentmindedly drummed against the wood. Maybe he should steal an idea from the other merchants. He’d seen fruit sellers stack oranges in baskets—could that work? But he didn’t have baskets.

 

He eyed an old wooden crate by the door. It had been here when he moved in, filled with nails and discarded bits of cloth. He dumped the contents onto the floor and turned the crate onto its side. It could work as a makeshift shelf.

 

He arranged some loaves inside, standing a few up while laying others on their sides. He grabbed another crate, stacking it slightly off-kilter, and did the same. The end result? A multi-leveled, half-organized mess of bread.

 

Odysseus stepped back and crossed his arms, inspecting his work.

 

"Looks... intentional," he muttered, nodding. "Yeah. That works."

 

Was it the most professional setup? No. Did it look vaguely artistic in a chaotic way? Maybe. Would it sell bread? He had no idea.

 

As he admired his handiwork, a breeze carried the warm scent of fresh loaves into the street. A few passersby slowed, sniffing the air with interest. Odysseus smirked.

 

"Well, at least it smells good," he mused.

 

Now all he had to do was figure out how to actually sell it.

 

The door creaked open, and Odysseus instinctively straightened, brushing some lingering flour off his hands onto his tunic. A woman stepped inside, and the shift in air alone told him she didn’t belong among the usual common folk.

 

She was tall, poised, and effortlessly graceful, moving with the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly who she was—and expecting everyone else to know it too. Long brown hair cascaded over her shoulders, the fabric of her chiton so fine that it draped her like liquid, embroidered subtly at the hems. Expensive. Nobility, without a doubt.

 

Her green eyes swept over the tiny shop, lingering on the haphazard display of bread before settling on Odysseus himself.

 

He met her gaze, arching a brow. “Bit far from the palace district, aren’t you?”

 

She didn’t react to the jab, merely tilting her head slightly, assessing him the same way one might inspect a horse before purchase. "You made these?"

 

Odysseus dusted his hands off once more for good measure and leaned against the counter. “Unless the gods have decided to take up baking, yes, that was me.”

 

Her lips curved—not quite a smile, but something close. “I didn’t expect a mercenary to turn to bread-making.”

 

His grip on the counter tightened slightly. So. She knew.

 

He forced himself to grin, easy and unbothered. “Oh, you know how it is. Wars don’t last forever. Might as well learn a trade.”

 

She stepped closer, the soft rustle of her garments the only sound in the shop. Odysseus noted the faint scent of some expensive oil—myrrh, perhaps. Definitely upper-class.

 

She reached out and plucked a loaf from the display, turning it over in her hands as if she could read something in the way it was baked. “You don’t look like a man who belongs in a bakery.”

 

He watched her fingers skim over the crust, delicate but certain. There was something unsettling about her, though he couldn’t place why. He’d met noblewomen before, but she carried herself like she was more than that—like she was used to having power, and knew how to wield it.

 

Odysseus folded his arms. “And what does a man who belongs in a bakery look like?”

 

She finally lifted her gaze back to his, still unreadable. “Not like someone who’s used to holding a sword.”

 

Odysseus huffed a laugh. “Good thing I’m holding a bread knife now, then.”

 

This time, she did smile, just a little. She placed the loaf back on the crate, then reached into the folds of her chiton, pulling out a small pouch. It clinked lightly as she set it on the counter. “I’ll take three.”

 

Odysseus eyed the pouch, then her. “Planning to feed an army?”

 

“Just myself,” she replied smoothly.

 

Something about that was a lie, but he didn’t push. Instead, he grabbed three loaves and wrapped them neatly before sliding them across the counter. She took them without hurry, lifting them into the crook of her arm.

 

As she turned toward the door, Odysseus found himself speaking before he could stop himself. “You never said your name.”

 

She glanced back, that same unreadable expression in place. “No, I didn’t.”

 

And then she was gone.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

As Venamea stepped onto the sun-warmed streets of Mysia, the scent of freshly baked bread still lingered in her hands. She adjusted the loaves in her arms, a small, almost involuntary smile curling at the edges of her lips.

 

Gods above.

 

She hadn’t expected that.

 

She had gone in out of curiosity more than anything—news traveled fast among the nobility, and word of a new baker setting up shop had reached her ears quickly. But she hadn’t expected him.

 

The moment she had laid eyes on him, standing there with flour dusting his face and arms, sleeves rolled up, hands calloused in a way that spoke of work that wasn’t just kneading dough—she had nearly lost her composure on the spot.

 

That’s not a baker. That’s a man who belongs on a battlefield.

 

And yet, there he was, arguing with dough, covered in flour, staring at her with sharp, piercing eyes as though he were trying to decide whether she was worth the breath it would take to answer her questions.

 

And those arms—

 

Venamea exhaled sharply, willing herself to not flush like some foolish girl in the marketplace. She wasn’t some love-struck maiden sighing over a charming merchant. She was the daughter of a lord. She had been raised among men who fought wars, who whispered politics, who saw marriage as nothing but a transaction.

 

But that baker… gods, he smirked like he was in control of everything. Like he wasn’t the one stuck behind a counter, selling loaves of bread to whoever wandered in. He had looked at her, really looked at her, without the polished deference she was used to.

 

And the way he had snapped back at her—

 

Venamea bit her lip, suppressing the absurdly giddy feeling bubbling in her chest.

 

He’s just a baker, she told herself, adjusting her grip on the loaves. Just a man.

 

A man with strong hands and a wry smile. A man who clearly had no idea who she was, or else he would have used the proper titles. A man who had stared her down as if he was the noble one and she was some wandering fool who had stumbled into his domain.

 

She let out a breath, rolling her eyes at herself.

 

Well.

 

She would simply have to come back for more bread.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Odysseus exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he counted the coins left on the counter. The noblewoman—because of course she was nobility, dressed like that, walking in like she owned the place—had barely said a word about who she was. Just asked for bread, stared at him like he was a particularly interesting specimen in a jar, and then left without even introducing herself.

 

He scoffed, rolling his eyes as he stacked the coins neatly. What is it with nobles and acting like they exist on some higher plane of existence?

 

Still, he supposed he couldn’t complain. Money was money, and her payment was generous—more than generous, actually. She’d given him far more than the price of the bread, either out of sheer carelessness or some patronizing attempt at charity.

 

His lips twisted. Well, if she's so willing to throw away coin, I won’t argue.

 

He glanced toward the door she had disappeared through, then shook his head and turned back to his work. There were more important things to focus on. He still had a display to finish setting up, and it was proving more frustrating than expected.

 

His fingers drummed against the counter as he eyed the shelves. He’d tried arranging the loaves by size, then by type, then by some vague attempt at visual appeal, but nothing quite looked right.

 

“Gods damn it,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. He wasn’t a merchant. He wasn’t some shopkeeper trained in the art of enticing customers with aesthetics.

 

But he was a quick learner.

 

And by the gods, if he could navigate war councils filled with arrogant kings and bloodthirsty commanders, he could figure out how to make a few loaves of bread look appealing to passersby.

 

Odysseus cracked his knuckles and rolled up his sleeves as he stepped into the kitchen, determined to try something new. Bread was good, but he needed something sweeter, something that would tempt even the most indifferent passerby. And what better than galaktoboureko —a rich, custard-filled pastry wrapped in layers of crisp, golden phyllo and drenched in syrup?

 

He had watched it being made before, back in Ithaca, though he’d never tried his own hand at it. It couldn't be that hard. Right?

 

He set to work, gathering his ingredients: milk, semolina, eggs, sugar, butter, and phyllo dough. The syrup would come later—honey, water, a stick of cinnamon, and a strip of lemon peel. Simple enough.

 

He poured the milk into a large pot, setting it over the fire to warm. As it heated, he added sugar and a generous handful of semolina, stirring constantly to keep it from clumping. The mixture thickened slowly, turning into a smooth, golden custard.

 

Odysseus sniffed the air. Smells right.

 

Now came the eggs. He cracked them one by one into a separate bowl, whisking them briskly before slowly incorporating them into the custard. Too fast, and he’d end up with scrambled eggs. No thanks. He stirred carefully, watching as the mixture turned velvety and rich, the color deepening to a warm, golden hue.

 

“Not bad,” he muttered, licking a bit off his finger. It was sweet but not overly so, balanced by the creamy texture of the milk and semolina.

 

Next came the phyllo—his biggest challenge yet.

 

Odysseus unrolled the delicate sheets with a careful hand. They were thin , almost absurdly so, like pressed layers of silk. One wrong move, and they’d tear. He melted some butter, brushing a generous layer onto his baking dish before laying down the first sheet.

 

Then another. And another.

 

He layered them meticulously, brushing each with butter until he had a solid, flaky base. Then, he poured the warm custard over the phyllo, spreading it evenly before folding the overhanging layers back on top, sealing the custard in a crisp, golden cocoon.

 

More layers. More butter.

 

By the time he was done, his fingers were slightly sticky, and he had used almost an entire pot of melted butter, but the dish was ready for the oven. He slid it in carefully, wiping his hands on a cloth before turning his attention to the syrup.

 

Honey, water, lemon peel, cinnamon. He brought it to a slow simmer, watching as the honey melted into the water, thickening into a glossy, amber syrup. The scent filled the kitchen, warm and citrusy, with just a hint of spice.

 

By the time the galaktoboureko was done baking, the phyllo was golden and crisp, the custard firm yet soft beneath the layers of flaky pastry. Odysseus pulled it from the oven, listening to the satisfying crackle of the phyllo as it settled.

 

He poured the warm syrup over the top, watching as it seeped into the cracks, soaking into the layers beneath. The scent was intoxicating—sweet, buttery, and rich.

 

Odysseus stepped back, arms crossed, inspecting his work.

 

Not bad for a first try.

 

Now, all that was left was to see if anyone would actually buy the damn thing.

 

The door slammed open with the force of a small storm, and Odysseus barely had time to turn before a blur of excitement burst into his shop.

 

“Kallias!” Lemenai’s voice rang through the space like a bell, overflowing with enthusiasm. The boy practically bounced into the room, his dark curls flopping with each step as he inhaled dramatically. “Gods! It smells amazing in here! What is that? What did you make? Did you finally get the bread right? Oh—oh, is that honey? Are you making sweets now?”

 

Odysseus blinked, barely processing the barrage of questions before another figure stepped in behind Lemenai—Uloan, looking significantly more composed but no less curious. He shut the door behind him with an easy grace, arms folded as he scanned the room.

 

Lemenai, meanwhile, had already plastered himself to the counter, eyes practically shining as he stared at the golden, syrup-glazed galaktoboureko .

 

“You have to let me try some,” Lemenai said, fingers twitching as if he was barely restraining himself from reaching out and grabbing a piece. “I’ll be your official taste-tester. It’s only fair, right? I mean, I was the one who found you first—”

 

“I’ll buy it,” Uloan cut in smoothly, fishing out a handful of coins before Lemenai could talk himself into getting free food. He glanced at Odysseus with a knowing smirk. “Maldovin has been talking about sweets for two days straight, and if I don’t bring something back, he’ll be unbearable.”

 

Odysseus snorted, taking the payment without argument. He had no doubts that Maldovin, for all his rough edges , had a weakness for indulgent foods.

 

Lemenai groaned dramatically. “Uloan, why do you have to ruin everything?”

 

“I’m buying you the sweets,” Uloan pointed out dryly, picking up the warm galaktoboureko with a careful hand, as if already planning how best to keep it safe on the way back.

 

Lemenai grumbled but didn’t protest too hard. Instead, he turned back to Odysseus with a beaming smile. “Kallias, I knew you’d end up making something amazing. This smells even better than the bakeries in the noble district! Maybe you should move there instead—”

 

Odysseus scoffed, already wiping his hands on a cloth. “And deal with the nobles ? No, thanks. I’d rather wrestle a boar.”

 

Lemenai laughed. Uloan smirked.

 

With the galaktoboureko now in Uloan’s hands and Lemenai still gushing about how good everything smelled, Odysseus had the distinct feeling that these two would not be leaving him alone anytime soon.

 

Odysseus exhaled through his nose, shaking his head in amused resignation as Lemenai continued to chatter excitedly. The boy’s enthusiasm was a force of nature, and—though Odysseus would never admit it outright—it was oddly infectious.

 

With a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, he turned, grabbed one of the freshly made raspberry swirled loaves, and plopped it down on the counter in front of Lemenai.

 

“Here,” he said, crossing his arms. “On the house.”

 

Lemenai froze mid-sentence, eyes going wide as he stared at the offering like it was a gift from the gods themselves.

 

“What?” he gasped. “Really? Are you serious?”

 

“Mm.” Odysseus shrugged, playing it cool. “But only because I know you won’t shut up about it, and I could use the extra customers.”

 

Lemenai gasped again—this time dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest like he’d just been deeply, personally honored. “You do love me.”

 

“I tolerate you,” Odysseus corrected, smirking.

 

Lemenai was already tearing into the bread, eyes rolling back as he made an exaggerated groan of delight. “Oh, this —this is divine —this is—” He waved a piece wildly in Uloan’s direction. “ You need to try this. Kallias, I swear, you have a gift . People will be lining up for this, just wait—”

 

Uloan snorted, shaking his head. “You sound like you were starving before we walked in here.”

 

“I was ! Spiritually!” Lemenai declared between bites.

 

Odysseus chuckled, shaking his head as he wiped his hands clean again. He knew exactly what he was doing—Lemenai was the type to talk up anything he loved, and if Odysseus played this right, half the city would hear about his bakery by the end of the week.

 

“You better be right about that,” he said, watching Lemenai inhale the bread. “If I don’t get new customers soon, I’ll start charging you extra.”

 

Lemenai gave an exaggerated gasp but was too busy chewing to form a rebuttal. Uloan just smirked, shaking his head as he nudged Lemenai toward the door.

 

“Come on, before you start demanding more free samples.”

 

Odysseus watched them go, arms still crossed, that smirk still playing on his lips. Good. Let him talk.

 

If he was going to make a profit before leaving in two weeks, he might as well take full advantage of the best loudmouth in town.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

Diomedes sat on the riverbank, his arms resting loosely over his bent knees, staring into the rippling water as if it might stare back. His reflection wavered in the current, the shifting distortions making it easy to pretend he was speaking to someone else—someone who should have been here. Someone who would have been here, if he hadn’t gone and disappeared like an ass .

 

He exhaled through his nose, tossing a small pebble into the water. It plunked against the surface and was swallowed instantly.

 

“Hope you’re enjoying yourself, Bastard ,” he muttered, voice dry and edged with something unreadable. “Bet you’re out there somewhere, grinning like a bastard, scamming some poor fool out of their money. Or maybe you’re setting up some grand scheme, waiting for the perfect moment to come waltzing back just to rub it in our faces.”

 

The river didn’t respond.

 

Because it’s a fucking river.

 

Diomedes leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms against his thighs, his fingers idly picking at the fabric of his chiton. His eyes never left the water, his expression unreadable.

 

“Should’ve figured you’d do this eventually,” he continued, his voice quiet now. “Always playing some long game, keeping things close to your chest. But this ?” He let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. “Didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to pull this one.”

 

A breeze passed through the reeds, making them shiver. The river rippled, but it gave him nothing.

 

Diomedes’ jaw tightened. His fingers curled into fists before he forced them to relax.

 

“…Y’know,” he said after a moment, his voice losing its edge. “If you were here, I’d tell you this was the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.” His lips twitched into something almost like a smirk before fading just as fast. “And that’s a high fucking bar.”

 

He reached for another pebble and tossed it into the river. Another plunk, another ripple.

 

His fingers hovered over the next one, but he didn’t throw it.

 

For a while, he just sat there, staring into the current.

 

“…Just don’t be dead,” he muttered at last. “Or I’ll kill you myself.”

 

Diomedes scoffed and shook his head. “Where the fuck are you, Odysseus?”

 

The river, ever silent, refused to answer.

 

Diomedes exhaled sharply and ran a hand down his face, dragging at his skin like he could physically pull the frustration out of himself. He wasn’t one for sentimental shit, not really, but this? This whole damn situation was infuriating . Three days, and not a single sign of Odysseus anywhere. Like the bastard had simply vanished into thin air.

 

And it wasn’t just him who was feeling the weight of it. Eurylochus looked two seconds from having a full collapse, Achilles was cooking like a damn housewife , and Agamemnon—gods help him—was actually making sense for once. If that wasn’t a sign of the end times, Diomedes didn’t know what was.

 

Another pebble. Another plunk.

 

He watched the ripples spread out, his fingers twitching against his knee.

 

“Heh.” A short, dry laugh escaped him. “You’d probably have some long-winded speech about this, huh?” His voice took on a mocking lilt, imitating Odysseus’ cadence with just enough exaggeration to make it ridiculous. “‘Ah, but Diomedes, the river is ever-changing, yet always the same. A paradox, a mirror of ourselves—’” He cut himself off with a snort. “Gods, you were insufferable.”

 

The water lapped at the riverbank, like it was trying to fill the silence.

 

Diomedes frowned.

 

His fingers curled into his palm, nails pressing into the skin.

 

“…You better not be dead.” His voice was quieter this time, barely above a mutter. “I mean it.”

 

Silence.

 

Diomedes stared at his reflection, his own face fractured and blurred by the water’s restless movement.

 

And then, with a sharp breath, he stood up.

 

Whatever. He’d find him.

 

And when he did, he was going to beat the absolute shit out of him .

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Athena lay curled up in her bed, her arms wrapped tightly around the ragged, threadbare blanket. The fabric was rough and uneven, the stitches clumsy—an old, childish attempt at weaving, riddled with imperfections. The edges were frayed, the color long faded, but she didn’t care.

 

She buried her face into it, inhaling the faintest lingering scent of old wool and age, as if she could will something more familiar, more comforting into existence.

 

Odysseus had been so proud when he’d given it to her. Barely past his first decade, his hands still clumsy with the craft, but his little face had been so sure of himself, so smug as he declared it the finest work in all of Ithaca. And she—she had smiled, indulging his pride, teasing him about the mess of knots he’d made of it, but she had kept it.

 

And now it was all she had of him.

 

Her fingers clenched around the fabric.

 

Where was he?

 

Her mind spun through every possibility, every logical conclusion, but none of them fit . Odysseus did not simply disappear . Not unless he chose to.

 

And that — that was what infuriated her the most.

 

He had left .

 

He had left her.

 

Her jaw clenched.

 

She should be furious. She was furious. But the anger twisted, tangled with something deeper, something raw and sickeningly human. Something she refused to name.

 

Her grip on the blanket tightened.

 

She was going to find him.

 

And when she did—

 

He was never doing this again.

 

Athena’s mind drifted, despite her best efforts to keep the thoughts at bay. She let herself remember, just for a moment, before the floodgates broke open.

 

She could still see him, small and eager, standing by the hearth, his eyes wide and filled with a spark she had come to recognize too well over the years— determination .

 

He was no more than a boy then, barely ten, but already so sure of himself. He had approached her with that poorly made blanket, his hands trembling slightly as he offered it to her, and she had laughed softly, unable to hide the tenderness in her gaze. "Is this for me, Odysseus?" she'd asked, her voice teasing, but affectionate, though she hadn’t quite expected him to take her seriously.

 

But he had.

 

“I made it for you, Athena,” he had declared, holding it up with more pride than she had ever seen in him. He had believed it was the most important thing he could give her.

 

The thought of him, standing there in that moment, so full of hope, that naïve belief that everything would be enough — that was the memory that made her heart ache.

 

She had accepted it, of course. Not out of obligation, but because there was something about that earnestness, that faith he placed in her, that made her want to believe in him too. It wasn’t about the blanket—it had never been about the blanket. It was about him. His need to prove something, to prove to her that he was worthy of her affection, her attention.

 

And she’d indulged him, as she always had. She had smiled, wrapped herself in it, even though it was clumsy and ugly. She had listened to him prattle on about how perfect it was, and she had told him it was beautiful, because he had needed to hear it.

 

How many times had she done that for him?

 

More than she could count.

 

But in all those moments, Athena had known one thing—Odysseus, as brash and foolhardy as he could be, had always believed in her . And there had been a time, a time before the wars, before the endless manipulation and politics, when she had believed in him too.

 

It was a soft, foolish thing to think. A thing that she would never admit to anyone, least of all herself. But it was there, like a soft pulse deep inside her.

 

She closed her eyes, trying to block the ache in her chest, trying to stop the wave of memories from drowning her.

 

But she couldn’t.

 

The years had passed, and she had watched him become the man he was now—broken, scattered, lost—and still, despite it all, she had believed. Even when no one else did, even when he was lost in his own world of schemes and self-preservation, she had thought that Odysseus could still be the boy who tried to impress her with his clumsy craft.

 

That boy who thought he could do anything for her.

 

And now?

 

Now, she was left holding onto a faded, frayed blanket. And the boy she had once known was nowhere to be found.

 

She squeezed her eyes shut against the sting, against the bitterness that threatened to overwhelm her.

 

But even in her anger, even in the swirling depths of the frustration that he had caused, she knew something else.

 

She still cared . She still cared more than she should.

 

And that was the most infuriating thing of all.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Odysseus stood in front of the cracked, dimly lit mirror, the reflection before him warping slightly as his hands hovered over his face. His fingers grazed his skin, tracing the sharp angles of his jaw, the stubble that had grown over his chin in the last few days.

 

He was standing there, deep in thought, his mind circling back to the same conclusion again and again. How much was he willing to give up?

 

His eyes flickered to the tools scattered on the table—a small blade, a rough, tarnished carving knife he'd found in the kitchen, and a bit of string he could use to tie off any wounds.

 

"Am I really going to do this?" he murmured to himself, almost like a question directed at his own reflection, as though expecting an answer.

 

The Greeks, particularly the ones who still wandered the camps, would be too familiar with him, too quick to recognize his face. It was only a matter of time before someone—someone who knew him—walked into his bakery and made that connection.

 

But if he altered his appearance, if he marred his face with enough scars or cuts, he could avoid the potential disaster. They wouldn’t know him. They wouldn’t question a baker who looked like every other worn-out, ragged man who had been through the grind of war.

 

But… was the cost worth it?

 

What if it’s too much? What if I can’t live with it?

 

He glanced back at the mirror. He knew the face he’d had for years—the face that had won him so many battles, so many schemes. It had been his advantage, his weapon, just as much as any sword or shield. And now, here he was, considering slicing it open to erase that advantage.

 

For a fleeting second, he imagined the faces of the Greeks—Achilles, Menelaus, even Agamemnon—looking at him with confusion or anger. But then his mind shifted to what they would feel if they recognized him. The way they might react to seeing the man who had once led them, the one who had been both a hero and a ghost in their lives.

 

No. He couldn’t go back to that life. Not like this.

 

His hand hovered over the blade, his breath shallow. It’s just a face. I’ve had worse.

 

Odysseus stood frozen, the blade hovering near his cheek, his hand trembling slightly as the gravity of the decision settled in his chest. His reflection in the cracked mirror seemed to leer back at him, distorted and stretched by the fractured surface. He saw a man who had spent years crafting a persona of wit, charm, and cunning—a man who had survived wars, treachery, and the wrath of the gods. But as his fingers gripped the handle of the knife, he felt a strange sense of loss, as if cutting into his own face would sever something more than just his appearance.

 

For a long moment, he simply stood there, staring at the blade, the air thick with the scent of iron and the faint dust that had settled in the room. His breath came slow, steady, as he tried to steady his nerves. Was this really necessary?

 

He glanced down at the sharp edge of the blade, imagining how easily it could slice into his skin, carving away the very face that had been both his weapon and his shield. The face that had seen so many faces—the loyal men he led, the enemies he outwitted, the gods who tested him. This face had been both his curse and his gift.

 

But if I do this... if I scar myself…

 

A sharp pang of unease twisted in his gut, deeper than any of the countless battles he'd fought or the dangers he'd faced. He wasn’t afraid of pain, nor of altering his appearance—it was the idea of losing that connection to who he was that unsettled him. He had always known himself by the lines of his face, the familiar curve of his jaw, the eyes that had seen the worst of humanity but still retained their spark. Without it, he would be a stranger to even himself.

 

"What am I doing?" he muttered under his breath, lowering the knife with a sudden sense of clarity. He set it down on the table, the weight of it now insignificant compared to the weight of his thoughts.

 

Odysseus stepped back from the mirror, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. He shook his head, as if trying to clear the haze of indecision clouding his mind. His identity wasn’t just skin deep. It wasn’t just about being recognized—it was about who he had become. And cutting away the face he had lived with for so long would be like cutting away part of his own soul.

 

He wasn’t sure who he would be without it.

 

"No," he said aloud, more to himself than anyone else. "No, this isn’t me."

 

The thought of forever walking around with a disfigured face, a shadow of the man he had been, gnawed at him in a way he couldn’t shake. Maybe the gods had cursed him, maybe the world had tried to break him, but he wasn’t going to let that take away the last bit of himself.

 

Odysseus turned away from the mirror, the blade now forgotten on the table. He wasn’t a ghost. He wasn’t going to run away from who he was, even if it meant staying hidden in plain sight.

 

Instead of changing his face, he would change his future—on his own terms.

 

With a final glance at the blade, he took a deep breath, pushing away the fleeting fear that had gripped him. It was a small decision, but it was his.

 

And for once, Odysseus was going to stop running from the man in the mirror.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Hermes lay sprawled across Charon’s lap, his head nestled against the ferryman’s broad, weathered thigh, a rare expression of exhaustion on his otherwise youthful face. His wings, usually sharp and alert, were folded limply at his sides, and the usual glimmer of mischievous energy in his eyes had been replaced with the dull haze of fatigue.

 

Charon, whose expression rarely shifted from grim neutrality, regarded Hermes with something akin to bemusement, though it was hard to tell if he was amused or simply indifferent. The god of travelers had not asked for rest, but Charon had insisted. He had seen Hermes darting between worlds, moving too quickly, too desperately. It wasn’t normal for the messenger god to be so reckless in his search, but when it came to Odysseus, Hermes was a different creature altogether.

 

The ferryman let out a low, gravelly groan as he shifted his weight, the man never one to waste words. His rough hands, calloused from countless years of guiding souls across the river, rested idly on the boat's worn edge as he looked down at Hermes, who was still sprawled across his lap in an uncharacteristically vulnerable position.

 

"Ughhh..." Charon rumbled, shifting slightly to make himself more comfortable, though it was clear the gesture was for his own benefit, not Hermes'. The god of travelers was out cold, utterly oblivious to the sound of Charon's low grumbles. His wings, once taut with energy, were now crumpled at his sides like the tattered sails of a ship abandoned in a storm.

 

Charon exhaled again, a sound that was somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. "Ghhrr... too much... too much ," he muttered under his breath, clearly dissatisfied with the situation. He had seen gods chase after fleeting goals, but this—this obsession over Odysseus—it was wearing on Hermes, and by extension, on Charon's patience.

 

"Ughh... he's lost ," Charon groaned, his voice thick with the weight of years spent ferrying souls in silence. "Ghhrr..." He ran a hand through his long, dark beard, irritated that the hero remained elusive despite Hermes' frantic search.

 

Hermes, still deep in his nap, shifted slightly, muttering something unintelligible. Charon gave a small grunt in response, his eyes narrowing as he looked down at the sleeping god. "Ghhrr... no good... No good, you search too much, Hermes."

 

The ferryman let out another tired groan, letting his words hang in the air as he stared out over the river, the current flowing steadily as it always did. There was nothing new here. Nothing new but the endless quest that Hermes had undertaken.

 

But Charon wasn’t so foolish as to miss the pain beneath the god’s obsession. He had seen this before, the weight of a mission pulling someone too far, too long. Hermes wasn’t just looking for Odysseus; he was running from something too.

 

"Ghhrr..." Charon muttered again, rubbing his temple. "When... will you stop?"

 

He fell silent after that, the only sound between them the steady flow of the river and the occasional murmur of Hermes as he continued to sleep. Charon had no answers to give, and the god had none to seek. The river continued to flow, indifferent to all, as the search for Odysseus pressed on.

 

Charon sighed heavily, his chest rumbling like distant thunder, as Hermes nuzzled deeper into his lap, seeking comfort in his unconscious state. The god of travelers, usually so full of energy, was now a soft, fragile thing, looking for solace in the quiet darkness of the underworld.

 

Charon didn’t speak. He rarely did. Words weren’t needed in the stillness of the boat, nor in the company of a god who had been searching too long for something that might not be found. He simply gazed out at the ever-flowing river, the currents whispering their ancient secrets, moving endlessly forward.

 

Hermes let out a soft hum, his cheek pressed against Charon’s rough, weathered robes, and the ferryman shifted slightly, his massive hand moving to rest gently on the god’s head. The touch was hesitant at first, as though Charon wasn’t sure how to interact with someone so lost, someone so far from the path they had once walked. But it didn’t matter. Hermes, in his exhausted state, seemed to need this—no words, no commands—just the simple gesture of touch, a sign of comfort without the need for explanation.

 

Charon’s fingers lightly brushed Hermes’ winged head, his large hand surprisingly tender as he continued to watch the river, its current unaffected by the gods’ restless minds. The ferryman’s face remained unreadable, an emotionless mask as always. The boat rocked slightly, the motion calming and rhythmic as if it too was in tune with the god’s need for rest.

 

There was no need for conversation, no need to fill the silence with anything. Charon didn’t ask why Hermes was so lost in his search for Odysseus. He knew. He didn’t need to be told. Instead, Charon simply continued to hold Hermes, feeling the god’s slight breath on his lap, the warmth of his presence a quiet contrast to the cold river that separated the world of the living from the world of the dead.

 

The hours passed, slow and unhurried, as the ferryman kept watch over the god. No words were exchanged—there were none to say. The only sound was the soft, steady ripple of the water against the boat, carrying them both further into the unknown.

 

And Charon, silent as always, just stayed.

Chapter 21: ░﹕♦﹐Guildmaster﹑ᵕ﹗☁️

Odysseus stood on the second floor of the rundown home, arms crossed as he surveyed the so-called "bedroom." It was a generous term for what was essentially a dusty, cobweb-infested corner of a barely standing house. The wooden floor creaked under his weight, and the single window had grime so thick he was fairly certain it was holding the glass together.

 

His "bed" was currently a sad collection of blankets and old fabric scraps he had scrounged up, spread over a rickety wooden frame that looked like it would collapse under a strong breeze. He exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his hair. This wasn’t exactly the grand accommodations of an Ithacan palace, but he’d slept in worse. Hells, he’d slept outside in worse.

 

Grabbing one of the blankets, he gave it a hard shake, releasing a cloud of dust so thick he had to turn away and cough into his arm. Wonderful. He shook out another, revealing a very dead spider that tumbled onto the floor with a soft plop. Odysseus sighed, scooping the poor thing up with a scrap of fabric and tossing it out the window.

 

Once he had deemed the bedding mostly free of unwelcome inhabitants, he tossed it over the wooden frame and smoothed it down. It was lumpy, uneven, and about as inviting as a stone slab, but it would do. He sat down on the edge experimentally, listening for the telltale groan of wood about to snap. Nothing. He bounced slightly. Still nothing. A victory.

 

With the bed somewhat settled, he turned his attention to the rest of the space. The room was small, the ceiling beams warped with age, but it had potential. He could make this work. He would make this work. In two weeks, when the ships came to the docks, he’d be leaving, but until then, this would be home.

 

Odysseus leaned back on the makeshift bed, staring up at the wooden beams overhead. His body was exhausted from cleaning all day, but his mind was still turning. Plans, adjustments, preparations. Two weeks. He just had to keep his head down for two weeks.

 

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sounds of the distant marketplace filter in through the cracked window. This was fine. He had a roof over his head, a plan in place, and, gods willing, he wouldn’t burn the bakery down before he left.

 

He exhaled and let his muscles relax into the lumpy bedding. Two weeks.

 

That was all.

 

Odysseus lay back on the bed, his hands behind his head, eyes tracing the uneven beams above. The quiet of the house was a sharp contrast to the chaos that often lingered in his thoughts. His mind, as it often did, wandered—this time, to Diomedes.

 

It had only been days since he had left the battlefield behind, but the memories of the warrior were fresh in his mind, as though they’d happened only moments ago.

 

Diomedes.

 

There was something about him—something Odysseus couldn’t quite put his finger on. The man was a force. Strong, direct, unapologetically fierce. He had been one of the few warriors Odysseus truly respected, not just for his skill in battle, but for his unwavering confidence, his ability to act without hesitation. They’d fought together side by side, and in the madness of war, Odysseus had always known he could rely on Diomedes to be there when it mattered.

 

But that had been days ago.

 

Odysseus let out a breath, letting the memories wash over him. The way Diomedes would always charge headfirst into battle, a man of few words but fierce determination in his actions. There had been a strange, unspoken bond between them. It wasn’t friendship in the usual sense. It was something else—more raw, more real. In the heat of battle, there were no pretenses, just the understanding that they had each other's backs, no questions asked.

 

It had been so long since he’d felt that camaraderie.

 

Diomedes wasn’t the type to express emotions openly, but Odysseus could feel the unspoken bond every time they fought together. They understood each other in a way few others did. They had seen the horrors of war, felt its weight, and despite everything, they had never once turned their backs on one another.

 

But now? Odysseus was here, sitting alone in a small, run-down house, far from the battlefield, far from the world he knew.

 

The thought of Diomedes brought with it a sense of longing—a strange emptiness, as though a piece of him was missing. He missed the quiet strength Diomedes always brought with him, the way he would challenge Odysseus, even when he didn’t agree with him.

 

Gods, it was so different now.

 

Odysseus stared at the ceiling, thinking about the way Diomedes’ sharp gaze would always settle on him before a battle, daring him to make a move, daring him to think just one step ahead. And now? Now, Odysseus was alone. He had no one to challenge him, no one to measure himself against.

 

A strange thought crept into his mind. Would Diomedes even remember him? Would he even care?

 

If Diomedes saw me now, would he even recognize me?

 

Odysseus chuckled darkly. He’d changed so much in these few days. He wasn’t the same man who had fought beside him—hell, he wasn’t even the same man who had left the war. There was a bitterness to the thought, a sadness, but also a strange sense of freedom that came with it. He had left that life behind, but in doing so, he’d also left a part of himself behind.

 

Two weeks.

 

It was only two weeks. He could survive that.

 

But still, the ache in his chest remained, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he might not be able to escape that part of himself. The part that missed Diomedes, that missed the battle, the camaraderie. He missed the connection.

 

With a heavy sigh, Odysseus rolled over onto his side, staring out of the small window. He was here, far from the world he knew. But that didn’t stop the memories from creeping back in.

 

He was Kallias now, a baker in a quiet little town—but deep down, part of him was still that man who had fought by Diomedes' side. And that part of him? That part wasn’t going away anytime soon.

 

He ran a hand over his face, murmuring almost to himself.

 

“I miss him... I miss that part of him...”

 

The words came out quieter than he'd intended, his voice rough from the weight of them. He paused, chewing on the thought for a moment, before speaking again, almost as if confessing to the walls.

 

“The way he... the way he made everything make sense.”

 

It wasn’t just the camaraderie, the brotherhood they shared on the battlefield. It was more than that. It was the closeness, the shared glances when words weren’t necessary, the way they would fight side by side, sweat and blood mingling, knowing they could rely on one another. But there had been something else. Something deeper. A connection that neither of them ever fully acknowledged—at least not in the open—but it was there.

 

Gods, it was there…

 

A wave of discomfort passed through him, an ache that had never quite left, even when they had parted ways. Odysseus had never been one for overt declarations, never the type to wear his heart on his sleeve. But with Diomedes? He had been different. There had been moments, small fleeting ones, when their closeness transcended words, when a lingering touch or shared breath spoke volumes.

 

Odysseus swallowed hard, trying to ignore the stirring in his chest. He had thought he had moved on. Hell, he was moving on—this was a new life. A new identity.

 

He missed the feel of him, the warmth of his touch. Damn it, he missed him —and it wasn’t just in the way they fought. It wasn’t just the sharpness of Diomedes' spirit in battle or his unyielding strength. It was in the way they’d fit together. The way they understood each other with a glance. The way they belonged together, even in the chaos of war.

 

The bed creaked softly as Odysseus shifted his weight, his chest tightening as a wave of longing swept over him.

 

I shouldn't have left him behind, he thought bitterly. Maybe I should have stayed... But no, he had made his choice, and now, here he was. Alone. But not really alone. There were days when it felt like Diomedes was still there, lingering like a shadow, and there were moments when Odysseus wished he would be.

 

“I miss him,” he muttered again, the words escaping him like a confession he never meant to speak. His throat tightened as the weight of his own vulnerability settled over him.

 

He shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts from his mind, but they refused to leave. It’s just memories. That’s all it is. Memories and nothing more.

 

With a weary sigh, Odysseus closed his eyes, the ache in his chest settling into a dull throb. He had never said it out loud—not even to himself, really. But there it was. The truth he had buried for so long.

 

He missed Diomedes. More than he cared to admit. More than he was willing to let on.

 

And for the first time in a long while, Odysseus allowed himself to feel the full weight of that longing.

 

The soft knock on the door pulled Odysseus out of his thoughts, the sound sharp in the otherwise quiet room. For a moment, he stared at the door, almost as if expecting the visitor to vanish. The weight of the moment, the quiet ache in his chest, was still thick, but the knock was real. It was a reminder that the world outside his thoughts was waiting.

 

He sighed, running a hand through his hair and pushing the lingering emotion aside. "Right," he muttered to himself. "Guess the world doesn’t stop for self-pity."

 

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the floorboards creaking under his weight as he moved toward the door. A part of him wondered if the person knocking might be someone from the village—or maybe just another customer eager for bread. He hadn't been in Mysia long enough to know many by name, but the steady stream of faces over the past few days made him familiar enough with the rhythm of this place.

 

Reaching the door, he opened it cautiously, half-expecting someone with a basket of goods or an order for something sweet. What he wasn’t expecting was the face that greeted him.

 

A woman. Tall, with long, fiery red hair that shimmered as it caught the light. Her piercing blue eyes sparkled with a cool intensity, her bearing regal. She was dressed in a fancy chiton that marked her as someone of nobility, though she was not immediately familiar to him.

 

Odysseus blinked, momentarily thrown off by her sudden appearance. “Can I help you?” he asked, keeping his voice neutral, though his brows furrowed in confusion.

 

The woman didn't speak at first, her eyes scanning him with a piercing gaze that made Odysseus feel as if she could see right through him. She stepped forward slightly, her presence imposing yet graceful.

 

"I smelled something…" Her voice was smooth, calm. "And it led me here."

 

Odysseus glanced over his shoulder, then back at her, his eyebrows lifting slightly as he processed her words.

 

“You... smelled bread?” He couldn’t help but chuckle softly, his weariness from earlier shifting into bemusement.

 

The woman didn’t smile, but her lips parted slightly in acknowledgment. "Yes. Something... different."

 

Odysseus hesitated, glancing at the bread he had just pulled from the oven. It wasn’t perfect, but it was certainly an improvement. He took in a slow breath, deciding to offer something more. “You’ve found the right place. This is my shop.”

 

Her eyes flickered down to the loaves of bread, and then back to him, studying him with a look that made Odysseus feel strangely exposed.

 

“Good,” she said simply. “I’ll take some of your finest, then.”

 

Odysseus gave a small nod, trying to keep his composure. As he turned to grab the bread, he found himself wondering— who is she?

 

When he turned back around, the woman was already slipping a few coins from her purse. She paid him without a word and turned, preparing to leave as quickly as she had entered. But before she reached the door, she glanced back at him over her shoulder.

 

“Thank you, Kallias," she said, her tone oddly familiar. “I shall return.”

 

Odysseus blinked, caught off-guard by her words. “Of course,” he managed, though his mind was already racing, trying to place the stranger. Something about her felt... off. Kallias —that was the name he’d given himself, but how did she know it?

 

But before he could speak again, she was gone, the door softly closing behind her.

 

Odysseus stood frozen for a moment, staring at the door as his heart raced with curiosity.

 

Who was that? And why did he have the sudden feeling that this wasn’t the last time he would see her?

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Eugeneia walked away from the small bakery, her fingers tightening slightly around the wrapped bundle of bread in her arms. The scent of it still lingered in the air, warm and sweet, carrying traces of honey and something richer—raspberry, perhaps? She inhaled it deeply, letting herself indulge in the rare pleasure of something so simple yet satisfying.

 

She had not expected the baker to be that interesting.

 

Lady Venamea had spoken of him in passing at a gathering earlier that day, laughing behind her wine cup as she described some charming new baker in town. “He’s got the hands of a craftsman and the face of a lost prince,” Venamea had said, her tone lilting with amusement. “Such a tragic air about him, too. I rather think he’s running from something.”

 

Eugeneia had listened absently at first, accustomed to the idle gossip of her peers. But something about the way Venamea spoke of him had stuck with her. A nameless foreigner, appearing in Mysia with no past to his name, crafting delicate pastries and rustic loaves like he had been born for it? It was a curiosity. And Eugeneia did not ignore curiosities.

 

Still, she had expected… less .

 

She had expected some simple merchant—a man with a flour-dusted apron and a forgettable face, eager to please the nobility for coin. What she found instead was a man who did not shrink under her gaze. A man who did not stumble over his words or flatter her for patronage.

 

Kallias. She tested the name in her mind.

 

That was what he called himself, but she was no fool. There was something else to him, something more than what he presented. She had spent years learning to read people—watching the way their eyes shifted when they lied, how their hands twitched when they were nervous, how their voices faltered when pressed. Kallias carried himself too well for a commoner. His posture was disciplined, his voice firm but fluid, his wit sharp enough to cut through drunken nobles at a symposium.

 

And when he looked at her, there had been a flicker of something else in his expression. Suspicion, perhaps? Weariness?

 

Fear?

 

She smirked at the thought.

 

Who are you, little baker? And what exactly are you running from?

 

Eugeneia turned a corner, the scent of fresh bread still lingering in her grasp as she stepped onto the well-worn stone paths of Mysia’s inner district. The streets were quieter here, the city’s heartbeat softer, but she paid little mind to the evening calm. Her thoughts were elsewhere—circling the baker like a hawk.

 

Kallias.

 

The name felt too convenient. Too perfectly ordinary. It was a name meant to be overlooked.

 

She had met many men who tried to hide what they were, but none had done so while selling pastries to noblewomen. It amused her, really. He wasn’t groveling for their coin. He wasn’t even trying to be charming, which only made him more intriguing. The way he looked at her—flat, unimpressed, barely tolerating her presence—was refreshing.

 

He wasn’t a man looking to be noticed.

 

Which meant she shouldn’t have noticed him.

 

Yet here she was.

 

Her steps carried her toward a building nestled against the city’s western quarter, an old but sturdy place with shutters that never quite closed properly and a rooftop lined with ivy that no one had bothered to clear. It was unassuming at a glance, blending into the other merchant guild halls and trade houses. But Eugeneia knew better.

 

She knocked twice, then once more, in a sharp rhythm.

 

A latch clicked open, and the heavy wooden door groaned as it swung inward. A man stood in the entryway, broad-shouldered and draped in the muted greys of a guildmaster’s tunic. His hair, the same copper-red as hers, was tied loosely at the nape, and his sharp blue eyes flickered with mild irritation as they landed on her.

 

“Eugeneia,” he drawled. “What do you want?”

 

She smiled, stepping inside without invitation. “A favor, dear brother.”

 

Iokles sighed, shutting the door behind her. “Of course you do.”

 

Eugeneia placed the wrapped bread on the nearest table, glancing around at the dimly lit room. Maps and scrolls cluttered the shelves, and a half-finished ledger lay open beside a candle, its wax dripping lazily onto the wood. The Grey Rabbit’s Guild had always been a place of quiet knowledge—an information network woven through whispers and debts, its influence stretching further than most realized.

 

And her brother sat at its head.

 

Iokles folded his arms, eyeing her warily. “What’s so interesting that you’re actually bringing me food instead of stealing my wine?”

 

She smirked. “A baker.”

 

His brows shot up. “A baker ?”

 

She nodded, settling onto a nearby stool. “A foreigner. No history. Calls himself Kallias —but I doubt that’s his real name.”

 

Iokles exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “You’re seriously wasting my time with this? Eugeneia, I don’t have the resources to track down every half-handsome merchant you fancy—”

 

“He’s not just some merchant,” she interrupted, her voice dipping lower. “He carries himself like someone trained. Disciplined. Well-spoken. Too careful. He’s hiding something.”

 

Iokles gave her a long, measured look.

 

Then, to her satisfaction, he turned toward his desk and grabbed a piece of parchment.

 

“Fine,” he muttered. “Tell me everything.”

 

Eugeneia leaned forward, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across her face.

 

“He appeared in Mysia just a few days ago,” she began, crossing her legs as she watched her brother jot down notes. “No fanfare, no connections. He bought a rundown bakery and has been running it by himself. No servants, no assistance, nothing. And yet—” she smirked, tapping a finger against her knee, “—he can bake.”

 

Iokles snorted. “That is the basic requirement for a baker, yes.”

 

“You’re missing the point,” Eugeneia sighed, rolling her eyes. “He’s good. Really good. You’d think he’s been doing it for years, but his hands aren’t rough like a lifelong baker’s. There are calluses, yes, but they’re different. Sword calluses, not laborer’s hands. He’s not a man who grew up kneading dough.”

 

Iokles frowned, rubbing his chin. “A soldier?”

 

“Perhaps. But a well-trained one.” She tilted her head. “His reflexes are too sharp. And he watches people. Really watches them. He doesn’t move like a simple tradesman, and he’s far too competent to be some lost drifter.”

 

Iokles scribbled something down, then leaned back in his chair. “And why do you care?”

 

Eugeneia laughed, resting her chin on her palm. “Curiosity.”

 

“You always were a menace.”

 

“I am my father’s daughter.”

 

Iokles sighed. “What exactly do you want from me?”

 

She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Find out who he really is.”

 

Iokles studied her for a long moment, then huffed in resignation. “Fine. I’ll put some ears to the ground.”

 

Eugeneia grinned. “Knew I could count on you.”

 

“Don’t push it,” he muttered. “Now get out.”

 

She stood, straightening the folds of her chiton before sauntering toward the door. “I expect results, dear brother.”

 

Iokles muttered something under his breath, but she was already stepping back into the cool night air.

 

As she walked, her thoughts drifted back to the baker—his sharp eyes, his unimpressed stare, the way his hands moved with an unexpected precision.

Who are you, Kallias?

 

And why are you hiding in Mysia?

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Iokles exhaled sharply through his nose, shuffling through the growing mess of parchment on his desk.

 

“Damned nobles and their whims,” he muttered, flicking aside yet another irrelevant report.

 

Guild records. Trade manifests. Ship arrivals. He had documents on everything that passed through Mysia’s borders, yet somehow, this so-called baker had slipped in without so much as a whisper. No past dealings. No trace of a merchant’s caravan. No record of a noble family quietly relocating a disgraced son.

 

Nothing.

 

That alone irritated him.

 

Iokles ran a hand through his hair, then leaned back, staring up at the ceiling of his study. “A ghost, then?”

 

Not likely. No one just appeared in Mysia without leaving a trail. Not unless they were either absurdly lucky—or very, very skilled.

 

And Iokles didn’t believe in luck.

 

He drummed his fingers against the table, eyes narrowing. He would have to send word to his network. Dockworkers, tavern owners, the occasional pickpocket who heard more than he should. Someone must have seen this ‘Kallias’ before he arrived.

 

His fingers found a fresh sheet of parchment, and he dipped his quill into the inkwell, scribbling a quick set of instructions. He’d have the Grey Rabbits comb through every rumor and scrap of information they could find. If this baker had a past worth hiding, they’d dig it up.

 

With a flick of his wrist, he sealed the letter and set it aside for one of his runners.

 

Then, rubbing at his temples, he sighed.

 

“What the hell did you drag me into this time, Eugeneia?”

 

Iokles exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temples as he stared at the letter.

 

There was always the possibility that Eugeneia was screwing with him. She did have a habit of feeding him nonsense just to watch him waste his time chasing shadows.

 

His lips pressed into a thin line.

 

It wouldn't be the first time.

 

The last time she’d done this, he’d spent weeks trying to track down some ‘mysterious merchant prince’ she’d overheard at a banquet—only to find out she’d been drunk off her ass and mistook a foreign diplomat for some sort of exiled royal.

 

Iokles still hadn't forgiven her for that one.

 

He leaned back, tapping his fingers against his desk. Was this another one of her games? Some poor baker who happened to be attractive and now she was spinning tales about him?

 

It did sound like something she’d do.

 

His gaze flickered to the reports again, searching for any indication that ‘Kallias’ was a real person and not just a figment of Eugeneia’s noble boredom.

 

Nothing.

 

No past records. No debts. No mentions in any guild logs. Just a man who seemingly materialized out of thin air and started selling bread.

 

A slow smirk tugged at his lips.

 

Well. Either my dear sister is playing an elaborate joke on me, or we have a very interesting ghost in our midst.

 

And if there was one thing Iokles hated , it was not knowing things.

 

With a sigh, he grabbed another parchment and scrawled a quick message to his contacts. If this ‘Kallias’ was real, he’d find out soon enough.

 

And if Eugeneia had made him waste his time again?

 

She was going to owe him a lot of wine.

 

Iokles let out a sharp breath through his nose, rolling up his sleeves as he dug through the stacks of parchment, ledgers, and old reports scattered across his desk. Papers crinkled under his fingertips, ink smudged on the sides of his hands as he flipped through document after document.

 

His irritation grew with every dead end.

 

Nothing. Nothing. More nothing.

 

He slammed a particularly useless report onto the pile beside him and dragged his fingers through his hair. His guild specialized in information. If there was a man named Kallias who had ever done something significant enough to warrant mention, he should have a record of it.

 

But there was nothing.

 

No criminal record. No trade logs. No debts or contracts. Not even a minor dispute over land or goods. It was like the man had never existed before setting up that bakery.

 

Iokles narrowed his eyes.

 

People did not just appear out of nowhere.

 

His fingers tightened around the next set of papers as he yanked them closer, scanning through old contracts and mercenary logs. If this "Kallias" wasn't a merchant, a noble, or a known traveler, then maybe—

 

His eyes caught on a single entry.

 

His hand stilled.

 

It was buried in the middle of a mercenary report from a few days ago.

 

A small mention. A nameless soldier, described only as a “sharp-eyed man with a wicked tongue,” hired by a group of mercenaries to help clear out harpies near the northern cliffs. He wasn’t a registered fighter. No official name. No previous contracts. Just a hired sword who took his cut and left.

 

Iokles’ fingers tightened around the parchment.

 

That wasn't much to go on, but it was something.

 

His mind raced. Could it be the same man? Or was this just another dead end?

 

There was only one way to find out.

 

His smirk returned.

 

Well, Kallias. Let’s see just how real you are.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Odysseus stood in front of the small, cracked mirror in his room, pulling his hair up with practiced ease. His fingers worked through the strands, twisting them into a tight bun at the back of his head. The motion was second nature by now—fast, efficient, and secure.

 

But he wasn’t careless.

 

He let a few loose strands fall over the side of his face, sweeping them strategically to ensure they obscured his right eye. That damned blue eye—the one that could give him away in an instant if someone from the Greek camp saw him. The rest of him could pass as an unremarkable tradesman, but those eyes? They were too damn distinctive.

 

He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. The bakery downstairs still needed organizing, and he had no time to be fretting over appearances.

 

Still, as he adjusted the placement of his hair one last time, a part of him couldn’t help but wonder—if someone looked closely enough, would they still recognize him?

 

Odysseus exhaled, letting his fingers drift to the mirror’s surface. His calloused fingertips traced his own reflection, following the sharp lines of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the arch of his brow. He had seen this face in a thousand places—on polished bronze shields, in still water, in the horrified eyes of dying men—but never before had he truly studied it like this.

 

It was a face that had changed.

 

Sun and war had carved it into something harsher than he remembered. The faint scars, the tired set of his mouth, the shadows beneath his eyes—signs of years spent surviving, not living. Even now, despite the relative peace of Mysia, he looked like a man ready for battle.

 

His fingers ghosted over the stubble on his chin. Would a different-colored beard help? Perhaps if he let it grow longer, it would obscure the finer details of his face, make him look less like Odysseus and more like a nameless baker. He could even dye his hair even more—Mysia had plenty of traders selling strange concoctions—but no, that was too obvious.

 

His gaze drifted lower, to the strands of hair still shielding his eye.

 

It’s enough.

 

With a final, slow drag of his fingers down the mirror’s surface, he turned away. There was no point in dwelling on things that could not be changed. He had bread to bake.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Iokles strode down the bustling street, his eyes flicking over every storefront, every faded sign, searching for that bakery. His sister’s words rang in his ears—some nonsense about a charming new baker who appeared out of nowhere, selling the best damn bread she’d ever had.

 

Which means he either doesn’t exist, or he’s a fraud.

 

His fingers twitched at his side, itching to pull out his notes again. But he’d already memorized everything: no records, no past business dealings, no known trade licenses. Nothing. The man simply did not exist.

 

And yet, someone had been selling bread.

 

The scent of warm dough, cinnamon, and honey drifted through the air, drawing his attention. His gaze snapped to a small, recently refurbished shop tucked between two larger buildings. The wooden sign above the door was freshly carved but plain—no name, no embellishments. Just a bakery.

 

Iokles narrowed his eyes.

 

Found you.

 

He stepped forward, already rolling his shoulders back, preparing himself for whatever ridiculous lie this so-called baker was about to tell him.

 

Iokles slowed his steps as he approached the bakery, his movements so exaggeratedly careful that he might as well have been creeping through enemy territory. He stopped just outside the door, pressing himself against the wall like some kind of second-rate spy, peering around the edge of the doorway with only one eye visible.

 

A woman passing by gave him a bewildered look. A child tugged on his mother’s sleeve and whispered something, pointing at the strange man loitering outside the shop. Iokles ignored them.

 

Instead of walking in like a normal person, he slinked around the entrance, his movements stiff and unnecessarily slow. He kept his hood pulled low, even though the sun wasn’t particularly bright, and angled his face downward as if that would somehow make him invisible. It didn’t.

 

He hovered just inside the door, pretending to browse while very obviously not browsing. He picked up a loaf of bread, sniffed it suspiciously, and then turned it over like he expected to find some sort of hidden marking. Finding nothing, he set it back down with an exaggerated hmm.

 

The man—no, Kallias —was behind the counter, leaning his weight onto the wooden surface, watching Iokles with the deadpan expression of a man who had seen some shit and had no patience for whatever this was.

 

"Can I help you?" he finally asked, his voice dry.

 

Iokles flinched as if startled that the person running the bakery had, in fact, noticed him standing there for the last five minutes acting like a suspicious bastard.

 

He cleared his throat, reaching into his coat, and pulled out… a completely blank sheet of parchment.

 

"I am but a humble traveler," he announced, in a tone that was far too formal to be natural. "And I have heard rumors of a baker most extraordinary. A man of… mystery. "

 

Kallias just blinked at him.

 

Iokles, undeterred, squinted slightly. "A man who appeared out of nowhere. Selling bread."

 

"That is how bakeries work," Odysseus said, unimpressed.

 

Iokles slowly, dramatically crossed his arms. "And what, pray tell, is your name, mysterious baker?"

 

The man stared at him for a long moment. Then, with the tone of a man who was already exhausted, he answered, "Kallias."

 

Iokles inhaled sharply, nodding as if he’d just uncovered some great conspiracy. He reached for the parchment again, scribbled something invisible onto the completely blank sheet, then turned it toward Kallias as if expecting a reaction.

 

Kallias looked at the empty paper.

 

He looked back at Iokles.

 

He rubbed his temples.

 

"You gonna buy something, or are you just gonna keep acting like a badly disguised thief casing the place?"

 

Iokles stiffened, clearly offended. " How dare you— "

 

"Alright, out. " Kallias reached for the broom.

 

Iokles bolted.

Chapter 22: ✿﹒〣﹒💉﹒Mistakes

Iokles sat hunched over his desk, surrounded by stacks of parchment and scrolls, his fingers flipping through pages with frantic energy. His candle had long since burned down to a stub, its wax pooling across the wooden surface, but he barely noticed. His eyes, wild with obsession, scanned each line with an intensity that would have been concerning to anyone watching.

 

Who the fuck is he?

 

He snatched up a record from one of his piles—an old log of mercenary contracts, scribbled in rushed handwriting. His fingers traced down the list until they landed on the entry that had caught his attention earlier.

 

Group took on harpies. Unnamed leader. Left no trace.

 

Iokles grit his teeth. That wasn't enough. It wasn’t even close to enough.

 

He tossed the parchment aside, reaching for another pile—this one full of reports on wandering warriors, mercenary groups, rogue sellswords. There had to be something. He hadn't spent years building his network just to be outmaneuvered by a baker.

 

His fingers curled tightly around a worn ledger, knuckles white. He could feel it. That itch in his skull, the telltale sign that there was a puzzle here— something didn’t fit, something was being hidden.

 

No man just appeared out of nowhere and opened a bakery. No man moved with that kind of ease unless he had training.

 

Iokles slammed his hand onto the desk, making the papers rustle violently.

 

He needed more information.

 

And he wasn’t going to stop until he got it.

 

Iokles stared at the scattered papers before him, his breath coming out in uneven exhales. His fingers twitched as he reached for another scroll, his movements jerky, frantic. The dim candlelight flickered across his face, casting shadows that deepened the dark circles beneath his eyes. He didn't care. Sleep was irrelevant. Food was irrelevant.

 

The only thing that mattered was him.

The fucking baker.

 

His sister had waltzed into his office like she hadn’t just dropped a ghost into his lap. No name. No records. No history. He had nothing on him except the breadcrumbs she had so sweetly left behind—

 

"A cute baker on the corner. Pretty eyes. Strong hands."

 

He almost laughed. Pretty eyes didn't explain why there was no trace of him. Strong hands didn’t explain why his movements were too refined for a common man. Why he stood like a soldier, moved like a predator.

 

He flipped through another document. And another. And another.

 

Nothing.

 

The mercenary lead was the only thing remotely close— a small group, a nameless leader, fought harpies and vanished. But that wasn’t enough. He needed more.

 

His breathing quickened.

 

Iokles dragged his hands down his face, fingers pressing into his skin hard enough to leave red marks. He could feel the obsession sinking in, wrapping around his thoughts like a vice. This wasn’t just some idle curiosity anymore. This was personal.

 

People didn’t just appear.

 

Ghosts didn’t just walk into town and start selling bread.

 

There was something there, and it was gnawing at him. If there was one thing he hated , it was missing pieces. Gaps in the puzzle. Holes in the narrative.

 

He would find them.

 

He had to.

 

A sharp flick landed right between Iokles' eyebrows.

 

"Ow—!" He jerked back, blinking rapidly as he clutched his forehead.

 

Eugeneia stood over him with an unimpressed expression, arms crossed, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. She didn’t even wait for him to recover before she unceremoniously plopped herself down on his desk, right on top of his carefully arranged documents.

 

"You're spiraling," she said matter-of-factly, reaching over to steal a piece of parchment from his hands. She gave it a bored glance before tossing it aside like it was worthless.

 

Iokles scowled and snatched it back. "I'm working, " he grumbled, straightening the pile. " Unlike some people who barge into my office and sit on my damn desk like they own it."

 

Eugeneia tilted her head, clearly unbothered. "You mean unlike some people who obsess over a random baker to the point of madness?"

 

Iokles twitched.

 

"You don’t know that," he shot back. " He might not be random. He could be a spy, or an exile, or—"

 

"A man who bakes bread?" she interrupted flatly.

 

Iokles glared at her, but she just smiled, kicking her feet idly like a child. "Look at you," she continued, reaching over to poke the dark circles under his eyes. "You look like a corpse. Did you even blink last night? Gods, you’re losing it."

 

He batted her hand away. " You brought him to my attention, and now you’re scolding me for following up?"

 

Eugeneia sighed dramatically and leaned back on her palms. "I told you about him because he makes good pastries. Not because I expected you to comb through every damn record in Mysia like a lunatic." She tilted her head at him, green eyes glinting with amusement. "What’s your plan, brother? Watch his every move? Sneak into his bakery at night? Maybe dress up as a customer and ask invasive questions?"

 

Iokles didn’t answer.

 

Eugeneia squinted. " Oh my gods, you already did, didn't you? "

 

" No! " he snapped, a little too quickly.

 

She cackled, leaning forward with a knowing grin. "You totally did. Were you lurking outside like a shady alley rat? Gods, no wonder people looked at you funny!"

 

Iokles groaned, dragging his hands down his face. " Shut up, " he muttered.

 

Eugeneia just laughed harder, swinging her legs as she watched her brother slowly unravel. "You're hopeless," she teased, standing up and dusting herself off. Then, she leaned down, her voice dropping into something more amused—more knowing.

 

"But I do think he’s hiding something," she admitted, watching her brother closely. "So I say… keep looking."

 

Iokles froze, eyes snapping up to hers.

 

She smirked, tapping his forehead one more time before sauntering toward the door. "Just don’t lose your mind over it, alright?" she called over her shoulder.

 

And with that, she was gone.

 

Iokles sat in silence for a long moment, staring blankly at the door.

 

Then, slowly, he reached for another document.

 

He wasn’t done yet.

 

Iokles’ fingers dug into the parchment as he stared at yet another dead end. His eye twitched.

 

Nothing. Nothing.

 

He had searched through every single damn record he had access to. Merchant logs. Property deeds. Citizenship records. Military files. Bounty lists. Even the most obscure, dust-ridden archives that hadn’t been touched in years. And yet—

 

Nothing on a Kallias that fit the baker’s description. No past employment. No history of travel. No debts, no contracts, no proof that the man even existed before he opened that cursed bakery.

 

It was like he had just appeared out of thin air.

 

Iokles slammed his hands against the desk, sending papers flying. " Who the fuck are you? " he growled under his breath, eyes burning with frustration.

 

His breath came quick, ragged. His desk was in complete chaos now—parchments scattered, ink smudged, stacks of documents toppled over. It was a mess, an absolute disaster, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

 

How was this possible? How? He had never encountered someone who left no trace. Even the most careful of men left breadcrumbs—a single entry, a passing mention, a something.

 

But this baker? Nothing.

 

His jaw clenched. His fingers dug into his scalp as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force some kind of logic into the madness. His sister’s words echoed in his head, laced with amusement:

 

"Maybe he’s just a man who bakes bread."

 

Bullshit.

 

No ordinary baker set off this many alarm bells. No ordinary baker had hands that looked like they once held a sword. No ordinary baker moved with the quiet efficiency of a man who had seen battle. No ordinary baker could go completely undocumented in a place like Mysia.

 

He’s hiding something.

 

Iokles knew it. He could feel it in his bones.

 

But without proof, all he had were suspicions—and suspicions alone weren’t enough.

 

He exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. He needed another approach. He needed—

 

His hands stilled.

 

If the records won’t give me answers…

 

His eyes darkened with determination.

 

Then I’ll get them myself.

 

The door creaked open, and Iokles barely spared it a glance, too caught up in the storm of his thoughts. His fingers were pressed against his temples, his desk a battlefield of discarded papers and ink-stained maps. He only looked up when the intruder spoke.

 

" You look like shit, " Gialaus said bluntly, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. His pale complexion stood out even more under the dim candlelight, white hair slightly disheveled from the evening breeze.

 

Iokles groaned, leaning back in his chair. " Perfect. Another critic. "

 

Gialaus crossed his arms, his sharp red eyes scanning the absolute disaster of a workspace Iokles had created. " You’re spiraling again, aren’t you? "

 

" I am not spiraling, " Iokles snapped, though his bloodshot eyes and the sheer disarray of his desk said otherwise.

 

Gialaus raised an unimpressed brow. " Right. That’s why it looks like you fought a stack of documents and lost. " He walked over, nudging aside a crumpled piece of parchment with the toe of his boot. " What is it this time? "

 

Iokles exhaled sharply, rubbing at his face before gesturing toward the mess. " Him. The baker. "

 

Gialaus blinked, caught off guard. " Kallias? "

 

" Yes! " Iokles shot up, shoving a handful of papers into Gialaus’ hands. " There is no record of him anywhere, Gialaus. Nothing. It’s like he just— " He snapped his fingers. " —appeared out of nowhere. "

 

Gialaus frowned, skimming through the files. "So? He’s a baker. Why does it matter?"

 

" Because people don’t just appear. " Iokles scowled. " He has no history. No past. No connections. But he’s clearly educated. Clearly skilled. He just happens to show up out of nowhere and start a business? " He gestured wildly. " Tell me that doesn’t sound suspicious! "

 

Gialaus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. " I’ve met him, Iokles. He’s— " He hesitated, trying to find the right words. " Just a guy who makes good bread. "

 

Iokles looked at him like he’d just declared the sky was green. " You—what? "

 

"He joined my mercenary group for a day. Lemenai brought back some of his bread . " Gialaus shrugged. " The bread was good. He was nice. Bit sharp-tongued, but nothing unusual. I don’t get why you’re so obsessed with him. "

 

" Because things that don’t add up are dangerous, " Iokles growled, his grip tightening around the parchment in his hands. " And I don’t like things that don’t add up. "

 

Gialaus tilted his head, studying him for a moment before exhaling through his nose. " You need to get out more. "

 

Gialaus ran a hand through his white hair, sighing. "If you were this desperate for info, you could've just asked me."

 

Iokles' head snapped up so fast it was a miracle he didn’t strain something. "What?"

 

"Kallias," Gialaus said with an easy shrug. "He hunted harpies with me and my mercenary friends a while back."

 

Silence.

 

A long, agonizing silence where Iokles just stared at him.

 

Then—

 

"YOU HAD THIS INFORMATION THIS WHOLE TIME?!"

 

Gialaus took a step back as Iokles lunged forward, grabbing fistfuls of paper and throwing them to the ground in absolute frustration.

 

"I HAVE BEEN TEARING THIS ENTIRE CITY APART —" A stack of maps went flying. "—GOING THROUGH EVERY RECORD—" A chair was knocked over. "—AND YOU JUST HAPPEN TO MENTION THIS NOW ?!"

 

Gialaus lifted a brow. "You didn’t ask."

 

"YOU DIDN’T THINK IT WAS IMPORTANT TO MENTION THAT HE USED TO BE A FUCKING MERCENARY?!" Iokles was seconds away from losing his goddamn mind. His hands were shaking. His entire workspace was ruined. His sanity was ruined.

 

Gialaus, utterly unfazed, plucked one of the fallen documents off the desk and skimmed it. "Didn’t seem relevant."

 

"DIDN’T SEEM—" Iokles made a strangled noise, like a man on the verge of a breakdown. "A noblewoman comes into my office talking about some mystery baker with no past, and you just SIT ON THE FACT THAT HE’S A FORMER MERCENARY?!"

 

Gialaus shrugged. "I mean, not all mercenaries have detailed records. Not everyone uses their real name. Maybe he just—"

 

"I’M GOING TO KILL YOU." Iokles slammed both hands onto the desk, leaning in close. "You don’t understand, Gialaus. I live for things that make sense. And this—this—is absolute nonsense."

 

Gialaus took a slow step back, raising both hands in surrender. "Look, man. I get it. You're having a moment. But maybe—" He gestured vaguely at the chaos surrounding them. "—take a breath?"

 

Iokles wheezed. "A breath? A breath?!"

 

"Or like... five?"

 

Iokles let out a sound of pure despair and collapsed back into his chair, gripping his head. "You had this the whole time. Gods damn you, Gialaus."

 

Gialaus chuckled. "Not the first time I’ve heard that."

 

Gialaus leaned back against the desk, arms crossed as he watched Iokles spiral. "If it makes you feel any better," he said lazily, "he wasn’t exactly a seasoned mercenary. It was his first time."

 

Iokles slowly lifted his head, eyes bloodshot, mind still teetering on the edge of complete and utter madness. "…What?"

 

"Yeah." Gialaus nodded. "He was good—really good, actually—but you could tell he wasn’t used to it. He fought like someone with training, not experience."

 

Iokles pressed his fingers to his temples. "So, let me get this straight." He inhaled sharply, voice dangerously calm. "You’re telling me that this ghost of a man, with no records, no history, no anything, just—just decided one day to pick up a sword and go fight harpies?"

 

"Essentially, yeah."

 

"AND YOU THOUGHT THIS WASN’T IMPORTANT?!"

 

Gialaus sighed. "It’s not that I didn’t think it was important—"

 

"OH, SO YOU JUST FORGOT ?!" Iokles was gripping the arms of his chair so tightly it was a miracle the wood didn’t splinter. "I HAVE BEEN LOSING MY MIND FOR DAYS—"

 

"Hours."

 

"—HOURS—" Iokles corrected, "AND YOU JUST CASUALLY REMEMBER THIS NOW?!"

 

Gialaus shrugged. "You seemed like you were having fun."

 

Iokles let out a sound that was something between a growl and a sob, slamming his forehead onto his desk. "This is my nightmare."

 

Gialaus tilted his head. "I mean, if you really want to know more about him, why don’t you just go talk to him?"

 

"Oh, brilliant idea, Gialaus." Iokles lifted his head, glaring. "Let me just march into that bakery and demand he tell me his life story. That’ll go great."

 

"Or," Gialaus drawled, "you could just… you know… buy some bread? Act normal?"

 

Iokles stared at him. Then at the mess of papers on the floor. Then back at him.

 

"I hate you."

 

Gialaus grinned. "You say that, but I’m your best lead."

 

Gialaus sighed, rolling his eyes as if the situation was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. "Fine, fine, I'll help you out. But you owe me for this," he muttered, pushing off the desk and stretching his long, pale arms above his head.

 

Iokles’ head snapped up, confusion and desperation still evident in his face. "You... what?"

 

"I’ll introduce you to Kallias," Gialaus said flatly, as if it was the most obvious solution. "You can ask him whatever you want, but—" he paused, narrowing his eyes as though weighing his next words carefully, "just know this: he’s not the type to hand out information easily ."

 

"You think?" Iokles muttered bitterly, running a hand through his hair.

 

Gialaus ignored him and continued, "He might be willing to talk, but you need to tread lightly. He’s got this... knack for deflecting questions. And he’s good at it."

 

Iokles was so close to boiling over with frustration he was certain steam would start pouring from his ears. "You act like I’m supposed to just waltz in and—what—ask him for a favor? Like he’s some merchant ?!"

 

"Look," Gialaus said, his tone still annoyingly casual, "I’m just trying to save you the hassle of making a complete ass of yourself. Don’t start throwing your weight around with him, he’s got a sharp tongue. You don’t want to end up looking like a fool ."

 

Iokles clenched his fists at his sides. "I’m already looking like a fool, Gialaus. I just—" His voice trailed off, then he shook his head, unable to finish the thought.

 

Gialaus watched him for a moment, then sighed again, clearly irritated at how long this was taking. "Look, I’m already doing you a favor by offering to introduce you. If you can’t keep your cool, then maybe you shouldn’t meet him at all."

 

Iokles opened his mouth to argue, but then stopped himself, the logic of Gialaus’ words finally sinking in. If he did want answers, he’d have to do this carefully. He couldn’t afford to screw this up now—not when he was this close.

 

"Fine," Iokles grumbled after a long silence. "You’ll introduce me. But if this blows up in my face, I’m holding you personally responsible."

 

"Deal." Gialaus nodded. "You’ve got a lot to make up for anyway, so it’s a fair deal."

 

Iokles scowled but didn't respond. His thoughts were already running wild, imagining what he would say, how he would approach this mysterious figure. There was no turning back now.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Odysseus’ eye twitched as he watched Lemenai flit around the kitchen with an almost unnatural enthusiasm. The kid was a whirlwind of energy, flour dusting the air like confetti as he kneaded the dough with such effortless skill it was almost infuriating. Odysseus glanced down at his own work—lumpy, misshapen, and clearly the product of someone who had spent far too many years away from a kitchen. He grumbled under his breath, “How is he so damn good at this? He’s barely been here an hour…”

 

Lemenai, completely unaware of Odysseus' inner turmoil, flashed him a beaming smile as he effortlessly shaped the dough into perfect loaves. "Look, Kallias! I'm doing it!" He held up the bread like it was some kind of personal triumph, his face alight with pride. "It's coming out so good!"

 

Odysseus sighed dramatically, hands on his hips as he stared at the beautiful loaf in Lemenai's hands. It was golden brown, smooth, and looked like it belonged in a bakery in Athens, not in some rundown shop in Mysia. His own sad attempts, on the other hand, looked like something that might have been better suited as a doorstop. "How the hell are you this good at this, Lemenai?" Odysseus muttered, feeling the frustration welling up.

 

Lemenai, ever the optimist, gave him a goofy grin, his eyes shining with joy. "I dunno! I just… I just love doing it, Kallias! It’s fun!" His voice was light and carefree, like everything in the world was made of sunshine and sweet bread. "I watched my mom bake all the time when I was younger. She said I had a knack for it, so I just kind of went with it!"

 

Odysseus rolled his eyes, still staring at his own pathetic bread. "Well, I’ve been doing this for hours, and this is the best I’ve got," he grumbled, gesturing to his sad lump of dough. "You come in here and in an hour, you make perfect bread like you were born to do it. It’s infuriating."

 

Lemenai’s grin didn’t waver, and he bounced on his feet, completely oblivious to Odysseus' sarcasm. "Oh no! You’re just getting the hang of it, Kallias!" He chirped, practically radiating positivity. "You just need to feel it! It’s all about the love, you know? If you put your heart into it, the dough just listens!"

 

"Heart?" Odysseus repeated, raising an eyebrow. "It’s flour, water, and salt, Lemenai. What the hell do you mean by ‘love’?"

 

Lemenai beamed, completely ignoring the skepticism in Odysseus' voice. "Exactly! Love makes it work! If you just keep trying, you’ll make something amazing, I know it!"

 

Odysseus stared at him for a long moment, feeling a strange mix of admiration and irritation. The kid was so damn sweet, so naive and full of life, like nothing could ever bring him down. He was the kind of person who could make even the most frustrating things seem like a game.

 

"You’re a pain in the ass," Odysseus muttered, but there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite himself.

 

"I know! But you love me anyway!" Lemenai’s voice was teasing, his face practically glowing with affection as he bounced around the kitchen, setting up his perfectly baked loaf on the cooling rack. "Hey, Kallias, I think you’re gonna be the best baker ever! I just know it!"

 

"Oh, I’m sure you do," Odysseus chuckled, though the words were full of fondness. "But I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t make me look bad in my own kitchen, alright?" He shot him a playful glare.

 

Lemenai blinked up at him, looking utterly sincere. "I’m not trying to! I just think you’re really great at it, too!"

 

Odysseus shook his head, a full smile breaking through as he gave up on staying frustrated. "Alright, kid. Keep telling yourself that. Just don’t take over my bakery while I’m not looking, okay?"

 

Lemenai’s grin could have lit up the entire town. "I wouldn’t dream of it! I’m just here to help, Kallias! I think you’re gonna be great!"

 

Odysseus sighed again, this time with a fondness he couldn’t quite hide. "You really are a pain in the ass, but I’m glad you’re here, kid."

 

Odysseus opened the door, surprised to see Gialaus standing there, his pale form easily noticeable in the sunlight. Behind him, Iokles lingered, his body language tense and awkward, clearly uncomfortable in the bakery.

 

“Gialaus,” Odysseus greeted with a warm smile, stepping aside to let him in. “Good to see you, what brings you here?”

 

Gialaus gave a small nod of acknowledgment, his usual calm demeanor in place. “Thought I’d check in. It’s been a while.” He motioned to Iokles behind him. “This is Iokles. He could use a few more friends... and he can bake,” he added with a slight smirk, glancing at Iokles as though trying to ease him into the conversation.

 

Iokles shifted from foot to foot, clearly nervous but trying to hide it. He cleared his throat before speaking, his voice quieter than expected. “Uh, I can bake... I’ve, uh, baked before,” he said, eyes flicking down at the floor.

 

Odysseus gave him a long look, amused by the awkwardness but not unkindly. “Well, you’re in luck. I’ve been making bread all day,” he said with a light chuckle, motioning toward the counter where the freshly baked goods rested.

 

Iokles looked up then, his expression softening a bit as he caught sight of the loaves. “Oh. I… I was just curious,” he mumbled, clearly unsure of how to continue.

 

“Curious about what?” Odysseus asked, still smiling. He’d met Gialaus before, during the harpy hunt, and had grown a fondness for him—he wasn’t sure about this Iokles character yet, but the awkward vibe was hard to ignore.

 

Gialaus gave Iokles a slight nudge with his elbow. “Iokles here’s a bit of a wanderer. Likes baking, so thought you might have some tips,” he said, clearly trying to keep things light.

 

Iokles shot Gialaus a glare, but it was quickly replaced by another awkward smile. “Yeah, baking. I... I guess I could learn a thing or two,” he admitted.

 

Odysseus took in the situation, understanding Gialaus' attempt to ease Iokles in, but not exactly sure where it was going. "Well, I’m happy to teach, if that’s what you want. No rush. We can start with something simple."

 

Gialaus flashed a quick smile, clearly happy to see things going more smoothly. "I’ll leave you to it, then. I was just making sure you weren’t holed up here alone," he said to Iokles before giving Odysseus a nod of goodbye. "Take care, both of you."

 

As Gialaus turned and headed for the door, Iokles stood there for a moment, glancing between Odysseus and the bread. He finally spoke up, though his voice was softer than before. "Thanks... I really appreciate it."

 

Odysseus chuckled, walking over to the counter and grabbing another loaf. "No problem. Everyone needs a little help now and then." He smiled at Iokles, noticing how much more at ease he seemed now that the conversation had shifted toward baking.

 

As the door closed behind Gialaus, Odysseus glanced at Iokles again. "So, you can bake? What’s your favorite kind of bread?"

 

Iokles hesitated, but after a moment, he gave a small, shy smile. "I like... cinnamon rolls. They’re sweet, but not too sweet. And I think I might be able to make them with a little help."

 

Just as Odysseus was about to respond, Lemenai’s voice rang out from the back of the bakery, the door swinging open with a burst of excitement.

 

“Cinnamon rolls?! That’s my favorite too!” Lemenai exclaimed, practically skipping over to where Odysseus and Iokles were standing. His bright eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as he threw his arms open in a dramatic gesture, as though he were unveiling a grand secret. “I’m Lemenai!” He beamed at Iokles, practically vibrating with energy. “And I love baking! We’re gonna have so much fun together!”

 

Iokles, caught a little off guard by the sudden onslaught of energy, blinked at Lemenai in surprise. The younger man was clearly so full of life that it was almost impossible to not be swept up in it. Lemenai’s smile was wide and infectious, his hands already moving as though he could hardly wait to get started.

 

Odysseus rolled his eyes fondly at Lemenai’s exuberance, but a small laugh escaped him. “Lemenai’s a little... overenthusiastic, but he knows what he’s doing when it comes to the kitchen.”

 

Lemenai gave a mock scowl at Odysseus’ teasing, but his grin never faltered. “Hey! I’m just excited to share the joy of cinnamon rolls!” He turned back to Iokles. “Don’t mind him. We’ll get you rolling dough in no time, I’m sure of it!”

 

Iokles, though still a bit taken aback, found himself chuckling softly. The warmth and energy from Lemenai was hard to resist. “I... I guess I could use the help,” he admitted with a tentative smile.

 

“Of course you can!” Lemenai said as he clapped his hands together, delighted. “We’re all about teamwork here!” He then whipped his gaze toward Odysseus. “You know, I think I can show him how to make them even better than you can, Kallias.”

 

Odysseus raised an eyebrow at the challenge but played along with a smirk. “You’re on. But remember, Lemenai, cinnamon rolls require patience. A lot of it.”

 

Lemenai waved off the warning. “Patience? Who needs that when you have passion?” He then turned back to Iokles, clapping him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll teach you everything you need to know!”

 

Iokles looked between them both, clearly starting to feel a little more comfortable in the chaotic, but oddly warm, atmosphere of the bakery. “Okay. I’m ready,” he said, nodding with determination.

 

“Alright then!” Lemenai cheered. “Let’s get rolling! Literally.”

 

Odysseus chuckled at the exuberance in Lemenai’s voice. “Good luck, Iokles,” he said with a teasing grin. “You’re in for a wild ride.”

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

He hadn’t expected the baker, Kallias , to be like this.

 

He had imagined someone more... elusive. Mysterious. Perhaps a man who kept to the shadows, who carried an air of untouchable confidence. The kind of person you would have to peel back layers to understand. But instead, what he saw in front of him was completely different.

 

Lemenai, practically bouncing off the walls with energy, was already dragging him toward the kitchen, rambling on about flour and butter as though they were old friends. And Kallias was just standing there, watching them both with that half-amused, half-exasperated look on his face. His eyes were sharp, but not in the way Iokles had expected. They weren’t calculating or cold. They were warm. There was a kindness in them, like he was the kind of person who’d listen to you for hours if you needed it.

 

Iokles blinked in confusion, still standing awkwardly in the middle of the bakery, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. This wasn’t the mysterious figure he had imagined. He had expected someone dangerous, someone who could slice through any situation with a quiet, brooding confidence. But instead, Kallias was... normal. Well, in a way that was confusingly warm and... real.

 

He ran a hand through his hair, still grappling with the disconnect between the image of the man he had imagined and the reality standing right in front of him.

 

Was this really the same man? The one who had hunted harpies with Gialaus? The one whose name echoed through whispers? He looked like a man who could disappear into the shadows without a trace, yet here he was, laughing softly at Lemenai’s antics, clearly fond of the energetic chaos that surrounded him.

 

Iokles took a slow breath, trying to steady his thoughts.

 

“This is not what I expected,” he muttered under his breath, eyes flicking back and forth between Lemenai and Kallias.

 

His gaze lingered on Kallias for a moment, trying to figure out what to make of him. The man was just... so different from what he had imagined. Kallias was more than just a name, a mystery, or a reputation. He was a man who laughed, who helped others, who made bread with a sort of easy confidence.

 

For a moment, Iokles felt almost... disappointed? But it wasn’t disappointment about Kallias himself—no, it was a deep, nagging feeling that he had expected to find someone untouchable. Someone who couldn’t be understood or known. But here he was, right in front of him, and Iokles had a gut feeling that Kallias, for all his complex history, was someone who could be understood, even befriended.

 

It was unsettling.

 

Iokles blinked, his confusion deepening. This wasn't what he had expected. He had imagined Kallias as a figure cloaked in mystery, someone who barely spoke, someone who moved through the world with a quiet, dangerous presence. A man whose every action was calculated, whose silence held weight. But now, standing in front of him, Kallias was... well, just normal .

 

Normal, but in the most disorienting way possible.

 

Lemenai, full of energy, was practically dragging him into the kitchen, talking about flour and butter as if they'd been baking together for years. Kallias was following them, not with a distant, aloof air, but with a soft smile and an amused glint in his eye, the kind of look someone might wear when they were genuinely enjoying the chaos around them. He was calm, but not in a cold, detached way. More like he was used to chaos and found comfort in it. The opposite of the intimidating, elusive figure Iokles had imagined.

 

Kallias didn’t even seem concerned about the strange man standing in his shop. Instead, he welcomed him with the same warmth he had for Lemenai, almost like it was second nature. There was nothing hard about him. No sense of unapproachability. No warning that Kallias would disappear into the shadows, like Iokles had anticipated.

 

Iokles stood frozen for a moment, struggling to reconcile the man before him with the image he'd built up in his mind. This wasn’t the same person he’d heard about—the one who had hunted harpies and whispered through rumors. This Kallias wasn’t cloaked in mystery; he wasn’t a shadow in the night. He was a man with flour on his face, laughing easily with a young boy who adored him.

 

He ran a hand through his hair, feeling a wave of unease. He had been so sure that Kallias would be... different. But here he was, laughing and chatting with Lemenai like it was the most natural thing in the world.

 

His eyes flickered to Kallias again. There was something there, something that made him pause. It wasn’t that Kallias was unremarkable—no, it was the opposite. It was that he was too real, too... accessible . For a moment, Iokles had imagined Kallias to be some untouchable figure, someone who moved through life with a sense of distance and cold calculation. But instead, Kallias seemed approachable, even... human.

 

The baker caught his eye, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It was a genuine smile, the kind you gave when you weren’t pretending to be something you were not. Iokles couldn’t figure it out.

 

Was it disappointment he was feeling? It wasn’t that he was let down by Kallias, no, it was something else entirely. It was a strange, unsettling feeling that he couldn’t quite place. He had wanted Kallias to be more... mysterious, more like a shadow in the dark. Instead, Kallias seemed grounded, approachable, and maybe even a little too easy to understand.

 

It was unsettling. It made him feel as though he didn’t have the advantage anymore. That maybe, just maybe, Kallias was more than the rumors. More than the mystery.

 

And that, Iokles realized with a jolt, made him uncomfortable .

 

The moment Lemenai skipped out of the bakery to grab something from the back, Kallias moved with the swiftness of a shadow.

 

Iokles didn’t see it coming. One moment, he was standing there, still reeling from the strange sensation of seeing Kallias so... human, and the next, everything went dark. A hand clamped down on his shoulder, and before he could react, Kallias had spun him around, his body pressing hard against Iokles' own, his forearm like iron against his chest, forcing him back into the counter. A cold blade brushed against his throat.

 

"Who the fuck are you?" Kallias hissed, his voice low and dangerous. His breath was hot against Iokles' ear, and for a split second, Iokles thought he might actually be dead. "You’re not here for bread, are you?”

 

Iokles froze. His heart hammered in his chest, the fear so sudden and overwhelming that it almost made him lose his breath. His hands instinctively went up, but they didn’t dare move too much. The knife—no, the sharpness of the blade against his skin was enough to make him stop.

 

For a moment, Iokles couldn’t speak. His mind was a blur. Kallias was—he was dangerous . The man standing before him wasn’t the friendly, approachable baker from before. He wasn’t the figure who had welcomed him into his shop with a smile. This Kallias... this Kallias was a predator, a force to be reckoned with. His eyes were cold—completely devoid of warmth or friendliness, just pure, seething intensity.

 

Iokles swallowed, his voice coming out in a dry rasp. "I... I’m just... looking for answers."

 

Kallias didn’t move, the pressure of the knife against his throat like a silent, crushing threat. "Answers about what? Who sent you?"

 

Iokles felt a strange thrill rush through him—despite the knife, despite the terror. It was something about the raw, unfiltered aggression of Kallias. Something about how his gaze bore down on him like he was prey, something that made Iokles’ pulse race, his breath catch in his throat. The way Kallias held him there, powerful and unyielding, was... mesmerizing . It felt wrong—terribly wrong—but at the same time, it was the most alive Iokles had felt in days.

 

"I—" His words got stuck in his throat for a moment. "I’m looking for... the mercenary." His eyes flickered up to Kallias’ face, his heart racing even faster. "I heard stories. About a man... who hunted harpies."

 

A pause. The blade didn’t move. Kallias’ eyes narrowed as he studied him. There was a coldness there, the kind that made Iokles feel small, insignificant. But the oddest thing was, he didn’t want to pull away. He wanted to stay there, wanted to keep feeling that pressure against his throat, the danger simmering just beneath the surface.

 

Kallias’ lips curled into a small frown. "You want answers about the a mercenary?" he asked, his voice still cold, but there was something else there now, something darker.

 

Iokles nodded, unable to tear his eyes away from the man in front of him.

 

Kallias tilted his head, the frown turning into something more predatory. “If you’re going to hunt a ghost, you’d better be prepared, Iokles.”

 

But it was too late.

 

Iokles was already hooked.

Just as quickly as it all started, Lemenai walked back into the bakery, humming to himself as he held a basket of fresh herbs. His cheerful voice filled the room as he announced, "I got everything! Should we—"

 

He stopped short, eyes darting between Iokles and Kallias. The atmosphere in the room shifted so suddenly, it was like the two men had swapped personalities in the blink of an eye.

 

Iokles stood frozen, his heart still hammering from the encounter, the heat of Kallias' touch still lingering on his skin. The baker, on the other hand, was standing perfectly composed, his expression softening into that same warm, inviting smile he’d had when Iokles first walked in. He wasn’t holding a knife anymore. His posture was casual, relaxed, like nothing had happened.

 

"Hey, Lemenai," Kallias greeted, his tone smooth and gentle, like he hadn’t just had a blade at Iokles' throat a moment ago. "I was just showing Iokles how to knead the dough a bit better. You know how it is, helping a guy out."

 

Lemenai blinked, his face shifting between confusion and relief. "Uh... right. Sure." He glanced at Iokles, who was still trying to collect himself, a confused expression on his face. "You okay, man?"

 

Iokles swallowed, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yeah... yeah, just... fine."

 

Kallias, seeing the way Iokles seemed to be having a hard time recovering, immediately shifted his stance, his hand lightly patting the counter as he nodded. "Don’t worry about it. You know, Lemenai is a great help around here, but I’m the one who makes the bread," he chuckled, the sound warm and carefree. "You’ll be fine."

 

Iokles nodded, though it wasn’t entirely clear whether he was agreeing with the statement or just trying to avoid more uncomfortable conversation.

 

Lemenai stepped forward, setting down the herbs and giving Iokles a friendly pat on the back. "It’s all good. Kallias is just a bit intense, you know? He’s really protective over his bakery and his... uh... dough. Don’t mind him, though. He’s got a soft side, promise."

 

Iokles tried to laugh, but it came out more like a nervous cough. He couldn’t seem to shake the weight of the moment that had just passed. "Yeah, I figured."

 

Kallias smiled at Lemenai, then at Iokles. He didn’t show any sign of the earlier tension. Instead, he clapped his hands together, beaming. "Now, how about we focus on that bread? We’ve got to make sure it turns out perfect for the evening crowd, right?"

 

Lemenai nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! Let’s make it happen. I’m ready to get those loaves golden brown." He glanced back at Iokles. "You’re going to love it. Kallias makes the best bread in all of Mysia."

 

Iokles felt his chest tighten, trying to piece together the whirlwind that had just happened. Kallias, the same man who had been cold and terrifying, was now back to his sweet, jovial self, acting like nothing had happened at all. It was a bit disorienting, to say the least. He still couldn’t get the image of the knife from his mind, or the way Kallias' eyes had glinted with something much darker than bread-baking enthusiasm.

 

But there was nothing to do now but roll with it.

 

"Yeah," Iokles muttered, his voice still a little off. "Golden brown."

 

Kallias flashed another smile, pulling a bowl of dough from the counter. "That’s the spirit. Now, let’s get back to work, yeah?"

 

Iokles just nodded, still reeling from the interaction, but trying to convince himself that maybe, just maybe, he was overthinking things.

 

After all, what could possibly be dangerous about a baker who made such good bread?

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Polites sat cross-legged on the floor of his tent, a pile of parchment spread out in front of him. The flickering light of a small oil lamp cast long shadows over the documents, the ink on the pages smudged in places where his hand had brushed carelessly. His brow furrowed as he counted the supplies they had left, marking down each item in neat rows on a separate sheet.

 

Dried meat... eight days' worth. Wine... barely enough for a week. Water skins... two left intact, but we're pushing it. He sighed, rubbing his temple. The war was wearing on them, but the mundane details of survival on the fringes of battle never ceased.

 

He glanced over to the wooden crate beside him that contained the remaining ration packs—too little to last more than a few more days. His thoughts turned to Mysia, and the idea of making a supply run. It was a journey that would take time, but they had no choice. The Greeks couldn't afford to waste any more time waiting on provisions.

 

"Mysia..." he muttered under his breath. He’d been there once or twice, but not since... not since the war began to stretch on. It had been years now, with no sign of an end. They couldn’t keep waiting forever.

 

But there wasn’t time for such thoughts now. They had more immediate concerns to deal with. The men needed food, water, and supplies to keep the fight going, and Mysia was the nearest place where they could get what they needed. He'd been to the port before, but not since... since everything had gone so wrong.

 

A knock on the tent flap startled him from his thoughts. He stood up quickly, smoothing out the wrinkles in his tunic, and moved to answer it.

 

The flap opened, and one of his men stepped inside, eyes scanning the tent briefly before settling on Polites.

 

"Sir," the soldier said, with a hint of unease in his voice. "We’ve got a small issue. Word is, there’s been a delay at the docks in Mysia. Some shipments are being held up."

 

Polites gritted his teeth, already feeling the stress creep up his neck. "What kind of delay?"

 

"Not sure, sir. The merchant ships are still in port, but no one's sure when they'll unload. They say something's going on in the city... maybe a shortage of workers or... other reasons."

 

Polites cursed under his breath. They didn’t have time for delays. Every day they spent waiting in the camp was another day lost, another step closer to fatigue setting in. "Fine. Keep me updated. If it comes to it, we’ll send someone to negotiate directly. We can’t afford to waste time. And if the merchants are being difficult..." His voice trailed off, but the implication was clear.

 

The soldier nodded and turned to leave, but Polites called after him, "And check the morale of the men. We can't afford to have anyone dragging their feet."

 

The soldier paused, glancing back with a half-hearted salute. "Understood, sir."

 

Polites sank back down onto the floor, his fingers running over the last page of inventory. The upcoming supply run would be a challenge, especially if there were any more unexpected delays. But it had to be done.

But for now, his priorities were clear. Mysia, supplies, and getting the hell out of this camp before the men lost what little resolve they had left.

 

Polites stood from his desk, feeling the weight of the decision settle heavily in his chest. The air in the tent was thick with tension. His eyes flickered toward the supplies again. He couldn’t wait any longer for the situation to resolve on its own. Mysia was their best chance, and he knew that if things went south, they would need someone to ensure the supplies actually arrived.

 

Taking a deep breath, he straightened his tunic and walked out of the tent, the bright sun blinding him for a moment as he stepped into the open air. The camp was alive with activity, soldiers moving back and forth, and the sounds of weapons clashing in the distance. The weight of the war was impossible to ignore, but it wasn’t the war he was concerned about right now.

 

He scanned the camp until his eyes landed on Eurylochus, who was sitting near a campfire, staring blankly into the flames. Eurylochus had a permanent look of exhaustion on his face lately, a result of the constant pressure of being Odysseus' second-in-command. He was just about as worn down as anyone else, but Polites knew that when it came to making tough decisions, Eurylochus was one of the most dependable men around.

 

Polites walked over, his boots crunching in the dirt as he approached.

 

"Eurylochus," Polites began, his voice a little too eager, a little too desperate. "I need you to come with me to Mysia."

 

Eurylochus glanced up at him, blinking as though he hadn’t realized Polites was even standing there. “Mysia?” he repeated slowly. "We’ve been to Mysia a dozen times already. What’s the rush?"

 

“I know," Polites muttered, his voice tight with frustration. "But we don’t have the time to wait. The supplies... they're running out faster than expected. We can’t sit here and wait for some miracle. I need to go, and I can’t do it alone."

 

Eurylochus raised an eyebrow, still clearly hesitant. “What makes you think you need to go, Polites? We’ve got plenty of men who could handle a simple supply run. You’re one of the commanders—shouldn’t you stay here?”

 

Polites clenched his fists, frustration bubbling up. “I’ve been here long enough. We need someone who can make sure we get those supplies, someone who knows how to talk to the right people. If we don’t get there soon, we might not make it. You know that.”

 

Eurylochus studied him for a long moment, eyes narrowed as though weighing Polites’ words. Polites could feel the weight of the silence, the desperation in his chest making his voice tremble slightly as he spoke again.

 

"Please, Eurylochus. I can’t do this without you. If we don’t go now, we might not get the chance later."

 

Eurylochus exhaled slowly and then finally nodded, his lips curling into a tight, resigned expression. "Alright, alright. I’ll go with you. But you owe me one. The last thing I need right now is to be dragged into another damned supply run."

 

Polites let out a relieved breath, feeling the tension leave his shoulders. He clapped Eurylochus on the back, grateful for his agreement. "Thank you. I promise, you’ll get your due."

 

Eurylochus grunted, not looking entirely convinced, but he didn’t argue. “We leave at dawn, then?”

 

"Yes," Polites said, his voice firm now. "At dawn."

 

As they turned to head back toward the camp, Polites felt a sense of relief wash over him. It wasn’t the perfect solution, but at least it was a step toward resolving the problem. Now, all he had to do was hope they could make it to Mysia and back before things got even worse.

 

Polites walked beside Eurylochus for a few moments in silence, the sounds of the camp fading away as the weight of everything—the responsibility, the war, the uncertainty—settled heavily in his chest. The tension from their earlier conversation seemed to dissipate, but in its place, something else began to stir. A feeling he hadn’t allowed himself to think about for too long.

 

He missed Odysseus.

 

It had only been a few days since his disappearance, but the absence of his friend, the one who had always managed to keep things steady, was becoming unbearable. Polites knew it wasn’t just the war weighing on him; it was the hole left by Odysseus' absence. The camp felt quieter, the atmosphere colder without him. And as much as he tried to keep it together, to keep everyone moving forward, he couldn’t shake the ache in his chest.

 

Before he even realized what he was doing, Polites reached out and grabbed Eurylochus by the shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug.

 

Eurylochus froze for a moment, clearly startled, but Polites didn’t let go. His grip tightened, and he buried his face in Eurylochus’ shoulder, his breath hitching as he felt the sting of unshed tears well up.

 

“I miss him, Eurylochus,” Polites whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I miss him so much.”

 

Eurylochus was stiff at first, but after a moment, he gave a reluctant sigh and patted Polites awkwardly on the back. “I know you do, man. We all do. But we’ve got to keep going.”

 

Polites shook his head, his voice shaky now, breaking with raw emotion. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this without him. He’s the one who keeps us all from falling apart. And now… now I feel like we’re all just stumbling in the dark.”

 

Eurylochus remained silent, perhaps unsure of how to comfort him. Polites didn’t care. The tears were already falling, hot against his cheeks, as he clung to Eurylochus. His friend’s presence was the only thing grounding him in that moment, and for just a brief second, he let himself be vulnerable.

 

“I don’t know how to keep this together without him,” Polites whispered again, his voice small and broken. “I don’t know if I can.”

 

Eurylochus finally spoke, his tone softer now. “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, Polites. And you’re not alone in this. We’re all here. We’ll get through this. Just… just keep going, alright? We’ll find him.”

 

Polites pulled away slightly, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, embarrassed by the outpouring of emotion. He took a shaky breath, trying to compose himself, but his heart still ached. "I just want him back. I want him here with us."

 

Eurylochus gave him a sympathetic look, but there was a quiet understanding in his eyes. Without saying another word, he gave Polites a firm pat on the back before stepping away, leaving Polites to gather himself.

 

"Come on," Eurylochus said, his voice gruff, trying to get Polites back on track. "We’ve got a job to do. We'll find him. We just have to keep moving."

 

Polites nodded, taking one last deep breath to steady himself. As much as it hurt, as much as he longed for Odysseus’ presence, he knew Eurylochus was right. The only way forward was to keep going, to keep pushing, even if it meant doing so without the person he considered his anchor.

 

With a final, deep exhale, Polites wiped the last remnants of tears from his eyes and nodded resolutely.

 

“Right. Let’s get to Mysia.”

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Odysseus stood in the quiet of his bakery, his hands dusted with flour as he carefully placed the freshly baked loaves of bread on the cooling rack. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he admired his work, the warm, golden-brown crusts tempting him with their perfection. For the first time in days, things seemed to be going smoothly. No burnt batches, no failed experiments. It felt like a small victory, one he hadn’t realized he needed so badly.

 

But then, as he straightened up, a shiver ran down his spine. He froze, staring at the bread in front of him, his brow furrowing. It was strange—almost like the air around him had shifted. A sense of... something.

 

It was as if someone, somewhere, was talking about him.

 

He glanced around the room, scanning the empty space, then shook his head, brushing off the strange sensation. “Get a hold of yourself,” he muttered under his breath. There was no one here. He was alone in his bakery, just as he had been for the past few days.

 

He took a deep breath, trying to shake off the feeling. The usual distractions of the bakery, the warmth of the oven, and the scent of fresh bread should have been enough to calm him. But the sensation lingered, gnawing at the back of his mind.

 

It was probably just the stress, he reasoned. Maybe he was finally starting to crack under the weight of all the changes. His life had been full of nothing but chaos for so long—war, escape, disguises—he hadn’t really had time to think about anything else. Maybe he was just overthinking things. He’d done that before.

 

Odysseus sighed and wiped his hands on a cloth. With a shake of his head, he dismissed the feeling. “Enough with the nonsense,” he thought, setting his focus back on the loaves of bread in front of him. The last thing he needed was to let some fleeting sensation throw him off track.

 

Still, as he finished putting everything in its place and began to clean up, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that someone, somewhere, was talking about him.

Chapter 23: ᶻz﹒‹𝟹﹒🩸﹒Polites

Polites and Eurylochus rode side by side through the dusted roads, the horses' hooves thudding in a steady rhythm as the sun began to dip below the horizon. The journey to Mysia was a long one, but they had no choice. Supplies were running low, and they needed to make the trip. Polites kept his eyes trained ahead, but the tension in his shoulders was obvious.

 

Eurylochus, who was usually hard to read, seemed especially brooding today. His usual frown was deeper, and his eyes were clouded, lost in thought.

 

"You alright, Eurylochus?" Polites asked, glancing over at him.

 

Eurylochus grunted, barely looking at him. "It’s been a hell of a few days. With Odysseus gone... I don't know. It’s just... not the same without him."

 

Polites knew exactly what he meant. He missed Odysseus too, more than he cared to admit. The void left by his disappearance was too big, and it weighed on everyone. Polites didn’t like to talk about it, but the silence between them said everything.

 

Before Polites could respond, they heard a galloping sound approaching from behind. He turned, squinting into the fading light, and saw the familiar shape of Diomedes coming toward them.

 

"I thought you weren’t leaving the camp," Polites called, his voice laced with both surprise and a touch of irritation.

 

Diomedes slowed his horse, pulling alongside them with an irritated sigh. "Agamemnon’s camp is a joke. And I’m not sticking around to watch him sit in his tent like a little child. You two look like you could use a hand. So, I’m coming with you."

 

Eurylochus smirked slightly. "You just want to avoid Agamemnon."

 

"Don’t pretend you don’t understand," Diomedes shot back, grinning. "I’d rather be anywhere but with that pompous fool. Besides, someone has to make sure you don’t do something stupid on this trip."

 

Polites raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. He was grateful for the company—especially Diomedes. Even if his presence made things a bit more chaotic, it was a welcome disruption from the tension that had built up between them all since Odysseus’ disappearance.

 

"Fine," Polites said, giving a half-smile. "You can come. But if you’re going to complain the entire time, I swear, I’ll leave you behind in Mysia."

 

Diomedes chuckled, patting his horse’s neck. "I’ll make sure you don’t have to carry my whiny ass."

 

The ride to Mysia took longer than any of them had expected, but the evening air had a way of making the miles more bearable. The horses trotted steadily along the path, their hooves tapping rhythmically on the dirt as the three men rode in companionable silence, broken only by the occasional exchange of words. Polites kept glancing over at Diomedes, who, despite his usual bravado, seemed quieter than usual.

 

Eurylochus, too, was deep in thought. His usual gruff demeanor was softened, though his frown remained. Polites didn’t need to ask what was on his mind. He was thinking about Odysseus—their missing leader and friend.

 

"Do you think we’ll find anything in Mysia?" Eurylochus finally broke the silence.

 

Polites looked up at the fading sky, feeling the weight of the question. "Maybe. If we’re lucky. But I don’t think it’s about finding something specific anymore. It’s about just... keeping busy. We can’t stay in that camp forever."

 

Diomedes gave a loud snort. "You both are too sentimental. It’s war, remember? Odysseus will turn up when he damn well pleases. Until then, we keep fighting."

 

The statement was blunt, but Polites couldn’t argue with it. He didn’t know what to believe anymore. The absence of Odysseus had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. The idea that the great leader could disappear so completely—without a trace—felt unnatural. But there was no time to dwell on it.

 

"Do you think he’s alright?" Polites asked quietly, glancing over at Eurylochus. He hadn’t meant to ask it aloud, but the question had been gnawing at him for days.

 

Eurylochus shrugged, but there was a shadow in his eyes. "I hope so. But who knows? He’s always been good at surviving, but there’s only so much luck a man can have. And with him gone, we’re... not the same without him."

 

Diomedes huffed again, clearly not interested in the conversation. "Enough with the doom and gloom. We'll get there, do our job, and come back with what we need. No use worrying about it."

 

The wind kicked up, rustling the leaves of the nearby trees as they made their way through the valley. Polites let the wind carry his thoughts away, focusing instead on the rhythm of their ride and the faint sounds of nature that surrounded them.

 

Hours passed as they rode, and soon they reached the outskirts of Mysia. The city sprawled before them, its outlines dim in the twilight. The streets were quieter here than back in the heart of Troy, but there was still a hum of activity, even at this late hour. Merchants were packing up their stalls, and travelers made their way through the roads, lost in their own business.

 

"Alright," Polites said, pulling his horse to a halt. "We’re here. Let’s get what we came for and get out."

 

Diomedes and Eurylochus nodded in unison, their faces grim. They had business to attend to, but there was something heavier in the air. Each of them, for different reasons, had their own thoughts on what lay ahead.

 

As they approached the entrance to Mysia, the large stone gates loomed before them. A small line of travelers and merchants had formed, each waiting to be inspected by the guards stationed at the gate. The scent of the city—spices, baked goods, and the distant hint of sea salt—hung in the air, mixing with the scent of sweat and leather from the road.

 

Polites shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, watching as the guards checked each person’s documentation, their eyes scanning papers and matching faces to crude drawings. Diomedes, on the other hand, looked utterly unbothered. He reached into his pack, already pulling out a well-worn document with a somewhat exaggerated but still recognizable sketch of himself.

 

One of the guards, a burly man with a sunburnt face and a permanent scowl, gestured for him to step forward. "Name and purpose of visit?"

 

Diomedes handed over the document lazily, crossing his arms as the guard scrutinized it. "Diomedes. King of Argos. Here for supplies," he said, his tone flat and uninterested.

 

The guard glanced between the paper and Diomedes' face, nodding slightly. "You're clear. Move along."

 

Polites watched as Diomedes stepped aside with ease, clearly accustomed to the routine.

 

Eurylochus, however, let out a frustrated sigh and glanced at Polites. "We don’t have papers like that," he muttered under his breath.

 

Polites nodded, already feeling the beginnings of a headache forming. They had expected trouble at the entrance, but he had hoped it would be something they could smooth over quickly.

 

"Next," the guard barked, looking at the two of them expectantly.

 

Polites stepped forward, clearing his throat. "Polites. We’re Greek soldiers—"

 

"Soldiers?" The guard's expression darkened, his grip tightening on his spear. "Mysia has no interest in housing Greeks, not when war's at our doorstep."

 

Eurylochus stepped in, keeping his voice level. "We’re not here to cause trouble. We just need supplies for our camp. We’ll be in and out.”

 

The guard gave them both a skeptical look, then turned to another stationed nearby. A brief conversation was exchanged in hushed tones before the first guard returned his attention to them. "No papers, no entrance. Orders from the governor."

 

Diomedes, who had been listening with mild amusement, stepped forward with an easy shrug. "They're with me."

 

The guard raised a brow. "And?"

 

"They’re my workers," Diomedes said smoothly, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Don’t ask questions you don’t need answers to, yeah?"

 

The guard frowned, clearly considering whether it was worth the trouble. After a long moment, he sighed and gestured for them to move through. "Fine. Don’t cause any trouble. And if I hear about anything—"

 

"You won’t," Diomedes assured, already strolling into the city without looking back.

 

Polites exhaled sharply, following after him. "I hate you sometimes."

 

Diomedes merely laughed. "You’d still be standing there if it weren’t for me. You should be grateful."

 

Eurylochus just shook his head, rubbing his temple. "Let’s just get what we came for before someone starts asking more questions."

 

Polites shot Diomedes an unimpressed glare. “You could’ve given us some warning before pulling that ‘they’re my workers’ stunt.”

 

Diomedes barely glanced at him, his expression one of complete indifference. “Would you rather I let them turn you away? Maybe let you sit outside the gates all day, hoping they’d change their minds?”

 

Polites groaned, running a hand down his face. “That’s not the point! You always pull this kind of thing—”

 

“Because it works,” Diomedes interrupted with a smirk. “And I don’t hear you complaining now that we’re inside.”

 

Eurylochus sighed, rubbing his temple. “Can you both shut up for five minutes? We’re here for supplies, not to argue like an old married couple.”

 

Polites scoffed. “If I was married to Diomedes, I’d have drowned myself by now.”

 

Diomedes let out a laugh. “Oh? I’d love to see you try. You’d probably trip over your own feet before even reaching the water.”

 

Polites gritted his teeth, but Eurylochus clapped a hand on his shoulder before he could snap back. “Enough. Both of you. We need to figure out where to go first.”

 

Polites huffed but didn’t argue, though he made a mental note to get back at Diomedes later. “Fine. But I swear, if you pull something like that again—”

 

“You’ll what?” Diomedes asked, smirking as he leaned closer.

 

Polites opened his mouth, but Eurylochus cut in. “Enough.” His voice carried the weight of someone who had endured far too much nonsense in his life. “Let’s just find a market before one of you gets us thrown out.”

 

Diomedes chuckled, unfazed. “Lead the way, oh wise one.”

 

Eurylochus sighed deeply, already regretting coming along.

 

As they walked further into the city, Polites and Diomedes kept up their relentless bickering.

 

"I'm just saying," Polites grumbled, crossing his arms, "you could at least try not to look like a walking threat all the time. Maybe people wouldn’t assume we’re criminals."

 

Diomedes raised an eyebrow, smirking. "I can’t help it if I look intimidating. It’s a gift."

 

Eurylochus exhaled sharply. "It’s a curse."

 

Diomedes shrugged. "Same thing."

 

Polites rolled his eyes. "It wouldn't kill you to be a little friendlier, you know. Maybe smile—"

 

"If I smiled at strangers, they'd either think I'm about to rob them or kill them."

 

"Because you look like you’re always about to do one of those two things!"

 

Diomedes laughed, clearly enjoying himself. "And yet, here you are, still alive and unrobbed. Count yourself lucky."

 

Polites groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Gods, why do I even bother—"

 

Before he could finish his complaint, a blur of movement crashed right into him, nearly sending him stumbling back. A blonde man, seemingly out of nowhere, had sprinted straight into his chest.

 

"Oof! Sorry!" The man quickly steadied himself, grinning brightly as he looked up at them. "Didn't mean to run into you, I just—oh! You guys aren't from around here, are you?"

 

Polites blinked at him, stunned. He was young, with a mop of golden hair and bright eyes full of warmth. His smile was so wide and genuine that it immediately stood out against the rough and weathered atmosphere of the city.

 

"Uh… no," Polites answered hesitantly, still caught off guard.

 

The blonde man beamed. "I knew it! You’ve got that 'lost puppy' look—well, you do. Not him." He pointed at Diomedes, then squinted at Eurylochus. "And you kinda look like you're regretting all your life choices."

 

Eurylochus sighed. "Constantly."

 

Diomedes smirked. "Accurate assessment."

 

The blonde man nodded, seemingly pleased with himself. "Well, since you guys are new, do you need help? I know the city like the back of my hand!"

 

Polites eyed him skeptically. "And why would you want to help us?"

 

The blonde man laughed, a carefree, almost childish sound. "Because it's fun!"

 

Polites and Eurylochus exchanged wary glances, but Diomedes just smirked. "Alright, then. What's your name, blondie?"

 

The man straightened proudly. "Lemenai!" He stuck out a hand. "And you are?"

 

Polites hesitated before shaking his hand. "Polites."

 

"Eurylochus," the older man muttered, rubbing his temple.

 

Diomedes, however, just folded his arms, eyeing Lemenai with amusement. "Diomedes."

 

Lemenai’s eyes widened in excitement. "Woah, that's a cool name! You sound like some famous warrior or something!"

 

Diomedes snorted. "Something like that."

 

Lemenai, completely oblivious to the tension between the three men, grinned. "Well, it's nice to meet you all! Where are you headed?"

 

Polites, still slightly wary, glanced at Eurylochus, who just sighed. "We need supplies."

 

Lemenai clapped his hands together. "Great! I know the perfect place!" He turned on his heel and started walking. "Follow me!"

 

Polites hesitated for a moment, but Diomedes was already following without question, his usual smirk plastered on his face.

 

Eurylochus muttered under his breath, "This is either going to be very helpful or a complete disaster."

 

Polites sighed and trudged after them. "Knowing our luck? Both."

 

Lemenai led them down the bustling streets of Mysia, his energy completely unbothered by the weight of the crowd. He practically bounced with each step, a bright contrast to the exhausted and suspicious glances Polites and Eurylochus exchanged.

 

“Oh, you guys are gonna love it here!” Lemenai grinned, walking backward as he rambled. “Mysia’s got some of the best food ever! I swear, I could eat for days and never get tired of it. The market’s got the freshest fruit, the juiciest meat, and, oh gods, the bread—” He sighed dramatically, pressing a hand over his chest. “—absolute perfection.”

 

Diomedes arched a brow. “It’s just bread.”

 

Lemenai gasped as if Diomedes had just slapped him. “Just bread? Just bread?! That’s heresy! Bread is the foundation of a good meal—no, a good life!”

 

Eurylochus muttered, “I can already tell I’m going to regret this.”

 

Lemenai completely ignored him. “And speaking of bread, my friend runs a bakery here! It’s new, but it’s already amazing! He makes the best pastries, especially raspberry bread, and you haven’t lived until you’ve tried it.”

 

Polites glanced at him warily. “Your friend, huh? What’s he like?”

 

Lemenai beamed. “Oh, he’s great! Super nice, really smart, and he’s always making new stuff. He’s kinda quiet sometimes, but I can tell he’s just thinking a lot. And—” He paused, then shrugged. “Well, he’s been through a lot, I think. But he doesn’t talk about it much.”

 

Diomedes smirked. “Sounds mysterious.”

 

Lemenai huffed. “He’s not mysterious, he’s just—oh! There it is!” He suddenly pointed down the street, excitement lighting up his face. “Come on, come on! You have to try his bread!”

 

Polites and Eurylochus exchanged another look, but Diomedes only chuckled, folding his arms.

 

“Well,” he muttered, “this just got interesting.”

 

Lemenai practically skipped ahead, his enthusiasm drawing a few curious glances from the locals as he led the three toward a small side street. “It’s just down here! You’re gonna love it, I swear—”

 

As they rounded the corner, he skidded to a stop so abruptly that Polites nearly walked into him.

 

The bakery was closed.

 

Lemenai’s entire body deflated as he let out a long, exaggerated whine. “Nooooooo! Why? Why, gods, why?” He dramatically dropped his hands to his knees, as if the sight of the locked door had physically wounded him.

 

Diomedes, unimpressed, looked at the wooden sign hanging in the window. “Looks like it’s closed.”

 

Lemenai shot him an irritated glance. “Yes, thank you, I can see that, mister obvious.”

 

Eurylochus crossed his arms. “Your friend just abandoned his bakery in the middle of the day?”

 

“Oh! No, no, no, he’s probably just at the market!” Lemenai straightened, already perking back up. “He goes there to buy ingredients all the time. The fruit stalls, the spice vendors, the grain merchants—he likes to get the best of the best, y’know?”

 

Polites rubbed his temple. “So now we’re going to the market?”

 

Lemenai grinned. “Of course! Come on!”

 

Diomedes snorted as Lemenai took off again, leading them further into the city. “If this baker’s half as exhausting as this guy, I’m leaving.”

 

Polites sighed, following after them. “No, you’re not.”

 

Diomedes smirked. “Yeah, you’re right.”

 

The streets of Mysia’s market district were alive with color, sound, and the thick scent of spices, grilled meats, and freshly baked bread. Merchants shouted over one another, hawking their wares with enthusiastic gestures, while customers haggled and bartered with the kind of cutthroat skill only city folk possessed. The three warriors stuck out like sore thumbs—travel-worn, dust-covered, and moving with the kind of stiffness that belonged to soldiers, not civilians.

 

Lemenai, however, looked right at home.

 

The blonde man weaved through the crowd with effortless ease, waving at vendors, stopping to grin at a fruit-seller, and even reaching out to swipe a piece of dried fig from an old woman’s stall—only for her to smack his hand away with a laugh. He yelped, but kept going, still beaming.

 

Diomedes, Polites, and Eurylochus were not as lucky.

 

Within seconds, the crowd swallowed them.

 

Polites barely had time to register what had happened before an old man shoved past him, nearly knocking him into a stall selling bolts of fabric. He stumbled, catching himself against the wooden frame, only to be immediately scolded by the vendor.

 

“Hey! Watch it!” the woman snapped, hands on her hips.

 

“Sorry,” he muttered, backing away.

 

Eurylochus wasn’t faring much better. Some merchant had already latched onto him, pushing a handful of trinkets into his face.

 

“You, sir! You look like a man of fine taste! Bronze rings from the northern mountains! See the craftsmanship?”

 

Eurylochus scowled. “I don’t want—”

 

“I’ll give you two for the price of one!”

 

“I don’t—”

 

“Three! Three! And a free charm to protect you at sea!”

 

Diomedes, meanwhile, was ignoring everything and just pushing forward with brute force, shoving people aside with the single-minded determination of someone who was already sick of this entire endeavor.

 

"Lemenai!" Polites called, straining to see over the sea of heads.

 

There was no answer.

 

Diomedes turned, glancing back at them with a deadpan expression. "I hate this."

 

Eurylochus sighed, finally breaking free from the pushy vendor. "Where the fuck did he go?"

 

Polites looked around, but Lemenai was nowhere to be seen. He had vanished into the chaos of the market, and now they were just three lost soldiers in an unfamiliar city, being jostled on all sides by merchants and shoppers alike.

 

“This is stupid,” Diomedes muttered, crossing his arms. “We should just go back to the bakery and wait for him to return.”

 

Polites frowned. “But what if he finds the baker first and they go somewhere else?”

 

Diomedes rolled his eyes. “Then he can deal with that. I don’t know why we’re letting a civilian lead us around in the first place.”

 

“We don’t have any other leads,” Eurylochus pointed out.

 

Polites sighed. “Let’s just keep moving. He said his friend was here for ingredients, right? We’ll check the stalls. Maybe we’ll find him.”

 

Diomedes groaned, but didn’t argue.

 

And so, they pressed deeper into the market, dodging merchants, avoiding pickpockets, and scouring the crowd for any sign of the blonde man who had dragged them into this mess in the first place.

 

After nearly half an hour of aimlessly pushing through the market, the three of them were thoroughly fed up.

 

Diomedes was the first to stop. He planted himself in front of a spice stall, crossing his arms with a deeply unamused scowl. “This is stupid. ”

 

Polites ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Yeah, I think we lost him.”

 

“Oh, now you think that?” Diomedes shot back. “We had him, and then you let him drag us through this damn maze like a bunch of idiots.”

 

Eurylochus, ever the pragmatist, was already pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let’s just go back to the bakery and wait. If this baker guy runs it, he has to go back at some point.”

 

Diomedes huffed. “That’s what I said twenty minutes ago.”

 

Polites threw up his hands. “Fine, fine! We’ll go back. Gods, I hate this.”

 

They turned around, but moving through the market in reverse somehow felt even harder than before.

 

A group of children dashed past, nearly knocking over a woman balancing a tray of fish. Someone’s donkey brayed so loudly that Polites nearly jumped out of his skin. Eurylochus, trying to sidestep an overenthusiastic fruit vendor, bumped into a cart stacked high with clay pots, causing a precarious wobble that had both him and the merchant momentarily frozen in panic.

 

Diomedes grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him away before the whole thing collapsed.

 

Polites let out a long-suffering sigh. “We are not built for this.”

 

“No shit,” Diomedes grumbled.

 

By the time they fought their way out of the market, back into the quieter streets near the bakery, all three of them were done.

 

Eurylochus leaned against the nearest wall, rubbing his temples. “I can’t believe we let some random civilian lead us through that mess.”

 

Diomedes scoffed. “I can. We’re idiots.”

 

Polites groaned. “I hate that you’re right.”

 

With that, they resigned themselves to waiting outside the closed bakery, hoping that this baker—whoever the fuck he was—would eventually return.

 

Polites sighed, rubbing his face. He leaned back against the wall, staring up at the sky as he tried to shove down the frustration knotting in his chest.

 

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something small dart across the street. A little grey rabbit.

 

His brows furrowed. A rabbit? Here?

 

It moved quickly, its tiny paws barely making a sound as it slipped into the narrow alleyway beside the bakery.

 

Without thinking, Polites pushed himself off the wall and followed.

 

It wasn’t even a conscious decision—just something to do, something to distract himself from the fruitless chase they had just endured.

 

The alley was dimly lit, tucked between the taller buildings, with crates and barrels stacked haphazardly along the walls. He stepped forward carefully, his eyes searching for the rabbit’s small form.

 

There.

 

It was crouched beside an overturned wooden box, ears twitching as if listening for something.

 

Polites took another step. The rabbit didn’t bolt.

 

Odd.

 

He knelt down slightly, extending a hand as if that would make a difference. “Hey there, little guy…”

 

The rabbit twitched again, then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it turned and bolted—further into the alley.

 

Polites hesitated, then cursed under his breath and went after it.

 

Polites muttered another curse under his breath as he darted after the rabbit, weaving through the narrow alley. The little creature was fast, its tiny paws barely making a sound against the cobblestone, but he was determined to catch up—why, he wasn’t even sure.

 

The alley twisted, then opened slightly into a backstreet lined with storage doors and a few empty crates. Polites caught sight of the rabbit slipping past a stack of barrels—

 

And then he slammed straight into someone.

 

Hard.

 

Polites stumbled back, nearly losing his footing. His hands shot out instinctively to steady himself, grabbing the other person’s arm.

 

The man he had run into barely moved.

 

Dark brown hair, no beard, and a single brown eye staring at him—his other was obscured by his hair, which fell messily over his face. He was taller than Polites but not by much, lean but built like someone who had worked hard all his life.

 

And he was staring.

 

Polites blinked, taking half a step back. "Shit, sorry, I—"

 

The man’s expression didn’t change. He just raised an eyebrow slightly, as if unimpressed.

 

Polites cleared his throat, straightening. "You see a little grey rabbit run by here?"

 

The man didn't answer right away. Instead, his gaze flickered over Polites, slow and measured, as if assessing him. Then, finally, he shrugged.

 

Polites huffed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Figures."

 

He glanced past the man, hoping for some sign of the rabbit, but it had completely disappeared.

 

The man, however, still hadn’t moved.

 

Polites watched as the man stepped past him, that smirk lingering on his lips, but something about the way he moved felt wrong. Like he was too composed—like he was holding himself together just a little too tightly.

 

And then, just before he disappeared around the corner, Polites saw it.

 

A flicker of something in the man’s eye.

 

Fear.

 

Polites' breath caught in his throat.

 

He knew that look. He’d seen it a thousand times on the battlefield, on men who had just been recognized by an enemy, on deserters who had been found, on ghosts who had come back to haunt the living.

 

He took a sharp step forward. "Wait—"

 

The man was already turning away, his shoulders stiff, his pace quickening.

 

Polites lunged, his fingers wrapping around the man’s wrist before he could slip away.

 

The man tensed.

 

And Polites' heart nearly stopped.

 

Because as soon as he made contact, as soon as he heard the sharp intake of breath from the man in front of him, he knew.

 

The shape of his wrist, the feel of his skin, the way he instinctively tried to pull away but not too hard—like he was trying not to hurt him.

 

Polites' grip tightened. His voice dropped, low and trembling.

 

"...Odysseus?"

 

The man froze.

 

Polites held his breath, his eyes darting to the man's face as his hair shifted slightly.

 

And there it was.

 

A flash of blue —his heart stuttered in his chest. The unmistakable shade of blue that Polites had known for years, a color that haunted his thoughts every night.

 

It was him. It was Odysseus.

 

For a moment, Polites couldn't move, frozen in the same spot, his hand still gripping Odysseus' wrist. His mind was racing, trying to piece everything together. Odysseus— here —in Mysia, in this alleyway, under a different name.

 

Odysseus' entire body stiffened at the recognition. His expression flickered for an instant—panic, disbelief, confusion.

 

He didn't give Polites a chance to react. In one swift movement, Odysseus pulled his wrist from Polites’ grasp, his panic escalating. Without a second glance, he took off down the alley, his feet pounding the cobblestones as he sprinted away, his breath ragged, heart hammering in his chest.

 

Polites stood frozen for a moment, the word echoing in his mind. Run .

 

He couldn’t—he wouldn’t.

 

With a sharp exhale, Polites snapped out of his daze. He took off after him, chasing Odysseus down the alley, through twisting streets, and into the heart of the market. His mind was reeling, trying to make sense of everything, but his legs carried him without hesitation.

 

"Odysseus!" Polites shouted, pushing through the crowd, his voice rising above the noise. But Odysseus didn't stop.

 

The fear, the desperation, it was all written on Odysseus’ face. Whatever was chasing him was bigger than Polites could understand right now. He needed answers—he needed to catch him .

 

Odysseus rounded a corner, slipping into a narrow passageway between two buildings. Polites was close now—he could hear his ragged breaths, see the dark figure ahead.

 

"Wait!" Polites called, reaching out just as he closed the distance. But Odysseus was too quick, darting forward with a final, frantic surge of speed.

 

The moment Polites reached him, Odysseus stumbled, tripping on the uneven ground.

 

They both hit the dirt in a tangle of limbs, Polites landing on top of him. For a brief second, everything stopped. They were both gasping for air, sweat beading on their faces, the reality of the situation sinking in.

 

Odysseus' hands pressed against Polites’ chest, his fingers trembling as he tried to push him off. His voice came out in strained breaths.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Odysseus’ heart pounded in his chest as he felt Polites' weight on top of him. His mind was in full panic mode— this can’t be happening , he thought. He couldn’t let Polites keep him here. He couldn’t let him know —he had to escape. He had to run.

 

His hands were shaking, panic flooding his body as he pressed them against Polites’ chest, trying to push him off. The longer they stayed on the ground like this, the more exposed he felt. No . His eyes snapped open, the weight of the situation crushing him. His breath was shallow, desperate.

 

“Get off me!” His voice came out sharp, pleading, but it didn’t matter. Polites was holding him down, pinning him in a way that felt like a trap. Odysseus could feel the walls closing in around him, his chest tightening as the panic reached its peak.

 

Without thinking, he kicked out.

 

It was a wild, frantic movement. His foot collided with Polites’ stomach with a sickening thud, and Polites grunted, his grip loosening just enough for Odysseus to scramble out from under him.

 

“ Fuck !” Odysseus gasped, his voice trembling. He barely registered the kick, the adrenaline surging in his veins as he shoved himself up and away from Polites. His body moved on pure instinct, every ounce of his being screaming at him to run, to escape before Polites could stop him again.

 

He pushed through the pain in his chest, ignoring the bile rising in his throat. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t think . All he needed to do was get to his feet and disappear into the crowd.

 

He sprinted—just sprinted , not looking back, pushing himself harder than he ever had before. His legs burned, but it didn’t matter. The market was a blur of color and noise, people shouting and moving all around him, and he used the chaos to his advantage. The throngs of people blocked his path, but he managed to weave through them, forcing his way through alleyways and backstreets.

 

His breath was ragged as he ran, and for a moment, he thought he could hear Polites calling after him, but the sounds faded as he pushed farther into the labyrinth of the city.

 

He glanced over his shoulder once—just once—and saw nothing but the distant blur of people. He was free. For now.

 

But as he slowed to a stop, gasping for air in an empty alley, his heart was still hammering. He felt like he was being chased by ghosts—like something was always just on the edge of his mind, waiting to catch up. But for now, he had escaped.

 

His hands shook as he pressed them against his knees, trying to steady his breathing. His mind spun, racing with thoughts and fear. What the hell just happened?

 

He couldn’t stop shaking. And as he took another breath, he realized that nothing would ever be the same again.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Polites lay sprawled on the ground, breathless, his mind reeling from the brief, chaotic encounter. His chest heaved as he tried to regain control of his racing heart. His body ached, a dull pain spreading through his stomach where Odysseus had kicked him—he barely registered it. What mattered, what truly gnawed at him, was the vision of the man who had just run from him.

 

That voice. That voice .

 

It had been Odysseus. There was no mistaking it. His gut told him before he even saw the man’s face completely. His movements were too familiar, his voice— Gods , that voice had haunted Polites in dreams, in memories of times long past.

 

But it couldn’t be Odysseus. Could it?

 

Polites’ hand went instinctively to his own chest, as though trying to force his racing heart back into its normal rhythm. He had been so sure— so certain —but now his thoughts were a tangle of questions and confusion.

 

He struggled to catch his breath as the chaos of the marketplace echoed in his ears. His mind raced, spiraling. He couldn't understand. Odysseus had been missing for days —how could he have been here all along, hiding right under their noses? The thought gnawed at him, and he gripped the cobblestones beneath him, teeth clenched.

 

It was him. It was really him.

 

His heart pounded with frustration, confusion, and a growing sense of dread. He had to find him. Had to confront him. He couldn’t let Odysseus slip away again, not after all this time. But first... Polites swallowed thickly. He needed to clear his head, to make sense of the situation.

 

Taking a few deep breaths, he pushed himself up off the ground, his body still aching from the blow. He stumbled forward, keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of the man. But the crowd had swallowed him whole, and he was lost to the sea of people.

 

Where could he have gone?

 

Every corner, every alley felt like a new lead, a new chance to see him again. But as the day wore on, the realization began to settle in: Odysseus had vanished again, leaving Polites with nothing but a sinking feeling in his gut.

 

Polites’ hand pressed against his stomach, where the sharp pain of Odysseus’ kick still throbbed, a constant reminder of how quickly things had unraveled. His breath came in short bursts as he stumbled through the streets, his thoughts scattered, barely able to piece together what had just happened. Odysseus is alive. The words repeated over and over in his mind, like some sort of sick mantra. He couldn't grasp it fully, but the knowledge of it consumed him.

 

He had to find him. Had to confront him, to ask why... why had he run? Why was he hiding?

 

His pulse raced in time with his footsteps as he rushed through the marketplace, his legs pushing him faster despite the ache in his stomach. Every instinct told him to follow, to keep searching for a trace of that familiar blue eye, the voice he knew too well. But the longer he went without seeing any sign of Odysseus, the more the panic gnawed at him.

 

Suddenly, a familiar voice broke through his chaotic thoughts, a deep, gruff tone that stopped him in his tracks.

 

"Polites?"

 

He whipped around, still out of breath, to see Diomedes and Eurylochus standing nearby, both looking at him with concern etched on their faces. Diomedes’ brow furrowed, his sharp eyes scanning Polites’ disheveled appearance, the wild look in his eyes.

 

"Where the hell have you been?" Eurylochus grumbled, though his tone lacked its usual edge. He walked up to Polites and placed a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

 

Polites swallowed, unable to meet their gazes. His stomach twisted again, the pain reminding him of the encounter with Odysseus, but he barely felt it now. The fear, the confusion, it overwhelmed everything else.

 

"I—I saw him," Polites whispered, barely able to keep his voice steady. "I saw Odysseus."

 

Diomedes’ eyes widened in disbelief, while Eurylochus raised an eyebrow. The disbelief was palpable, but Polites could see the flicker of hope that sparkled in their eyes.

 

"What do you mean?" Diomedes stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You saw him? Where? How do you know it was him?"

 

Polites nodded, still clutching his stomach. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat. Why had Odysseus run? He couldn't even begin to answer that.

 

"He—he was in the marketplace," Polites muttered, his hand shaking slightly. "I saw him, I’m sure of it. But when I tried to grab him, he panicked, and he—he kicked me, and disappeared into the crowd."

 

Eurylochus looked perplexed. "Why would he run from you? If it was him, why—"

 

Polites’ frustration reached its boiling point, and he snapped, his voice tinged with a mixture of anger and desperation. "I don’t know! But it was him! I know it was him!"

 

Diomedes placed a firm hand on his shoulder, trying to steady him. "Alright, alright. Calm down, Polites. We’ll find him. But we need a plan. If he’s really here, hiding…"

 

Polites nodded, his breath ragged. He didn’t care about plans or tactics. All he cared about was finding Odysseus again, confronting him, and getting answers.

 

But as the three of them stood there, the realization hit him again like a punch to the gut: Odysseus had been so close, so close. And now, he was gone.

 

"Let’s go back," Eurylochus said quietly. "We’ll figure this out."

 

Polites felt a tightness in his chest. How could he let him slip away again?

 

The guilt already began to settle in, weighing on him like an anchor as the trio turned to head back, their minds swirling with unanswered questions.

 

As they made their way back through the streets, Polites felt a strange mix of relief and urgency. Relief because, at least now, there was a shared focus. He wasn’t alone in his search anymore. But urgency, because every moment wasted meant another moment lost. Odysseus was out there—alive and hiding, and they needed to find him.

 

Eurylochus broke the silence, his voice low but resolute. “The baker isn’t important anymore. Not now.”

 

Polites’ eyes flicked to him. He had expected a bit more resistance, especially from Eurylochus, who tended to be more cautious. But there was none. Eurylochus' focus had shifted entirely. The only thing that mattered now was Odysseus.

 

“I agree,” Diomedes added, his tone sharp, his thoughts clearly aligning with Eurylochus’. “The man we’re really after is Odysseus. The baker—whoever he is—can wait.”

 

Polites nodded, barely feeling the weight of their words. He was in no mood to linger on any other leads, not when there was a chance—however slim—that Odysseus was nearby. The baker was the least of his concerns right now. His mind was locked onto the one person who mattered.

 

“What now?” Polites asked, his voice a mix of determination and desperation. “We just... go back to the camp and wait for him to show up?”

 

Diomedes let out a frustrated breath. “And if we don’t find anything? We’ll keep looking, won’t we?”

 

“Until we find him,” Eurylochus said firmly, his voice unwavering.

 

Polites' heart pounded in his chest. Until we find him. Those words were a promise. He couldn’t afford to stop now. He couldn’t imagine the possibility of going back to camp without answers, without Odysseus.

 

The three of them walked in silence for a moment, each of them turning over the same thoughts, their minds racing. It wasn’t just about finding Odysseus anymore; it was about understanding why he had disappeared in the first place. Why would he run from me?

 

“Let’s talk to some of the locals," Diomedes suggested after a few moments. "Someone has to have seen him. It’s not like the bastard can hide forever."

 

Eurylochus glanced back at Polites. "Don’t worry, Polites. We’ll find him. We just need to stay focused."

 

Polites didn’t answer, his mind still wrapped around the image of Odysseus, running from him. He felt that same tightness in his chest, the feeling that he was running out of time, that Odysseus might slip away from them once again.

 

As they approached the camp, the noise of the city faded behind them. But Polites' mind couldn’t quiet. He had seen Odysseus; he had almost caught him. And now, nothing would stop him from finding the man who had been his friend, his captain, his everything.

 

The only thing that mattered now was finding Odysseus.

Chapter 24: ❁﹐🗡﹒✬﹒Maldovin

Notes:

It's my birthday :3 March 10th!

Odysseus buried his face into the pillow and let out a long, muffled scream. His body tensed, his fingers clawing at the fabric as if he could strangle his own panic into submission. His breath came in short, ragged bursts, his chest heaving as he tried— failed —to regain control of himself.

 

Polites.

 

Polites had seen him. Had recognized him. Had grabbed his wrist and called out his name like a plea, like a prayer, like an accusation. The way his voice had cracked—Odysseus had heard the desperation in it. It had shaken him to his core. He had barely gotten away. He had kicked Polites— kicked him —and run like a coward. He wanted to punch himself in the face for that alone.

 

He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling as his mind replayed the moment in brutal clarity.

 

His cover was slipping. He had been seen.

 

His hands trembled, and he clenched them into fists to stop it. He could not afford to lose his composure now. He had worked too hard to disappear. He had buried Odysseus, drowned him in anonymity, reshaped himself into Kallias. Kallias did not have a past. Kallias was just a baker.

 

But now Polites knew. And Polites would never let this go.

 

Odysseus groaned, dragging the pillow back over his face before letting out another, louder scream. He could already feel the headache forming behind his eyes.

 

He needed a plan. He needed to figure out what the hell to do before everything came crashing down around him.

 

Odysseus sat up, running his hands through his hair, fingers tangling in the strands as his mind raced. He had to think. He had to figure out his next move before Polites returned with reinforcements.

 

His first instinct was to run.

 

It wouldn’t be the first time. He had abandoned everything once before—his name, his home, his war —and built this fragile, quiet life in Mysia. He could do it again.

 

But where ?

 

His hands curled into fists against his knees. He had chosen Mysia because it was far enough from Troy and the Greek camps to avoid notice. He had blended in. He had made himself small, insignificant, invisible. But if Polites had found him, others would follow. Eurylochus. Diomedes. Agamemnon.

 

A sharp, bitter laugh escaped his lips. Gods, if Agamemnon found him, he’d be dragged back in chains just for the inconvenience of making the king search for him.

 

He could go west. Maybe even north, past Thrace. Somewhere where the Greeks wouldn't bother looking.

 

But that meant starting over . Again.

 

The thought made his stomach churn. He had built this life, damn it. He had a bakery. A home. People who—Odysseus exhaled sharply—people who actually liked him. Lemenai, for all his obliviousness, was fond of him. Maldovin had practically adopted him into her odd little circle. Even Iokles, with his unsettling obsession, was… manageable.

 

Would he really throw that away just because Polites had recognized him?

 

But Polites wouldn’t let it go. He would tell Eurylochus. Tell Diomedes .

 

His breath hitched at the thought of Diomedes .

 

He stood abruptly, pacing the small room. His pulse pounded in his ears. He couldn’t run. Not yet. Not unless it was absolutely necessary. He had to think . There had to be a way to get Polites off his scent.

 

His hands clenched at his sides.

 

He had to be smarter than this.

 

Odysseus stopped pacing. His breath came fast, his heart hammering against his ribs, but his mind—his mind seized onto a single, undeniable fact.

 

The ships are coming in a week.

 

His hands pressed against the wooden table, knuckles turning white.

 

One week. Seven days.

 

That was all he had to endure.

 

That was all that stood between him and Ithaca.

 

His stomach twisted at the thought of his home, of the island that had never left his mind no matter how many times he had told himself to forget it. Ithaca had called to him in the quiet moments, in the exhaustion of kneading dough, in the way his fingers traced the wooden counters as if they were the halls of his own palace.

 

It was the only reason he had stayed in Mysia this long. The ships. The ones that traveled westward, that carried goods and passengers toward the Ionian Sea. He had planned, had saved, had waited for this chance.

 

He couldn't run now.

 

Not when he was so damn close .

 

But Polites had seen him. Recognized him.

 

Odysseus' fingers curled against the wood. That meant he had to be careful. More careful. He had to throw them off, make them doubt what they had seen. If Polites convinced Diomedes and Eurylochus to start searching, it would make his escape that much harder.

 

His throat felt tight.

 

Diomedes.

 

Would he even want to see him?

 

His grip slackened, his gaze falling to the floor. He had loved Diomedes, in a way he had never truly let himself acknowledge. It had been a love carved from blood and battle, unspoken but undeniable.

 

And he had left him.

 

Had abandoned him.

 

Just like he had abandoned everything else.

 

His fingers dug into his palm. It doesn’t matter. Not now. Not when he was this close. He could wrestle with regret once he was safely on a ship heading home .

 

For now, he had to focus.

 

Seven days.

 

That was all he had.

 

And he would not let them take this from him.

 

Odysseus' breath hitched as the weight of it all sank in. His pulse pounded in his ears, his body tense like a coiled spring. He was being hunted .

 

He couldn’t stay like this. Couldn’t risk it.

 

His hands flew to his hair, tugging at the loose strands that fell over his blue eye. That damn eye— the eye that gave him away. He cursed under his breath, pushing away from the table so fast that the stool he’d been leaning against scraped across the floor.

 

He needed to change. Now.

 

He grabbed the nearest knife and stalked to the back of the bakery, where a small cracked mirror hung on the wall. His reflection stared back at him, disheveled, wild-eyed, recognizable.

 

Not for long.

 

His fingers wrapped around the length of his dark hair, gathering it in a fist. He hesitated only for a moment—just a breath—before he brought the knife up and sliced.

 

The strands fell in uneven chunks, drifting onto the counter and floor. His heart clenched as he watched them fall, but he forced himself to keep going. It didn’t need to be neat. It just needed to be different.

 

When he was done, his hair barely reached his jawline, ragged and choppy. He ran a hand through it, already feeling lighter.

 

But it wasn’t enough.

 

He yanked open a drawer, fingers digging for the small clay jar he kept there. The moment his hands wrapped around it, he pulled it out, cracked it open, and dipped his fingers inside. The dark dye clung to his fingertips, thick and strong-smelling.

 

Without hesitation, he dragged the dye through his hair, working it in roughly. His natural brown darkened to a near-black, the uneven cut making him look completely different than before.

 

Still… the eye.

 

He wiped his hands on a cloth before pulling out a strip of fabric. He hesitated for only a moment before tying it around his head, covering his right eye completely. It was better this way—people wouldn’t question an injury the way they would an unnatural blue iris.

 

His breath came fast as he stared at himself in the mirror.

 

Different. Unrecognizable.

 

It would have to be enough.

 

Odysseus stared at his reflection, his breath shallow and uneven. The band of fabric covered the blue eye, concealing the single trait that had nearly destroyed him. But it was still there . Still lurking beneath.

 

His fingers twitched at his side. He could still feel Polites' grip on his wrist, the moment of recognition, the way his stomach had twisted when he'd seen the horror in his old friend’s eyes.

 

That eye. That damn eye.

 

He pressed his palm against the wooden counter, trying to steady himself, but the thought had already begun to take root, curling like a parasite around his mind.

 

It's not enough.

 

He could still be recognized. If someone knocked the fabric away, if it slipped in his sleep, if—

 

His breath hitched.

 

If he didn’t have the eye, there would be nothing to recognize.

 

His hand moved before he could stop himself. Fingers wrapped around the hilt of the knife still sitting on the counter. His grip was white-knuckled as he lifted it, bringing it level with his face.

 

One clean cut.

 

One quick, decisive movement.

 

The thought should have made his stomach churn, but it didn’t. It felt logical . If he had no eye, there would be no chance of recognition. No risk. No Polites seeing him and knowing.

 

He gritted his teeth.

 

He could do it. He’d suffered worse. A single moment of pain, and then—freedom.

 

He raised the knife.

 

But his hands—his damned hands— shook.

 

A tremor ran through him, unbidden and unwelcome. His fingers clenched the blade so tightly that the metal bit into his palm. He sucked in a sharp breath, willing himself to just do it.

 

Just do it.

 

Just—

 

His vision blurred. Not from fear, but from something else. Something deep in his chest.

 

Ithaca.

 

His home.

 

Penelope’s hands brushing against his cheek, tucking his hair back. Telemachus’ small fingers wrapping around his thumb when he was still just a babe.

 

Would they even recognize him without his eye? Without his face?

 

He sucked in a breath, then another, shaking all over.

 

And then, with a low, trembling snarl, he hurled the knife across the room. It clattered against the stone floor, skidding to a stop.

 

Odysseus gripped the edge of the counter, his chest heaving, his body trembling as the weight of what he'd almost done slammed into him.

 

He squeezed his remaining eye shut.

 

No.

 

Not yet.

 

Not like this.

 

Odysseus’ breath was ragged as he stared at the knife where it had landed. His hands were still shaking, but his mind was clear now—clear with the weight of his mistake, his weakness.

 

He pressed his palm to his face, fingers dragging down as he let out a slow, shuddering breath. The ghost of Polites’ grip still burned on his wrist. His body remembered the weight of it, the familiarity. The recognition.

 

He should have killed him.

 

His throat tightened. No. Not Polites.

 

But now Polites knew. He knew, and soon others would know too.

 

He ripped off the fabric tied around his wrist, revealing the faint bruises already forming where Polites had clutched him so desperately. His skin burned with the memory, his mind replaying the moment over and over.

 

His fingers reached for the knife again.

 

This time, he didn’t hesitate.

 

With one sharp drag, he cut the skin open. The blade bit deep, red welling immediately. The pain was instant, but he welcomed it—embraced it. It wasn’t enough.

 

He pressed the knife down again, slicing over the same wound, feeling the sting shoot up his arm, raw and sharp. His breath hitched, but he wanted this. Needed it. It was something he controlled. Unlike Polites. Unlike the memories clawing at the edges of his mind.

 

He let the blood drip freely, watching as it ran down his wrist and onto the wooden counter. It smeared against his fingers, staining them red.

 

Odysseus closed his eye, exhaling through his nose.

 

The pain was grounding. It kept him from spiraling further, from drowning in the weight of everything pressing down on him.

 

He needed to move. Needed to act.

 

He grabbed the nearest cloth and wrapped it tightly around his wrist, binding the wound as if sealing away the mistake.

 

Then, with slow, deliberate steps, he walked to the washbasin, dunked his hands in the cool water, and began scrubbing the blood away.

 

His escape wasn’t a question anymore.

 

It was a necessity.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

Iokles hunched over his desk, fingers twitching as he tied another piece of red string to a hastily scribbled note. His workspace was a mess—papers scattered across the surface, ink stains smudging his fingertips, half-eaten food forgotten in the corner.

 

The board in front of him was beginning to resemble something truly deranged.

 

“Kallias,” he muttered under his breath, squinting at the name in the center of the chaos.

 

The Harpy Hunt.

 

He tied a string from that note to another: Gialaus confirms Kallias’ skill—first-time mercenary???

 

Another string, this one leading to Lemenai—friend? Business partner? Accomplice???

 

He leaned back, tapping his pen rapidly against his chin, eyes darting across the board. Kallias had to be someone. Someone important. Someone missing. Someone with a reason to hide.

 

Iokles’ mind whirled. If he was a former soldier, why was he in Mysia? If he was a noble in hiding, why take up baking of all things?

 

The pieces weren’t fitting together. It was driving him insane.

 

He yanked a new paper onto the board, writing in frantic, slanted letters: Why the FUCK does a simple baker move like a trained killer???

 

The moment he heard word of some idiot getting kicked in the gut in an alley, something clicked.

 

That reaction was not normal.

 

A baker didn’t just react like a cornered animal. A mercenary didn’t panic like that either.

 

Iokles gripped his pen so tightly it almost snapped in half.

 

“Kallias, Kallias, Kallias,” he muttered, dragging his fingers through his hair, wild eyes darting across his mess of notes.

 

He needed to know more.

 

And he would figure this out if it killed him.

 

Iokles' fingers twitched as he rifled through yet another stack of papers, his eyes scanning each word with an obsessive intensity. His desk was already buried beneath parchment, reports, old records, and half-finished theories that made little sense even to him. But he refused to stop. Somewhere in this mess, there was a piece he was missing—something that would finally snap this whole puzzle into place.

 

A candle flickered beside him, its wax dripping onto a scroll he hadn't bothered to move. His ink-stained hands flipped through yet another document—mercenary contracts, old town registries, trade ledgers. His breath came in uneven bursts, his mind racing, thoughts spilling over themselves in a frantic loop.

 

Kallias doesn’t exist.

 

Not before the harpy hunt.

 

There were no records , no birth name, no past employment. Nothing. Nobody just appears out of nowhere. Even exiles, even runaways— they left trails.

 

Iokles’ fingers tightened around the parchment, nearly crumpling it.

 

Was Kallias using a false name? Obviously. But why? What was he hiding from?

 

He flipped another page. And another. And another. His gaze darted to his board, where his chaotic scrawlings looked even more deranged under the candlelight.

 

“Kallias is a soldier,” he muttered to himself. “A soldier or a noble. Or both.”

 

His pen scratched furiously against paper as he wrote:

 

-  Fights like a trained killer

 

• Knows how to bake (WHY? WHO TAUGHT HIM??)
• Doesn’t talk about himself at all
• PANICKED when confronted = hiding from something
• Has a weak spot apparently??? SOMEWHERE???
• Distrustful???

Iokles ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. He slammed another book open, ignoring how the pages nearly tore under his impatience.

 

There has to be something. There has to be—

 

His eyes narrowed at a familiar word.

 

Mysia.

 

His fingers twitched. Slowly, he dragged the book closer.

 

Mysia. The name of the kingdom. The place where Kallias had appeared from nowhere.

 

His hands trembled slightly as he traced the inked letters, his mind spiraling deeper.

 

Had Kallias always been here? Or had he arrived ?

 

Iokles let out a shaky breath and kept turning pages. He wouldn’t sleep. Not tonight. Not until he had something solid. Something that made sense.

 

Something that told him exactly who Kallias really was.

Iokles’ fingers twitched as he flipped another page, his breathing uneven. His eyes darted across the words, barely reading them, his mind running a thousand leagues ahead of him. He grabbed another parchment, then another, slamming them onto the already chaotic mess of his desk.

 

Nothing. Nothing. NOTHING.

 

His candle was burning low, wax pooling onto the wood, but he didn’t care. His red strings stretched across the board, tangling in a way that might have been meaningful to him hours ago, but now just felt like madness.

 

Kallias isn’t real.

Kallias is a lie.

Kallias is hiding something.

 

His quill snapped in his grip.

 

His breath hitched, but he barely noticed as ink dripped down his fingers. He tossed the broken pen aside and reached for another. His hands were shaking as he scrawled more notes.

 

- Mysia: port town → Someone coming in , not someone who’s from here?

 

• NO RECORDS of birth, apprenticeship, or travel permits
• Lemenai knows him → where did they meet???

 

Iokles grabbed another book, flipping through it so fast that the pages crumpled under his fingers. His mind pulsed with frantic energy, a desperate, clawing need to understand .

 

People didn’t just appear . Not trained warriors with enough skill to handle harpies. Not men who acted like simple bakers but moved like soldiers.

 

He rubbed his temples, frustration pounding against his skull.

 

Kallias ran fast. Why?

 

Most people, when they ran, they ran out of fear . But fear of what ?

 

Fear of being found out.

 

Iokles slammed his hands onto the desk. His breath was heavy, heart hammering.

 

He’s not a local mercenary. He’s not some no-name baker.

 

He was a soldier. He had to be. But from where ?

 

Iokles’ eyes flickered to the corner of the room, where a pile of untouched military reports sat, covered in dust.

 

For a moment, he hesitated.

 

Then he grabbed them, ripping through pages, searching— searching —

 

His pulse roared in his ears. His hands were starting to cramp. His candle sputtered.

 

Still, he didn’t stop.

 

He couldn’t stop.

 

Not until he had an answer.

 

The door creaked open, and Gialaus stepped into the room, his presence so sudden and imposing that Iokles didn’t even hear him approach. The albino medic looked like he’d just stepped out of a storm—his pale face betraying no emotion, but his red eyes gleaming with a sort of detached amusement. He paused in the doorway, eyeing the chaos that was Iokles' desk, the floor littered with parchment, red string, and hastily drawn diagrams.

 

Iokles didn’t even look up, too consumed by his obsessive task to care about the interruption.

 

"You’re going to break something if you keep going like that," Gialaus said, his voice a low, smooth drawl. It wasn’t so much a statement as a judgment, a mild criticism layered with condescension.

 

Iokles' hands stilled for a moment, his eyes narrowing. His fingers twitched, but he forced himself to exhale slowly before looking up.

 

"What do you want?" he snapped, not bothering to hide the tension in his voice.

 

Gialaus stepped forward, his gaze moving across the room as if taking in the very air itself. "You really think you're going to find something in all this?" He motioned to the mess of papers, the diagrams now resembling a spider’s web gone horribly wrong.

 

Iokles clenched his teeth, glaring at the other man. "I’m not wasting time."

 

"Doesn’t look like it." Gialaus' lips curled slightly, a faint smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. His gaze lingered on the string, which connected random bits of information in a way that seemed more frantic than methodical. "If you keep this up, you’ll just end up making it harder to find what you want."

 

"I’m not you , Gialaus," Iokles muttered under his breath, half to himself. "I don’t waste time doing nothing."

 

Gialaus raised an eyebrow, a low, disbelieving chuckle escaping him. "I wouldn’t call it nothing. But this …" His eyes shifted back to the board, the strings linking pieces of the puzzle. "You’re grasping at straws. I’m not sure what you’re expecting to find, but you’re not going to get the answer you want by throwing random pieces together."

 

"You're not helping," Iokles snapped, his patience starting to fray. He couldn’t afford to stop now, not when he was so close.

 

Gialaus stepped closer, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp. He leaned over the desk, his eyes scanning Iokles’ frantic scribbling. "What are you even after ?" he asked, his tone suddenly serious. "A baker? A soldier? Someone’s ghost? Who’s going to answer all your questions when you’re drowning in your own madness?"

 

The words hit like a cold splash of water. Iokles froze, his fingers pressing down hard on the edge of the desk, knuckles white.

 

"I’m not—" His voice faltered, his mind racing, and for the first time, he realized how deep into this obsession he had fallen. How long he’d been chasing a phantom, building up this twisted theory that he couldn’t even explain to himself.

 

Gialaus watched him, his expression unreadable, but there was a flicker in his eyes—a kind of quiet understanding that made Iokles’ chest tighten.

 

"Sometimes," Gialaus murmured, stepping back, "it’s better to let things go. Some mysteries… aren’t worth the unraveling."

 

Iokles opened his mouth to retort, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he exhaled harshly, his mind still buzzing, the noise too loud to ignore. He wasn’t done. Not yet.

 

"I’ll find out who he is," Iokles said, more to himself than to Gialaus. "I will."

 

Gialaus didn’t respond, his gaze still lingering on Iokles. With a final glance at the tangled mess of string and paper, he turned and walked toward the door.

 

"Don’t say I didn’t warn you," he said softly, then left, the door creaking closed behind him.

 

Iokles stayed where he was, his mind racing, still unable to stop. The quiet hum of the room enveloped him, and the red string seemed to pulse in time with his thoughts.

 

He would find him out —he had to.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Odysseus slumped over the wooden counter of his bakery, his head resting on his arms. His entire body felt like lead, exhaustion weighing down on him like an anchor. His mind hadn’t stopped racing since the encounter in the alleyway—since Polites . Since the moment those familiar eyes had locked onto him and known.

 

It had been days, and he hadn't stopped looking over his shoulder since.

 

The scent of warm bread filled the small shop, but he barely noticed it. His hands ached from kneading dough, his muscles sore from tension. Every sound outside made his pulse spike. Every time the door creaked, his heart jumped to his throat. He knew they were looking for him now.

 

And he was so fucking tired .

 

He had spent years— days , he corrected himself bitterly—surviving, hiding, adapting. He had fought, killed, endured. He had started over, built something stable, and now it was crumbling beneath his feet.

 

All because of one mistake. One fucking mistake.

 

His fingers drummed against the counter absentmindedly. He needed to think. To plan. To act. But all he wanted to do was sink into the floor and sleep .

 

The thought of running crossed his mind again, but he shoved it away. He wasn’t leaving until the ships arrived. He couldn’t . He’d made it this far.

 

Odysseus exhaled sharply, rubbing his face. He just needed a moment. Just one moment of peace before everything came crashing down again.

 

Was that too much to ask?

 

The sharp knock on the door jolted Odysseus out of his thoughts. His breath hitched, his body tensing like a coiled spring.

 

For a moment, he didn’t move. He just stared at the door, heartbeat pounding in his ears. Had they found him already? Had Polites told the others? Had they come to drag him back?

 

Another knock—firmer this time.

 

Odysseus exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stand. He wiped his hands on his apron, straightening his posture even as every nerve in his body screamed at him to run. Get it together.

 

He stepped to the door, hesitated for half a second, then pulled it open.

 

Maldovin stood there, arms crossed, his usual unimpressed expression in place. His sharp eyes flicked over Odysseus, taking in the exhaustion, the tension, the way his fingers twitched slightly at his side.

 

Odysseus forced a smirk, leaning lazily against the doorframe. “Maldovin,” he drawled. “Here for bread, or just to make my life harder?”

 

Maldovin didn’t return the humor. His gaze lingered on Odysseus' face—too perceptive, too knowing.

 

“We need to talk,” he said simply.

 

Odysseus stiffened as Maldovin stepped forward, his usually cold demeanor shifting into something softer—something almost gentle . Before Odysseus could react, Maldovin wrapped his arms around him in a firm, grounding embrace.

 

For a moment, Odysseus just stood there, his body locked in place. His breath hitched. He hadn’t been held in— don’t think about it. His hands hovered in the air, uncertain, as if he had forgotten what to do with them.

 

“You look like shit,” Maldovin muttered against his shoulder.

 

A short, breathy laugh left Odysseus, but it held no real amusement. “Thanks,” he rasped. “Really needed that.”

 

Maldovin didn’t let go. His grip tightened slightly, fingers digging into Odysseus' back. “You’re not sleeping.”

 

Odysseus scoffed, tilting his head back slightly. “You watching me in my sleep now? Bit creepy, Mal.”

 

Maldovin pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes sharp with something Odysseus couldn’t quite place. “You’re spiraling,” he said bluntly. “And I don’t know why. But I do know that if you keep looking like a kicked dog, people are going to start asking questions.”

 

Odysseus forced a smirk, though it felt wrong on his face. “What, worried about me?”

 

Maldovin exhaled sharply, something between frustration and exasperation flashing in his expression. “Obviously.”

 

That single word struck something deep in Odysseus’ chest—something raw and vulnerable. He swallowed hard, his throat tight.

 

He hadn’t even realized how cold he’d been until now, pressed against someone solid, someone real. But he couldn’t afford this. He had to focus. He had to move.

 

“I’m fine,” Odysseus muttered, finally lifting his hands to push Maldovin away—gently, but firmly.

 

Maldovin didn’t argue. He studied Odysseus for a long moment, then exhaled, stepping back.

 

“No, you’re not,” he said simply. “But I’ll pretend to believe you, for now.”

 

Odysseus rolled his shoulders, forcing a grin. “Good. Let’s keep that up.”

 

Maldovin wasn’t fooled. But he didn’t press. Instead, he folded his arms, watching him carefully.

 

“…I’m staying for a while.”

 

Odysseus arched a brow. “Oh? And what happened to minding your own business?”

 

Maldovin’s lips twitched slightly. “Decided you were too much of a dumbass to be left alone.”

 

Odysseus let out a short, tired laugh. “Fair.”

 

Odysseus sighed, rubbing his face before grabbing Maldovin’s wrist and tugging him toward the stairs.

 

Maldovin blinked, resisting slightly. “Where—?”

 

“Upstairs,” Odysseus muttered, voice hoarse with exhaustion.

 

Maldovin narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

 

Odysseus didn’t answer. He just kept walking, dragging Maldovin behind him like a particularly stubborn sack of flour. When they reached the small bedroom above the bakery, he shoved the door open and pulled Maldovin inside before kicking it shut behind them.

 

Then, without hesitation, he flopped onto the bed, tugging Maldovin down with him

.

Maldovin let out a startled grunt as he landed, stiff as a board. “…Are you serious?”

 

Odysseus didn’t reply. He just buried his face into Maldovin’s shoulder, his arms wrapping around him like a vice.

 

Maldovin went still. He could feel Odysseus' heartbeat—fast, a little unsteady—like he was only just letting himself breathe for the first time in days.

 

“…You’re actually insane,” Maldovin muttered, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he hesitated before exhaling, his muscles slowly relaxing.

 

Odysseus hummed in vague agreement, too tired to come up with a quip. He just tightened his grip, pressing his forehead into Maldovin’s collarbone. The tension in his body started to melt, the warmth of another person grounding him more than he cared to admit.

 

Maldovin shifted slightly, adjusting until they were more comfortable, his arms eventually settling around Odysseus. “You better not suffocate me,” he grumbled, but it lacked any real bite.

 

Odysseus let out a breathy chuckle. “No promises.”

 

Maldovin huffed, but didn’t argue. Instead, he let his fingers rest lightly against Odysseus’ back, listening to his breathing slow.

 

Neither of them spoke again. The room was quiet, save for the occasional distant sound of the market below.

 

For the first time in what felt like forever, Odysseus actually slept.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Diomedes stormed into Athena’s temple, his boots pounding against the stone floor with purpose. His usually stoic expression was tight with frustration, his eyes burning with urgency.

 

“Athena, you’re not going to believe this,” he said, his voice low but steady. “Polites saw him. He saw Odysseus. He’s here, in Mysia.”

 

Athena’s eyes flashed with a gleam of anticipation. She was perched on a cushioned chair, her posture regal, but there was a slight tremor in her fingers as she gripped the armrest. At the mention of Odysseus, her attention was fully caught.

 

“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice cutting through the air like a knife. There was a hint of eagerness in her tone, something almost dangerous that made Diomedes’ heart race.

 

“He saw him,” Diomedes repeated, exhaling sharply. “We—well, Polites—he was in the market and he found him. Odysseus is alive, Athena. He’s here in Mysia, living like a commoner or something, with no memory of his past or—well, he’s hiding, but it’s him.”

 

Athena leaned forward, her eyes narrowing, a mix of disbelief and anger crossing her face. “A commoner? Are you certain?”

 

Diomedes nodded, his fingers flexing in irritation. “I’m not making this up, Athena. Polites saw him clear as day. Same voice, same build, but he’s—” He paused, swallowing the frustration building in his chest. “He’s fucking hiding. And he’s been here for days, maybe weeks, unnoticed by the rest of the kingdom.”

 

Athena’s lips parted, her eyes glowing with intensity. She rose from her seat, her body radiating power. “No. No, this cannot be. He’s mine. Dionysus wou—...oh.”

 

Her gaze turned inward, as if weighing her next move. The desire to hunt down Odysseus, to find him and take him back, pulsed in every movement she made. She wasn’t just angry; she was driven, a force of nature determined to reclaim what she believed was rightfully hers.

 

Diomedes watched her closely, sensing the storm brewing within her. “What do you want me to do?” he asked, his tone more serious than it had ever been before.

 

Athena turned toward him, her gaze fierce. “Find him. Find out everything. I want to know where he is, what he’s doing, and how long he’s been here. If he’s truly hiding as a commoner, then there’s no reason for him to remain so close. I won’t let him slip away again.”

 

Her voice was filled with an unspoken promise, and Diomedes knew he would have no choice but to carry out her orders. His loyalty to Athena had always been unquestioned, but something about her fervor unsettled him. He knew Odysseus, and there was a history there—a history Diomedes was sure even Athena couldn’t fully understand.

 

He nodded slowly. “I’ll find him.”

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

The camp was eerily quiet, the air still and thick with tension as the soldiers drifted between their tasks, the day winding down. In the corner of the camp, beneath the canopy of a makeshift tent, Agamemnon lay sprawled across Menelaus’ lap, fast asleep. His usually tense, authoritative form now looked vulnerable, the weight of his heavy armor seemingly shed in the depths of sleep.

 

Menelaus, ever the more soft-spoken and dutiful brother, sat cross-legged beneath Agamemnon, his hands resting gently on the sides of his sibling’s head. He looked down at his brother’s peaceful face, the only signs of stress on his own being the slight furrow of his brow and the tiredness behind his eyes. Despite the chaos around them, this moment of quiet was an oasis—a reprieve from the war and its constant demands.

 

His fingers idly brushed through Agamemnon’s hair, smoothing it back, and he couldn't help but smile, albeit tiredly. The constant weight of the war, the tension of command, all seemed to fall away when Agamemnon was like this—vulnerable and unguarded. He had been like this for days, sometimes needing more rest than usual. The pressure was wearing him down, and Menelaus could see it.

 

"Brother," Menelaus whispered, as if speaking to himself more than Agamemnon, "how much longer can we keep doing this?"

 

He sighed softly, his fingers now tracing the faintest lines of wear along Agamemnon’s brow, the battle scars he had collected over years of endless war. There was a pain that Menelaus didn’t often voice, a worry that clung to him more and more these days. Agamemnon had always been the stronger of the two, the one who bore the crown and the responsibility, but lately... lately it felt as though that weight was breaking him.

 

Menelaus leaned back slightly, propping himself up with one arm as he gently continued to stroke Agamemnon’s hair. It was softer than he remembered, the golden strands slipping between his fingers as he combed through them. There was something oddly comforting in the simplicity of the action, the quiet intimacy that only existed between the two of them. Agamemnon, for all his strength and pride, seemed to crave these moments of peace, these rare instances where he could lay down his armor, both physical and emotional.

 

As Menelaus’ fingers worked through his brother's hair, Agamemnon’s face softened further, and without a word, he nuzzled deeper into Menelaus’ lap, his breathing evening out as he drifted into a deeper slumber. His large frame, usually so imposing, was now almost childlike in its vulnerability, as if he had let go of the weight of command completely, if only for a moment. His head, once high and proud, now rested in his brother’s lap with complete trust.

 

Menelaus’ heart tightened as he looked down at him, his thumb gently brushing against Agamemnon’s temple. It was rare to see his brother like this—exhausted, vulnerable, and without the tension of leadership weighing on his shoulders. Agamemnon had always been the one to bear the brunt of decisions, the one who stood in front of armies and kings, but in this moment, there was no need to lead, no need to hold the weight of the world. He was just a man, tired and in need of comfort, and Menelaus could give that to him.

 

A soft sigh escaped Menelaus as he let his hand rest on Agamemnon’s head, fingers continuing to weave through his hair in slow, soothing motions. It wasn’t something he did often, but the need for this simple touch had grown over time, and it felt like the only thing he could do now. The war, the endless bloodshed, the uncertainty of the future—it was all still there, looming over them. But for now, it was just the two of them, together in this quiet, tender moment, with nothing but the sound of Agamemnon’s steady breathing and the faint rustling of the camp in the background.

 

Menelaus swallowed the lump in his throat, a quiet ache settling in his chest. “You deserve better than this, Agamemnon,” he murmured softly. “You’ve carried the weight of too many for too long.”

 

Agamemnon didn’t stir, only shifted slightly, his face pressing further into his brother’s lap, as though seeking more of that rare comfort that Menelaus had only recently started offering him. Menelaus couldn’t help but smile, a quiet, bittersweet smile. "I will always be here for you," he whispered, though he wasn't sure if Agamemnon could hear him. "Always."

 

“.. You’re so stupid.. Little brother..”

“I suppose I am.”

Chapter 25: ʬ﹕🖲️﹚Suspicion﹢▨

Lemenai stood in the doorway, blinking in surprise as he took in the scene before him. His eyes flicked from the two figures curled up in the bed to the soft, quiet ambiance of the room. There, nestled together, was Kallias clutching a much younger man to his chest. The sight was completely unexpected, and for a moment, Lemenai just froze, mouth slightly agape.

 

Maldovin was nuzzled comfortably into Kallias’ chest, and Kallias, usually so stoic and guarded, was leaning back with his arms wrapped around the other man, looking relaxed—almost peaceful. The two were clearly entwined in an intimate embrace, and the warmth between them was palpable, something Lemenai hadn’t expected in the slightest. He blinked a few more times, as if trying to understand what was going on in front of him.

 

“…Well, this is… a surprise,” Lemenai finally muttered under his breath, but he didn’t try to hide his curiosity. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed with a smile that could only be described as cheeky. “So, this is what you’ve been up to, huh? No wonder you’re so distracted lately.”

 

Kallias—still half asleep—immediately tensed, his eyes snapping open. His body went rigid, his gaze locking with Lemenai’s in a flash of panic before he quickly rearranged his expression into something closer to indifference. But it was clear he hadn’t expected this visitor.

 

Maldovin, still half-asleep, blinked groggily, his eyes widening in confusion as he glanced up at Lemenai. “Lemenai? What are you doing here?” he asked, voice thick with the remnants of sleep. He didn't seem nearly as perturbed by the situation as Kallias did, though there was a slight flush creeping up his neck.

 

“Just came to check on you both,” Lemenai responded with an exaggerated shrug, walking in and dropping himself onto the edge of the bed without a second thought. “It’s good to see you two getting along, though I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting this…” His voice trailed off as he looked between them, a little too pleased with himself for stumbling upon such an unexpected scene.

 

Kallias shifted uncomfortably but said nothing, his face a mix of calmness and discomfort. He stayed very still, focusing on not showing too much vulnerability as his hands remained resting gently around Maldovin’s shoulders, protecting and holding him close.

 

Lemenai chuckled lightly, grinning from ear to ear. “No complaints, of course. But I do think I need to see more of this, hm?”

 

Kallias shifted again, but this time, he finally spoke, his voice quiet but firm. “What do you want, Lemenai?” he asked, tone not unkind, but definitely trying to assert control over the situation. It was clear he was not in the mood for teasing.

 

Lemenai, however, was relentless. “Just curious, that’s all. You two make a cute pair. I didn’t think you were this cozy with anyone.” He leaned back casually, one hand propped up behind him as he gave them both a teasing look. 

 

Maldovin, fully awake now, adjusted himself and glanced up at Kallias, not even seeming to mind the teasing. “I think he just likes to tease, Kallias,” he said lightly. “He’s always been like this.”

 

Kallias didn’t respond right away, letting out a deep breath as he relaxed a little more into the bed, trying to hide the subtle unease that still lingered. “He doesn’t know the half of it.”

 

With that, Lemenai stood up, giving them both a smile full of mischief. “I’ll leave you two to your ‘nothing,’” he added over his shoulder, not bothering to hide his amusement. “But don’t think I’m going to forget this little gem.”

 

As Lemenai exited the room, his footsteps fading into the distance, Kallias exhaled a soft sigh, tension ebbing from his body. He was still on edge, but he could feel Maldovin’s warmth against him, calming him down.

 

“I swear, I’ll never get used to his antics,” Kallias muttered softly, though there was a touch of fondness in his tone. “I don’t know how you handle it.”

 

Maldovin smiled lazily, resting his head back on Kallias' chest. “What can I say? I think he likes you. In his own weird way.”

 

Kallias paused, his hand still gently stroking Maldovin’s hair as he looked up at the ceiling, thoughts drifting. “That’s the least of my concerns right now.”

 

Maldovin shifted slightly, carefully adjusting Kallias in his arms. With slow, deliberate movements, he guided Kallias’ head down to rest against his chest. The moment Kallias’ cheek touched the warmth of his skin, his entire body relaxed, the tension melting away like snow under the sun. His breathing evened out almost instantly, his weight settling fully against Maldovin as if this was exactly where he was meant to be.

 

Maldovin let out a quiet chuckle, brushing his fingers through Kallias’ dark hair, letting the strands slip between his fingers. “You’re really that tired, huh?” he murmured, though he knew there wouldn’t be a response.

 

Kallias was already asleep. Deep, undisturbed, and peaceful in a way that seemed almost unnatural for someone who always carried an edge of tension in his movements. It was as if the moment he was held, he allowed himself to stop running, if only for a short while.

 

Maldovin sighed softly, resting his chin atop Kallias’ head, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath against his chest. He didn’t know what had Kallias so wound up, why he always seemed to be watching shadows, but right now, it didn’t matter.

 

Right now, Kallias was safe. And that was enough.

 

Maldovin let out a quiet chuckle, fingers idly playing with Kallias' hair, twirling the strands between his fingers. "You really do fall asleep like a damn cat," he murmured, amused by how quickly Kallias had melted into his hold. He dragged his nails gently along his scalp, feeling the way Kallias subconsciously leaned into the touch, his breath coming in slow, deep waves.

 

Maldovin's smile faltered slightly when his fingers brushed against the bandage over Kallias' eye. His gaze darkened as he traced the edges, his amusement replaced by concern. He hadn't noticed it before in the dim light, but now that he had, it sent a cold weight settling into his gut.

 

What the hell had happened?

 

His fingers hovered there for a moment before he sighed through his nose and let them slide back into Kallias' hair, continuing his slow, soothing motions. If Kallias wanted to talk about it, he would. Until then, Maldovin wouldn't push.

 

Instead, he leaned back against the pillows, cradling Kallias a little closer, and let out another quiet laugh. "You better not drool on me, you bastard," he whispered, even as he settled in, perfectly content to stay like this for as long as Kallias needed.

 

Maldovin let his head rest against the pillows, his fingers still lazily moving through Kallias’ dark hair, rubbing small circles against his scalp. He stared down at him, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his breath ghosted against Maldovin’s skin.

 

Kallias always looked so damn tense when he was awake. Even when he smiled, it never quite reached his eyes. His shoulders were always tight, his movements sharp, as if he was waiting for something to go wrong at any second. But now, with sleep dragging him down, he looked… peaceful. Vulnerable, even. His brow was smooth, his lips parted slightly, his body slack against Maldovin’s chest.

 

Maldovin smirked, letting his fingers move to brush against Kallias' cheek. “You look way less like you’re about to stab someone like this,” he mused under his breath, keeping his voice low. He dragged a thumb lazily along Kallias’ jaw, feeling the faintest prickle of stubble. “Almost soft. Almost.”

 

Kallias didn’t react, still lost in sleep, and Maldovin let out a quiet chuckle.

 

“You know, I think this is the first time I’ve seen you fully relax. Usually, you look like a cornered wolf. Maybe I should just carry you around like this all the time,” he teased, his lips quirking. “I bet I’d get to see this face more often.”

 

He paused, glancing down at the bandage over Kallias' eye again. His teasing smile faded for a fraction of a second. He wanted to ask. Wanted to shake him awake and demand to know what the hell had happened. But he didn’t. Instead, he sighed, letting his hand drop back into Kallias’ hair, his fingers combing through the strands once more.

 

“You better be dreaming about something nice,” he murmured. “No nightmares allowed. I’ll kick their asses for you.”

 

Kallias twitched slightly in his sleep, and Maldovin huffed out a quiet laugh. “What, you actually heard that? Or are you just reacting to my voice like some dumb puppy?”

 

He ran his fingers through Kallias' hair again, slower this time, nails lightly scratching against his scalp. “You really do act like a stray sometimes. Show up out of nowhere, refuse to accept help, bite when someone gets too close…” His voice softened, his teasing tone losing some of its usual sharpness.

 

“But you’re letting me hold you now,” he added, quieter this time.

 

Maldovin exhaled through his nose and rested his chin atop Kallias’ head, pulling him just a little closer. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he muttered. “Otherwise, I’d push your ass off the bed.”

 

Of course, he wouldn’t. And they both knew it.

Maldovin continued to absently comb his fingers through Kallias’ hair, lazily watching the way the strands fell between them. His teasing smile lingered as he toyed with them, letting the soft locks slip between his fingers.

 

And then—he frowned.

 

His fingers paused. He rubbed them together, noticing a faint smear of something dark staining his fingertips. At first, he thought it was just dirt, but no—it was too smooth, too artificial. His brows furrowed as he ran his fingers through Kallias’ hair again, slower this time, pressing just a little more firmly.

 

The dark color smudged.

 

Maldovin blinked, lifting his hand to inspect it more closely. His fingertips were stained with a faint, inky residue, the kind that shouldn’t have come from natural hair. He looked down at Kallias, his gaze narrowing slightly.

 

His heart gave a single, hard thump in his chest.

 

What the hell?

 

Maldovin carefully pushed back more strands of Kallias’ hair, gently rubbing at them between his fingers. The more he touched, the more the dark coloring faded, revealing something lighter beneath.

 

Not black. Not even dark brown.

 

A deep, earthy chestnut.

 

Maldovin inhaled slowly, his smirk completely gone now. His gaze flickered down to Kallias’ face, his eyes trailing over the bandage covering one of his eyes, the way he was still slack against his chest, oblivious to the world.

 

“…The hell are you hiding?” he muttered under his breath.

 

He should have known. Of course, he should have known. Kallias had always been secretive, always been shifty. But this—this wasn’t just avoiding questions. This was disguise.

 

Maldovin’s lips pressed together, his fingers twitching as if itching to grab more, to push back more of the darkened strands, to see. But he forced himself to still.

 

Kallias was sleeping. Deeply. And for all his secrets, for all the questions Maldovin suddenly had, he couldn’t bring himself to wake him.

 

Instead, he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. His fingers returned to their lazy path, stroking through Kallias’ hair as if he hadn’t noticed a thing.

 

For now, he’d pretend.

 

For now, he’d let him sleep.

 

But later…

 

Later, he was getting answers.

 

Maldovin exhaled slowly, dragging his fingers through Kallias’ hair one last time before resting his hand on the back of his head. He let his eyes close for a moment, pressing his cheek lightly against the crown of Kallias' head as he sighed.

 

“Gods, you’re a pain in the ass,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

 

Still, despite his words, he adjusted his hold, wrapping his arms securely around Kallias and pulling him closer against his chest. Kallias barely stirred, his breathing steady, his body slack with exhaustion. He really had passed out completely, hadn't he?

 

Maldovin let his fingers trace soothing circles over Kallias' back, his thoughts churning, yet his movements gentle. Whatever Kallias was hiding, whatever reason he had for disguising himself like this—it had to be something serious.

 

And yet… despite the questions, despite the quiet tension lingering in the back of his mind, Maldovin found himself simply holding him closer.

 

He could feel Kallias' warmth through the fabric of his clothes, could hear the soft, rhythmic breaths against his chest. It was rare—so damn rare—to see Kallias not looking over his shoulder, not tensed like a bowstring ready to snap.

 

For once, he was just… asleep. At peace.

 

Maldovin sighed again, this time softer, almost fond.

 

“…Guess I can wait,” he murmured.

 

His grip around Kallias tightened slightly as he leaned back against the pillows, letting the steady rise and fall of Kallias' breathing lull him into his own quiet rest. Whatever was coming, whatever truths he had yet to uncover—

 

It could wait until morning.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Athena slammed her forehead against the stone wall of the building, the impact sending a sharp crack through the air. The stone splintered, spiderwebbing from the point of impact, but she barely felt a thing. She drew back, only to do it again. And again. And again.

 

Diomedes, standing a few paces behind her, simply crossed his arms. “Feel better yet?”

 

“No.” Athena’s voice was tight with rage as she finally pulled away, dragging a hand down her face. “No, I do not feel better, Diomedes.”

 

She turned on her heel, eyes burning with fury. “Do you know what it’s like? To spend Hours—no, days—searching for one insufferable, lying, scheming man, only for him to turn up in some gods-forsaken kingdom like he hasn’t turned my entire life into an endless fucking chase!?”

 

Diomedes shrugged. “I mean, yeah. That sounds exactly like something Odysseus would do.”

 

Athena let out a long, seething breath, her fingers twitching as if she were aching to wrap them around a certain Ithacan’s throat.

 

“Oh, when I find him,” she muttered, her voice dropping into something almost sickeningly sweet, “when I finally, finally get my hands on him, I am going to strangle him. Slowly. With love.”

 

Diomedes raised an eyebrow. “Love?”

 

Athena slammed her fist into the already-cracked wall, sending another web of fractures through it. “With so much love, Diomedes.”

 

Diomedes merely sighed. “Well, let’s go find him then. Before you destroy the entire damn building.”

 

Athena took another deep breath, forcing herself to calm down. Her rage could wait—her victory could not. Odysseus was here. In Mysia. And this time, she would not let him slip away.

 

“Oh, dearest Odysseus,” she murmured to herself, her lips curling into something between a grin and a snarl. “You can’t run forever.”

 

Athena took another deep breath, clenching and unclenching her fists as she tried to contain the storm raging in her head. Odysseus was here. In Mysia. And this time, she wouldn’t let him slip through her fingers.

 

She turned sharply to Diomedes. "Tell me everything Polites said."

 

Diomedes shrugged. "Not much. He saw Odysseus, grabbed him, and then got kicked in the gut for his troubles. Said Odysseus ran into the crowds and disappeared."

 

Athena’s eye twitched. "And that's it?"

 

"What, you were expecting a poetic recounting of the moment?" Diomedes scoffed. "The guy was probably reeling from getting kicked like a sack of grain. He barely got a glimpse of Odysseus before he was gone."

 

Athena dragged a hand down her face. "So we know he's here. We don't know where he's staying, we don't know how he's moving, and we don't know what he's planning."

 

Diomedes smirked. "Welcome to hunting Odysseus. First time?"

 

Athena shot him a glare that could've melted bronze.

 

Diomedes lifted his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. So, what’s the plan? Ask around? Shake up the city a little? Burn it down?"

 

Athena ignored him, her mind already moving ahead. She needed information. Polites had seen him, so that meant Odysseus had to be somewhere in public. Which meant he was either traveling through the city or staying in it.

 

"Someone must have seen him," she muttered, eyes narrowing. "And someone will talk."

 

Her gaze lifted toward the streets ahead, the crowded, bustling pathways of Mysia. If Odysseus had any sense, he'd be hiding under their noses, somewhere impossible to find, blending into the cracks of the city like a shadow.

 

But she was Athena. And she would burn this city down to drag him into the light if she had to.

 

Athena closed her eyes, inhaling sharply through her nose. Gods, when she got her hands on him—

 

A slow, terrifyingly fond smile curled on her lips.

 

She imagined it: Odysseus, bound up in silk and rope, a perfect little cocoon, his cocoon, where he couldn’t run. She’d tuck him away in a nest high above the world, where no war, no sea, no stupid plans could ever take him from her again. He’d struggle at first—because he was Odysseus, and he always struggled—but then, he’d accept it. He’d realize there was nowhere else to go, no schemes to hatch, no ships to board.

 

She’d keep him safe.

 

She’d bring him food, drape him in warmth, brush his tangled curls while he grumbled at her, pet his face, kiss his forehead. And when he finally stopped trying to escape, she’d pamper him, spoil him—run her fingers through his hair, massage his tired hands, stroke his scars until he melted under her touch.

 

He’d be hers, for the rest of his days. Just like he was meant to be.

 

And when he was old and frail, when his body grew weak, she’d hold him close, whispering to him until his last breath, her fingers woven into his hair as he finally—finally—stopped leaving her behind.

 

Athena exhaled, slow and shuddering, her nails digging into her palms.

 

"Diomedes," she said, voice eerily calm.

 

Diomedes, who had been not-so-subtly eyeing her like she’d just had a full-body religious experience, blinked. "Yeah?"

 

"We are not leaving this city until we have him," she said, her voice a quiet, simmering promise.

 

Diomedes snorted. "Yeah, no shit ."

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Diomedes leaned against the cracked wall, arms crossed, watching Athena with mild amusement. She thought she loved Odysseus?

 

Pathetic.

 

Diomedes didn’t just want to keep Odysseus safe—he wanted to keep him his. Permanently. No more running, no more tricks, no more slipping through fingers like sand. Odysseus had gotten away once—once. That would not happen again.

 

He was already forming a plan in his head.

 

If they found him—and when they found him—Diomedes wasn’t taking any chances. A clean cut, right at the knees. He wouldn’t even scream for long. Diomedes would hold him, shush him, stroke his hair, tell him it’s all okay—that he didn’t have to run anymore. That he wouldn’t have to worry about anything ever again.

 

No more battles. No more exhausting schemes. No more fucking leaving.

 

He’d take care of him. Properly.

 

He’d have a bed, soft blankets, food brought to him every day. He’d have Diomedes. That was all he needed, really. He’d fight at first, because he was Odysseus, but then—then, he’d see. Then, he’d understand.

 

Diomedes would make him understand.

 

He exhaled through his nose, a slow grin curling his lips. He’d cherish Odysseus, he really would.

 

And if he ever tried to leave again?

 

Well.

 

Diomedes could always take more.

 

Diomedes ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply as his thoughts tangled into a suffocating snare.

 

Odysseus was his. He had always been his.

 

From the first fucking day, when the older man had smirked at him like he already knew everything, like he was seeing straight through him—like he fucking understood. No one understood Diomedes. No one except Odysseus.

 

And now he was gone.

 

Gone. Gone. Gone.

 

It was wrong. It was so fucking wrong.

 

He clenched his fists, his breathing uneven. It wasn’t just about keeping Odysseus in one place. It wasn’t just about making sure he didn’t run. It was about—what the fuck was Diomedes supposed to do without him?

 

Odysseus was the only one who made the war bearable, the only one who could talk to him without making him want to snap their neck. He was the only one Diomedes actually liked. He didn’t just like him—he needed him.

 

No, he depended on him.

 

Odysseus was the one who made him laugh. The one who could say some cutting remark and not make Diomedes want to slit his throat for it. The only one who mattered.

 

He couldn’t be gone.

 

Diomedes wouldn’t let him be gone.

 

He could already see it—Odysseus, trapped in his tent, looking at him like he always did, like Diomedes was a fucking storm that couldn’t be reasoned with. He’d fight, of course he’d fight, but Diomedes would keep him still, make him understand that this was for his own good.

 

"You stupid fuck," Diomedes muttered under his breath, digging his nails into his palms until they almost drew blood. "Why the fuck did you leave me?"

 

He had to get him back.

 

He had to.

 

Because if Odysseus wasn’t there—if Odysseus was gone for good—

 

Then what the fuck was Diomedes supposed to do?

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Odysseus’ eyes shot open, the dim light of the morning creeping through the curtains, but his heart was pounding like a war drum. He felt the soft pressure of the warm body beside him and his mind instantly went into overdrive.

 

No.

 

His breath hitched, and a wave of panic surged through him. His heart raced as his hands scrambled for the nearest weapon— the knife. His fingers closed around the cold hilt, and in an instant, he was pulling it to his throat, eyes wild with panic.

 

"Don't come any closer," he rasped, voice shaking, as his chest heaved with shallow breaths. "I-I swear, don’t make me—don’t make me do it—"

 

Maldovin froze. His hands were raised instinctively, trying to calm the panicked man, but Odysseus’ gaze was sharp, frantic. The blade was pressing harder against his skin.

 

"You don't know what I'm capable of," Odysseus' voice wavered, the knife trembling with his hand. "Stay away. Stay the hell away from me, or I'll—"

 

The words choked in his throat. His mind was clouded, tangled up in the terror of being trapped, of being found .

 

Maldovin’s expression softened, but he didn’t move. “Kallias, please, please put it down,” he whispered, voice calm but worried. “You’re not in danger. I’m not going to hurt you.”

 

Kallias.

 

The name felt foreign in his mouth, and Odysseus flinched, feeling a sting behind his eyes, a rawness in his chest. His grip tightened on the blade, but the trembling worsened.

 

He could feel the edge of the knife grazing his skin, and for a second, it almost felt like an answer to his torment. An escape. But then his thoughts spiraled. His panic. His anxiety. The weight of everything pressing down on him.

 

Odysseus fell into a heavy silence, the knife still pressed to his throat, his fingers frozen around it. His eyes were wide, the panic lingering in them, but his mouth had gone still. The frantic, desperate words he had been choking out died on his lips.

 

He didn't speak. His body trembled slightly, but the rest of him was eerily quiet.

 

Maldovin’s breath hitched, his gaze softening as he watched the man before him, his words hanging in the air unspoken. Odysseus was in turmoil, but now, it felt like he had completely withdrawn, retreating somewhere deep inside himself, where no one could reach.

 

Maldovin didn't dare move closer. He simply stayed there, holding his breath, watching Odysseus carefully.

 

The silence between them was thick, heavy, and for a long moment, it felt as if the entire world had paused.

 

Odysseus’ eyes didn’t meet Maldovin’s. He couldn’t bring himself to look at him—not now. His grip on the knife didn’t loosen, but the tension in his shoulders had faded slightly, the blade still a shield between himself and everything he was running from.

 

Maldovin finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "Kallias... What the fuck are you doing."

 

But Odysseus didn’t respond. His expression was unreadable, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, the weight of everything pressing down on him like a suffocating cloud.

 

Odysseus’ grip on the knife wavered for a moment, his fingers twitching as if the weight of it was unbearable. The air around him seemed to shift, and his breaths slowed, a faint tremor still in his hands. Slowly, carefully, he dropped the knife onto the bed beside him, his eyes still unfocused.

 

He didn't dare look at Maldovin. Instead, he wiped his hand against his face, as if trying to clear away some invisible weight. A flicker of unease crossed his features, but he quickly masked it, the lie slipping out before he even had time to consider the consequences.

 

"I— I’m sorry," he muttered, his voice strained but smooth. He looked up at Maldovin for a brief second, his eyes already cold and calculating, a thin mask of composure settling back over his face. "I was just... trying to wake myself up." He let out a small, forced chuckle, shaking his head as if embarrassed. "I guess I just got too deep into my own head... Nothing more to it. I wasn’t going to hurt myself."

 

He gave an almost apologetic smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Just... a little too much pressure, I suppose. Been running on fumes lately. Didn’t mean to scare you."

 

The words were effortless, seamless—a practiced lie. His tone was light, as if brushing off the whole thing like a minor inconvenience. As if the knife and the terror hadn’t been real, as if he hadn’t nearly broken in front of Maldovin.

 

His hands tightened into fists for a brief moment before he let them go, forcing a little more of the mask back on.

 

"I’m fine," he said softly, the words final, as if to shut down any further questions.

 

It was a lie, of course. But Odysseus had gotten good at telling them.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Maldovin’s heart raced in his chest, the sight of Kallias standing there, knife dropped, looking so... broken. His mind was still reeling from the abruptness of the moment, the fear that gripped him the moment the blade had flashed across the air. His hands trembled as he tried to piece together what was happening, his brain desperately trying to make sense of it all.

 

But there was one thing he knew for sure: he couldn’t let Kallias fall apart like this. Not again. Not in front of him.

 

He took a careful step forward, his breath shallow, as though he were treading on fragile ground. His mind was a whirlpool, but he shoved it aside for now. He needed to act. He needed to hold him, to make sure Kallias knew that he wasn’t alone in this.

 

Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out, the distance between them seeming to stretch before him, but it was a distance he couldn’t ignore. He swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “Hey... it’s alright.”

 

When his arms finally wrapped around Kallias, there was a moment of stillness. He could feel the tension in his body, the weight of what had just happened, and it tightened his own chest.

 

“Kallias,” he murmured softly, the name feeling foreign on his tongue, even though he had been saying it for days now. His fingers gently brushed through the messy strands of hair, careful not to disturb the fragile moment, even as his heart hammered in his ribcage.

 

“I’m here, okay?” he said, a little more firmly now. “You’re not alone.”

 

He could feel Kallias still tense, still on the edge, but the way he clung to him for a brief second, just for that fraction of a heartbeat, made Maldovin’s chest ache. He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten here, how they’d ended up in this mess, but he knew one thing for certain now:

 

He wasn’t letting go.

 

Not now. Not ever.

 

Maldovin held him a little tighter, the weight of everything pressing down on his chest, but he didn’t want the tension to linger. Kallias was a mess, and so was he. But they could deal with this... together, in some way.

 

After a few moments of quiet, Maldovin let out a small chuckle, his hand gently ruffling Kallias’ hair, a playful gesture that contrasted with the gravity of the situation. “You know,” he began, his voice light, “I don’t know if it’s the fear or the shock, but I swear you’re getting heavier by the second.” He pulled back just enough to see Kallias’ face, his tone teasing but not unkind.

 

“You're not supposed to be this fragile,” Maldovin continued, poking at Kallias’ side with a finger. “You’ve been through worse than this... or at least I hope you have, considering your dramatic reaction.”

 

A flicker of a smile threatened at the corner of his lips, and he could see that familiar tension in Kallias’ face beginning to soften, just a little. Good. That was the goal.

 

“Kidding, kidding.” He laughed softly and reached out to tug at a loose strand of hair. “You’re a lot more tough than you like to let on, but... hey, I get it. Sometimes life’s just a bit too much, right?” He paused, his gaze softening as he added, “But, I promise, I won’t go anywhere. Not as long as you don’t kick me out. Deal?”

 

“I’m not going anywhere either,” Maldovin added, more seriously this time, his voice gentle as he laid his hand on Kallias’ shoulder. There was something comforting about this, this simple, quiet connection between them.

 

He leaned back against the wall, still holding Kallias close, and let the air hang lightly between them. The heavy weight of what had just happened was starting to fade into something warmer. Something more familiar.

 

“Alright,” Maldovin murmured with a grin, “let’s get back to normal, yeah? You’re gonna eat something, I’m gonna make sure you don’t stab yourself again, and we’ll pretend this whole ‘almost suicide’ thing never happened.”

 

The words felt surprisingly easy to say, but it wasn’t about the words. It was about the promise behind them.

 

And Kallias—he was still here. Still holding on.

 

Kallias grumbled softly, his fingers brushing through his hair as he rolled his eyes, clearly irritated but not really angry. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

 

Before Maldovin could respond, Kallias flicked his forehead, the motion light but effective in getting his point across. He could feel the warmth of the gesture, the irritation a little forced, but still genuine. “You really think you can just keep teasing me and everything will be fine?”

 

Maldovin winced, rubbing his forehead with exaggerated annoyance. “Hey, that was a bit too hard,” he protested, though his smile was quick to return. He reached up to flick Kallias back, but stopped short, taking a second to appreciate how relaxed Kallias had become. It was subtle, but it was there. Kallias was still Kallias, despite everything.

 

“Fine,” Maldovin sighed, settling back into a more comfortable position. “I’ll stop. But you’re still stuck with me.” He grinned, flashing a mischievous smile. “Even if you hate my teasing, you’re stuck with me, buddy. So, deal with it.”

 

Kallias muttered under his breath, but there was a softness in his tone that hinted at the joke. “Yeah, yeah. You’re impossible.”

 

The banter felt comfortable now, an easy rhythm between them, something that wasn’t forced. Maldovin could sense that Kallias wasn’t exactly at ease yet, but he had calmed down a bit, and that was progress. At least, that’s what he told himself.

 

“Well,” Maldovin said after a moment, “I guess we can just... relax for a while? Get back to pretending things aren’t completely insane?”

 

Kallias let out a sigh, his head resting against Maldovin’s shoulder once more, though this time more out of exhaustion than need. “I guess... for now. But just... no more forehead flicking. I’m not a child.”

 

Maldovin chuckled, shaking his head. “If you say so.” He didn’t bother with another flick, but his hand did rest against Kallias’ hair, smoothing it out in a way that almost felt... protective. Like he was trying to ease some of that invisible weight off his shoulders.

 

The door burst open with an exaggerated slam, and Lemenai skidded into the room with an energy that could only be described as puppy-like. His grin was wide, and before either Kallias or Maldovin could react, he was already wrapping his arms around Kallias, squeezing him tightly.

 

“Kallias!” Lemenai whined, his voice full of the kind of energy that could only belong to someone who had no concept of personal space. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” He nuzzled into Kallias’ shoulder like a puppy that had finally found its favorite person after a long day of being left alone. “I missed you! I missed you so much!”

 

Kallias froze for a split second, then sighed dramatically, his face turning slightly red. “Lemenai, you’re— ugh—” He grumbled, trying to gently push him away, but Lemenai was too stubborn, and his grip tightened even more, effectively trapping Kallias in the hug.

 

“C’mon, don’t be like that!” Lemenai whined louder, his voice practically vibrating with his excitement. “I’ve been so lonely! You and Maldovin are always busy, and I’m all alone, wandering around, getting lost... Why didn’t you tell me you were back?!”

 

Maldovin, who had been leaning back casually, watching the scene unfold with a raised eyebrow, finally laughed. He wasn’t sure if he was more amused by Lemenai’s unrelenting enthusiasm or Kallias’ utter lack of enthusiasm in return. “You’re a real handful, you know that?”

 

Lemenai finally let go of Kallias, only to take a step back and give him an exaggerated pout, as if he were genuinely hurt. “I just missed my best friend,” he muttered dramatically. “And Kallias doesn’t even care. So sad!”

 

Kallias rolled his eyes, though there was a faint trace of a smile on his lips. “You’re impossible,” he said, half-exasperated and half-amused. “And just because you’ve been wandering around doesn’t mean you can make me feel guilty for it.”

 

“I’m not guilty, I’m just lonely!” Lemenai insisted, his grin already returning. “I missed you both! We should all hang out! And eat together. I’m starving, and you’re so much better at food than the rest of us.”

 

Maldovin raised an eyebrow, laughing softly. “I didn’t know you cared that much about food, Lemenai.”

 

“I care more about Kallias's cooking, but food is important too!” Lemenai cheered, his energy bouncing right back. He leaned down next to Kallias, practically bouncing on his heels. “So, what’s the plan? Are we going to eat or not?”

 

Kallias let out a long sigh but, despite himself, there was a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You're ridiculous."

 

And yet, there was something about Lemenai's bright, relentless enthusiasm that made it impossible for Kallias to stay irritated for long.

 

Kallias sighed once more, his eyes narrowing in a mix of resignation and amusement. “Fine, fine,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “Since you’re so persistent.” He glanced over at Maldovin for a moment before nodding toward Lemenai. “I’ll make some pastries and tea. It’ll get you off my back for at least a little while.”

 

Lemenai’s eyes lit up immediately, and his whole expression softened into a joyful grin. “Really? You promise?” His voice was almost childlike, like he'd just been handed the best treat in the world. “Yay!” He clapped his hands together, practically vibrating with excitement. “You’re the best, Kallias!”

 

Maldovin, who had been content to watch the banter, chuckled to himself and stretched lazily. “You’re getting soft, Kallias,” he teased, leaning against the wall. “Giving in to Lemenai like that.”

 

Kallias shot him a side-eyed glance. “I’m not soft,” he muttered, though there was a hint of warmth in his tone. “I just know when I’m not going to win.”

 

With that, he stood up and walked to the kitchen, his steps confident despite his internal rolling eyes. Lemenai eagerly followed behind him, practically skipping.

 

Once in the kitchen, Kallias set about gathering the ingredients for the pastries, his movements methodical as he prepared the dough. He glanced over at Lemenai, who was watching him intently from the counter. “You’re actually going to wait for me to finish, right?” he asked with a smirk.

 

Lemenai looked almost offended, putting a hand to his chest dramatically. “Of course! I’m patient! I can wait as long as it takes, as long as there’s something good at the end.”

 

Kallias raised an eyebrow, though a faint, fond smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he worked. He wasn’t sure how, but somehow, Lemenai always seemed to get under his skin in the most annoying way—and yet, it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. He was… easy to be around. Too easy, actually.

 

As Kallias mixed the ingredients and began rolling the dough, he cast a glance toward the other man in the room, his voice casual. “You know,” he began, his tone light, “if you’re just going to sit there and stare at me the whole time, you might as well start making the tea.”

 

Lemenai beamed, immediately darting to the counter where the kettle and tea were already set up. “Tea is already done!” he exclaimed with a grin, setting out the cups like it was the most exciting task in the world.

 

Kallias snorted and rolled his eyes. “Of course it is.”

 

As he kneaded the dough, Kallias found himself inexplicably at ease. The kitchen was warm, the scent of flour filling the air, and for a moment, the chaos of everything outside this little space seemed miles away. It was just him, Lemenai, and the soft, soothing process of baking.

 

He didn’t know when it had happened, but over the past few days, Kallias had found something comforting in these small moments. Something… normal. Even if Lemenai’s antics drove him to the edge of madness.

 

Kallias rolled up his sleeves, the fabric bunching around his elbows as he set to work with practiced movements. He cleared the counter space, then turned to the ingredients laid out before him: flour, butter, sugar, eggs, and a hint of vanilla. He started by sifting the flour through his fingers, watching the fine powder fall like snow onto the smooth surface of the counter. The scent filled the air immediately, rich and comforting.

 

Lemenai leaned forward, his hands resting on the edge of the counter as he watched intently. “You make it look so easy, Kallias,” he said with wide eyes, his voice filled with admiration.

 

Kallias didn’t acknowledge the comment, his focus on the task ahead. He grabbed a block of cold butter and cut it into small cubes, placing them in a large bowl. His hands worked quickly, knowing the dough needed to stay cold for the perfect texture. He added the butter to the flour, using his fingers to rub them together, feeling the crumbly mixture form. It was a process he’d done a thousand times, each motion second nature.

 

Next came the sugar. He poured it in carefully, his hand steady as he mixed it into the flour and butter, then cracked two eggs into the bowl. The yolks broke open with a satisfying snap, and the rich golden color of the egg whites spilled into the mixture. He gave a small hum of satisfaction as he gently whisked everything together, the bowl slowly filling with a smooth batter.

 

Lemenai watched with rapt attention, practically bouncing on his feet as he noticed the way Kallias worked. “You’re like… some kind of magical baker,” he said, his voice full of awe.

 

Kallias rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress the faint smile tugging at his lips. “It’s not magic, Lemenai. It’s just practice,” he muttered, though there was an undeniable warmth in his tone.

 

After mixing the wet and dry ingredients into a dough, he turned to the next step. He gently floured the countertop before rolling out the dough, his movements deliberate and smooth. Each roll of the pin was firm but not rushed, the dough stretching out evenly under his touch. When it was the right thickness, he used a knife to cut the dough into small, square pieces.

 

Next, Kallias turned to a jar of cinnamon and sugar, generously sprinkling it over the dough, and then folded each square into a neat, little pastry. The layers were delicate, the filling of sugar and cinnamon hidden inside. He set each piece on a baking tray, arranging them with precision. The aroma of cinnamon filled the air, and a sense of comfort settled over the kitchen.

 

Finally, with a satisfied glance, Kallias slid the tray into the oven, the warmth of the oven making the kitchen feel even more inviting. He cleaned up the counter in quiet concentration, the familiar motion of wiping down the surfaces grounding him as he worked.

 

Lemenai, who had been watching in silence, finally spoke up. “You’re not just good at this… you’re really good. Like, really good. I mean, look at that! These are going to be amazing.”

 

Kallias chuckled, leaning back slightly as he crossed his arms. “I’ve been doing this for a long time. It’s not that hard once you get the hang of it.”

 

Lemenai grinned, but before he could speak again, Kallias cut him off. “Just wait until they come out of the oven. That’s when the magic happens.”

 

Sure enough, after a few minutes, the smell of warm pastries began to fill the air, rich with cinnamon and sugar. Kallias carefully checked the oven, his eyes flicking to Lemenai as the pastries browned and puffed up beautifully.

 

When he took them out, the golden, flaky pastries were a perfect sight. He set the tray on the counter to cool for a few moments, the kitchen buzzing with the sweet smell.

 

Lemenai grinned wide. “You’re right. These are amazing. You’ve gotta teach me how to do this someday!”

 

Kallias smirked. “Sure. But don’t expect me to make them for you every day.”

 

As the pastries cooled, he poured hot tea into mugs, the steam rising from the cups. He placed one in front of Lemenai and took a sip of his own. The warmth spread through him, and for the first time in what felt like ages, Kallias allowed himself to simply be.

 

He wasn’t thinking about the past. He wasn’t thinking about the chaos of everything outside the kitchen. It was just him, Lemenai, and the quiet comfort of a warm kitchen and freshly baked pastries.

 

For once, everything felt… okay.

Chapter 26: ！✨﹒ꔠ﹐Comfort

Odysseus sat on the edge of the bed, his hands nervously fidgeting with the hem of his shirt as Maldovin looked at him expectantly. He could feel the weight of the question hanging in the air, and his stomach churned. The hair dye he’d used to cover the light streaks of blonde wasn’t something he wanted to explain, but there was no way around it. Maldovin's eyes were fixed on him, and he could tell the younger man wasn’t about to let it slide.’

 

“Well…” Odysseus began, his voice far more shaky than he intended, “you see, it’s a personal thing. I didn’t want to look like my father.”

 

Maldovin raised an eyebrow, his expression softening with curiosity. “Your father?”

 

“Yeah,” Odysseus continued, swallowing the lump in his throat, trying to appear confident. He couldn’t afford to falter now. “My old man... he was pretty... harsh. Not exactly the best role model, you know?” He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding Maldovin’s gaze. “And he had this light blonde hair. Always kept it in a tight, neat style—some kind of pride thing. I never really understood why.”

 

He cleared his throat, carefully watching Maldovin’s face for signs of doubt. When he saw none, he pressed on. “I always hated it. The way he kept his hair so stiff, always looking perfect, like he was trying to be some... some sort of imposing figure. He never allowed anyone to show weakness.” Odysseus winced slightly, recalling the memories that came with those words. “I couldn’t stand it.”

 

Maldovin’s gaze softened further, but Odysseus could see the flicker of understanding in his eyes. It was working. He could feel the weight of the lie settling on his tongue, but the lie was a shield, and in this moment, he needed it.

 

“So,” Odysseus continued, his voice a little steadier now, “I dyed my hair because I didn’t want to look anything like him. I didn’t want anyone to see his... face when they looked at me. I guess it was a way to start over, you know?”

 

Maldovin took a deep breath, his gaze unwavering. “I... get it. I’m sorry about your father, Kallias. But I think it suits you. The darker hair,” he said with a small, warm smile. “It’s different, but it looks good on you.”

 

Odysseus felt the tightness in his chest ease slightly, and he managed a weak smile. “Thanks,” he muttered, still not fully trusting himself to meet Maldovin’s eyes. He was still processing the words he'd said, the thin line between truth and fiction blurring in his mind.

 

Maldovin tilted his head slightly, studying him for a moment longer before standing up. “Well, if it makes you feel better... I think it suits you more than the blonde did,” he said with a chuckle.

 

“Good,” Odysseus replied, letting out a small sigh of relief. He didn’t know why he was so tense about this—he’d been lying and hiding for so long, it was second nature now—but something about the way Maldovin said that made him feel... almost safe.

 

The conversation drifted away from the topic of hair as Maldovin left to gather the tea, but Odysseus stayed in the same spot for a moment longer, trying to shake off the lingering sense of unease. He had to keep going with the story. It was the only way he could protect himself now.

 

But for just a moment, as the silence stretched between them, he allowed himself to think that maybe, just maybe, things could be different here. He didn’t have to lie every second.

 

As Maldovin made his way to the kitchen to prepare the tea, Odysseus stayed where he was, staring at the empty space in front of him. The weight of the conversation settled in his chest, and something in him twisted—a strange, quiet ache that had been there for a long time but had never been allowed to surface. He could feel his heart beating heavily in his chest, and his mind was filled with swirling thoughts, all tangled up with fear, guilt, and uncertainty.

 

He didn’t want to keep lying to Maldovin. The thought of losing him, of being exposed, felt like an unbearable weight pressing down on his chest. But more than that, he realized how much he didn’t want to be alone in this anymore. Not with the constant fear of being discovered. Not with the constant running.

 

Before he even knew what he was doing, Odysseus stood up, his legs almost unsteady, and walked to the kitchen where Maldovin had just begun to heat the water. The young man hadn’t noticed him approach, and Odysseus took a deep breath, gathering every ounce of courage in him.

 

“Maldovin…” His voice cracked slightly, but he didn’t care. His hands, trembling ever so slightly, reached out, pulling Maldovin into an embrace.

 

Maldovin froze for a moment, surprised, but then he relaxed into the hug, wrapping his arms around Odysseus without hesitation. He rested his chin on Odysseus' shoulder, feeling the warmth radiating from him. It was comforting, the way his arms encircled him like a safe haven.

 

Odysseus squeezed him tighter, pressing his face into Maldovin’s hair, the smell of him—fresh and faintly floral—filling his senses. He was so tired of running, of hiding. Of pretending. In this moment, with Maldovin in his arms, he finally felt like he could exhale, like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as alone as he had always believed himself to be.

 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice muffled against Maldovin’s hair. “I didn’t mean to keep all of this from you. It’s just... it’s hard.”

 

Maldovin’s arms tightened around him, as though he could shield him from everything. “You don’t have to apologize,” he whispered, his voice soft but firm. “Whatever it is, I’m here. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

 

Odysseus closed his eyes, a wave of relief washing over him. It was overwhelming, this sensation of being held, of being seen. For a brief moment, he let himself feel vulnerable, let himself lean into the warmth of the embrace.

 

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” Odysseus admitted quietly, his voice nearly a whisper. He felt like he was losing control of everything—his identity, his plans, his very purpose. But in Maldovin’s arms, he felt... human again. Not a fugitive, not a weapon, not a god or a king. Just a man.

 

“You don’t have to know right now,” Maldovin said gently, pulling back just enough to look at him. His fingers brushed a strand of hair from Odysseus' forehead, a tender gesture that made Odysseus' heart skip a beat. “Take it one step at a time. You’ve already made it this far.”

 

Odysseus didn’t know how to respond. He wasn’t sure how to express the weight of everything he’d been carrying for so long. But in that moment, in the quiet safety of Maldovin’s embrace, he didn’t have to. For the first time in so long, he could just... breathe. And for the first time in years, he felt like he had something worth fighting for.

 

He pulled Maldovin back into the hug, holding him a little tighter, as if he were afraid that if he let go, this moment of peace might slip away.

 

“I don’t know what I would do without you,” Odysseus whispered, the words so raw, so unfiltered, that they caught in his throat. He was afraid that saying them out loud would make them too real, too dangerous. But at the same time, he couldn’t hold them in anymore.

 

“You don’t have to,” Maldovin murmured, his voice steady and reassuring. “You won’t ever be alone, Kallias. Not while I’m here.”

 

And in that moment, Odysseus allowed himself to believe it. He clung to the warmth, the sense of safety, and for the first time in a long time, he felt like he might finally be able to stop running.

 

Maldovin held Kallias tightly, his heart racing with a strange mix of affection and concern. Something wasn’t right. He could feel it in the tension in Kallias’ muscles, the way his body shook ever so slightly, despite the warmth of their embrace. The man was so full of contradictions—tough and vulnerable, strong and broken. Maldovin didn’t know what had happened to him, but he could sense it, deep in his gut. There was something off about this situation, something Kallias wasn’t telling him.

 

He could feel the way Kallias had tensed when he'd first spoken to him, the subtle way he pulled away when he thought no one was looking. There was something in the air—an unease that he couldn’t ignore. And then there were the little things: the way his hair was dyed darker than usual, the odd, furtive movements when he thought no one was paying attention, the way he seemed so haunted, like he was running from something—or someone.

 

Maldovin gently pushed Kallias back just a bit, his hands lingering on his shoulders as he gazed into his eyes. “Kallias...” He said softly, trying to keep the concern out of his voice, but failing. His instincts were screaming at him. There was something about this whole situation that didn’t make sense, and for the first time, Maldovin realized he wasn’t just worried about Kallias because he cared for him. It was deeper than that. Something was seriously wrong.

 

Odysseus’ gaze flickered nervously, and he quickly turned his head, as if avoiding the weight of the question hanging in the air. Maldovin’s brow furrowed in concern.

 

“Are you okay?” Maldovin asked, his voice gentle but firm. “You’ve been acting... different. And I’ve noticed some things... about the way you’re reacting to things. You don’t have to hide it from me, Kallias. I’m here. Whatever it is, we’ll get through it together.”

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Kallias stiffened under his touch. His body was tense, almost like he was preparing to flee at any second. Maldovin’s heart sank. He hated seeing him like this—shutting everyone out, keeping everything bottled up inside. He had known Kallias for a long time, and though they had never been close, he knew he wasn’t the type to let things slide. Something had broken him, and he didn’t know what.

 

He reached for Odysseus' hand, his grip firm but gentle. "Please, just... talk to me. Whatever it is, whatever you're hiding, I can handle it. But you can’t keep shutting me out. It’s eating you up, and I can see it."

 

Kallias finally met his eyes, and for a fleeting second, there was a look of pure panic in his gaze. Maldovin’s stomach twisted. He was used to seeing Kallias strong, capable, and in control. But now, in the quiet of the room, he saw someone who was so desperately lost, so overwhelmed by whatever demons had taken hold of him. It wasn’t the man he thought he knew, and the realization made Maldovin’s heart ache.

 

“I... I don’t want to talk about it,” Kallias muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with a depth of sorrow that made Maldovin’s chest tighten.

 

Maldovin’s brow furrowed as he reached up to touch his cheek, his thumb brushing the faint scar that marred the skin just under his left eye. It was the one thing he hadn’t asked about, but something told him that scar wasn’t just a result of a battlefield injury. There was something more to it, something deeper, something that made Kallias retreat even further into himself.

 

“You don’t have to say everything,” Maldovin said softly, not pushing him, but his heart still aching for the man he was starting to care for more than he realized. “But I want to help, Kallias. Please... you don’t have to go through this alone.”

 

Kallias closed his eyes briefly, then shook his head, as if to ward off the emotions threatening to spill over. He pulled away from Maldovin’s touch, wrapping his arms around himself protectively. The walls were up again, and it felt like there was nothing Maldovin could do to break them down.

 

“I’m sorry,” Kallias whispered, barely audible. “I just... can’t right now.”

 

Maldovin watched him for a long moment, the distance growing between them like an insurmountable wall. He wanted to push, to force the truth from him, but he knew it wasn’t the right time. If Kallias wasn’t ready to talk, Maldovin wouldn’t force him.

 

But he would stay. He wouldn’t give up on him, no matter how much he tried to push him away. Kallias wasn’t going to face whatever haunted him alone. Maldovin was here. And he would stay by his side, even if it meant waiting, even if it meant trying to figure out the mystery on his own.

 

With a deep sigh, he reached out again, but this time, he didn’t try to pull him closer. Instead, he just rested a hand on his shoulder, his thumb gently stroking the fabric of his shirt.

 

“Whenever you’re ready, Kallias,” he said softly, his voice filled with determination and care. “I’m here.”

 

And though Kallias said nothing in response, there was something in his gaze—something faint, but there—that told Maldovin he hadn’t given up entirely. Not yet.

 

Maldovin watched as Kallias slowly pulled away, his eyes avoiding his touch once more. It was like trying to reach through thick, unyielding walls. Kallias, the man he had come to know, had become something else in the span of a few days. There were moments when he seemed so distant, like a shadow of the person Maldovin had been growing close to. Yet, there were fleeting glimpses—the soft looks, the rare moments when his guard would slip, just a little. Maldovin could see the vulnerability buried underneath the tough exterior, and it tore at him.

 

He could feel the distance growing, but he wasn’t willing to let Kallias shut him out. Not when it was clear that Kallias needed someone—he needed him.

 

He reached out again, his fingers brushing lightly against Kallias’s shoulder, trying not to startle him. "You don’t have to talk, Kallias. I just want to be here for you," he murmured, his voice quiet, filled with nothing but genuine care.

 

Kallias stiffened under his touch, but didn’t pull away this time. That was something. Maldovin took it as a small victory. "I... I don’t know how to explain it," Kallias finally spoke, his voice strained, as though the words were clawing their way out against his will. "There’s... too much. Too much I can’t say."

 

Maldovin’s heart clenched. He didn’t press for more. He knew that the more Kallias pulled away, the harder it would be to get him to open up. But that wasn’t something to rush. Not yet.

 

Instead, he gave a soft, encouraging smile and leaned in just enough to brush his lips against Kallias’s temple. "You don’t have to say it all right now. You can take your time."

 

Kallias seemed to tense, but then his shoulders slumped, just a little, as though he was allowing himself to lean into the comfort, even if only slightly. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t move away either. And that, to Maldovin, was something.

 

He gave Kallias a moment, just standing there, allowing him to gather himself. His mind was still racing—there were too many unanswered questions, too many things Kallias wasn’t telling him. But Maldovin pushed those thoughts away for now. For all the doubts that swirled in his head, he couldn’t ignore the way Kallias felt in his arms. The warmth of him, the quiet tremble in his body that Maldovin had begun to notice. It was more than just the fear of being discovered—it was something deeper, something that had been festering for longer than Maldovin could understand.

 

"Kallias," he said softly, his voice low. "Whatever it is that’s bothering you... I can handle it. But I need you to let me in. You don’t have to carry this alone. I’m not going anywhere."

 

The silence between them stretched long, and for a moment, Maldovin wondered if Kallias would ever be able to open up, or if he was doomed to keep carrying his burdens in secret. Then, Kallias’s voice broke the stillness.

 

"I... I don’t know if I can," Kallias muttered, his words heavy with something unspoken. "I’ve carried this for so long... I’m afraid if I tell anyone, they won’t see me the same. And I can’t lose anyone else. Not like this."

 

Maldovin’s heart twisted. He wanted to reach out again, to reassure him, but he knew Kallias wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. Instead, he simply squeezed his shoulder gently and rested his head on top of his, offering whatever comfort he could give.

 

"You’re not alone, Kallias," Maldovin murmured against his hair. "You don’t have to be. I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere. Just... don’t shut me out, okay? Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out together."

 

Kallias didn’t say anything in response, but the faintest shift in his body told Maldovin that he wasn’t entirely shutting him out anymore. And that was something to hold on to.

 

Maldovin didn’t know what had broken Kallias, but he was determined to help him heal. He wasn’t going to stop. No matter how many walls Kallias tried to build, he would tear them down one by one, even if it took time. Because he couldn’t let Kallias go through this alone—not when he cared so deeply for him.

 

Maldovin sat in the silence for a moment, feeling the weight of Kallias's unspoken pain pressing down on both of them. The tension was thick, but the soft, fragile trust that seemed to flicker in Kallias's eyes was enough to keep Maldovin from leaving his side. He couldn’t push Kallias too hard, not when the man was so on edge. Instead, he could show him care in ways that didn’t require words.

 

Without warning, Maldovin gently slid his arms around Kallias’s waist, lifting him off the floor as if he weighed nothing at all. Kallias gasped, a brief flicker of alarm in his eyes, but Maldovin hushed him softly, holding him close.

 

“Shh,” he whispered, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’m not going to let you fall. Just trust me.”

 

Kallias tensed at first, his body stiff, but then seemed to relax just a little. Maldovin had expected that hesitation—Kallias had always been proud, never one to accept help easily. But this, this was different. Kallias didn’t fight him off. He didn’t tell him to put him down.

 

Maldovin adjusted his grip, pulling Kallias into his arms as if he were the most precious thing in the world. He smiled as Kallias’s head nestled into his chest, and with a steady, sure pace, he carried him like a princess—effortlessly, as though Kallias was the most important person in his life.

 

“Where... where are you taking me?” Kallias muttered, his voice still rough from earlier, but a slight humor lacing the words.

 

“To bed,” Maldovin replied, his tone light and playful. “You need rest. You’ve been carrying all this weight for too long. It’s my turn to carry it for you. Just for a little while.”

 

Kallias’s breath hitched, a soft exhale escaping his lips as he let himself be carried, his muscles finally relaxing against Maldovin’s chest. There was something almost childlike about the way he surrendered to the touch, something tender and vulnerable. The sight of it made Maldovin’s heart ache.

 

As he walked toward the bed, he felt Kallias shift in his arms. “I’m fine,” he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction. “You don’t have to do this.”

 

Maldovin chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to the top of Kallias’s head. “I know you’re fine, but you’re not going anywhere. Just let me take care of you for a change.”

 

They reached the bed, and Maldovin gently lowered Kallias onto the soft sheets, careful not to jostle him. Kallias looked up at him with a mixture of gratitude and something else—something Maldovin couldn’t quite place.

 

“I’m not going to let you carry this alone anymore, Kallias,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from Kallias’s forehead. “Not when I’m here. And I’ll be here, as long as you need me.”

 

Kallias didn’t say anything in response. He just stared up at him, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—they softened, just a little. And that was enough for Maldovin.

 

He stayed there for a moment, his hand resting lightly on Kallias’s shoulder, just being there with him. There was still so much unsaid between them, but in that moment, Maldovin knew that Kallias would let him in eventually. He wasn’t going to rush him. He would wait, because that was what Kallias needed. And he was willing to wait for as long as it took.

 

“I’ll be right here,” Maldovin murmured, settling down beside Kallias on the bed. “You’re not alone, Kallias. Not anymore.”

 

Kallias didn’t respond immediately, but his breathing seemed to steady, and his body gradually relaxed against the sheets. It wasn’t much, but it was a step. And for Maldovin, it was a step closer to the Kallias he knew was still there beneath all the walls, beneath all the pain.

 

Kallias shifted uncomfortably under the weight of Maldovin’s presence. He was too proud for this—too stubborn to let himself be treated like some fragile thing—but Maldovin had his way of breaking down those walls, bit by bit.

 

Maldovin’s hands moved to gently pull Kallias’s head toward his chest, pressing him closer than Kallias had likely ever let anyone before. Kallias immediately grumbled, his voice muffled by the soft fabric of Maldovin’s tunic.

 

“Mal... this is ridiculous,” Kallias muttered, a faint but annoyed edge in his voice. “I don’t need you—”

 

“Shhh.” Maldovin chuckled softly, his arms tightening around Kallias’s shoulders, his chest a steady, comforting presence beneath his cheek. “You’re always trying to act like you’re fine, like you don’t need anything. But you do. You always do.”

 

Kallias huffed in frustration, his breath warm against Maldovin’s skin. “I’m not some helpless—mmph!”

 

Maldovin gently but firmly pressed Kallias’s face deeper into his chest, effectively silencing the older man’s protest. Kallias flinched, his voice trailing off into a grumble as he struggled to adjust, but Maldovin’s grip remained firm.

 

“You’re being difficult,” Maldovin teased, his fingers gently running through Kallias’s dark hair. “I’m not going to let you go until you relax.”

 

Kallias pulled back just a little, enough to look up at Maldovin with an incredulous expression, eyes narrowed. “You can’t seriously expect me to just... lie here like this, can you?”

 

“Oh, I do,” Maldovin replied with a grin. “And you’re going to enjoy it whether you like it or not.”

 

Kallias scowled, but the sharpness in his features was already beginning to soften. He grumbled once more, turning his face back into Maldovin’s chest, though he did it with far less resistance now.

 

“I’m going to hate you for this,” Kallias muttered into the fabric, his voice muffled but tinged with something else—something like acceptance, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

 

Maldovin laughed quietly, his fingers continuing to trace gentle patterns in Kallias’s hair. “You won’t. But I’ll take the hate, if it means you finally get some rest.”

 

For a moment, Kallias didn’t respond. He just lay there, the tension in his body starting to loosen, his breath evening out as the warmth of Maldovin’s presence soothed the deep, unspoken anxiety that always seemed to hang over him. He didn’t want to need this. He didn’t want to need anyone. But for now, with Maldovin holding him close, Kallias allowed himself to let go just enough to feel human again. Just enough to feel safe.

 

“Fine,” Kallias grumbled softly after a while, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re insufferable.”

 

Maldovin’s smile widened, and he tightened his hold just a little, feeling the subtle shift in Kallias’s body as the older man allowed himself to sink into the comfort for the first time. “I know,” he replied gently. “But you’ll thank me later.”

 

And for once, Kallias didn’t argue. He just let himself be held, his body finally giving in to the quiet comfort of the moment.

 

Kallias let out a small, soft sigh, the words slipping out before he could stop them. His voice was low, barely audible, but there was something vulnerable in it that he rarely allowed anyone to hear.

 

“This... reminds me of home,” he muttered, his voice muffled against Maldovin’s chest.

 

Maldovin paused, his hand stilling in Kallias's hair as the words registered. He wasn’t sure if Kallias even realized what he had said, but it struck something in him. The older man had always been so guarded, so unwilling to show any sign of weakness, so this slip felt almost like an admission—a crack in the armor he so carefully constructed.

 

“Home?” Maldovin asked softly, his voice gentle, as if afraid to disturb the fragile moment.

 

Kallias didn’t answer right away. His eyes were closed, and his body seemed to relax just a little more, as though he was allowing himself to be lulled by the safety of the moment. For a moment, Maldovin thought Kallias might have drifted off again, but then he heard the faintest whisper, almost like a confession.

 

“Yeah... when I was younger. When I wasn’t running... when there was peace,” Kallias murmured, his tone almost nostalgic, as though the thought of peace was something distant and unreachable. “Before everything went wrong. Before... everything.”

 

Maldovin felt a tug in his chest at those words, something he couldn’t quite place. He knew Kallias had a past—a history, like everyone did—but hearing him speak about it like this, so openly, made something twist deep inside him. It was clear that Kallias hadn’t just been a warrior all his life. There had been a time when he had been softer, more like the man Maldovin was holding now.

 

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” Maldovin said after a moment, his voice steady and comforting. “But... I’m here. Whatever you want to share, or even if you don’t.”

 

Kallias didn’t respond immediately. For a long time, there was only the steady rhythm of his breathing against Maldovin’s chest, a sign that he was thinking—or maybe he just needed time to process the feeling of vulnerability that had slipped through his guard.

 

Finally, after a long pause, Kallias spoke again, though his words were softer, almost hesitant. “It was different, back then. I wasn’t... I wasn’t always this... closed off. I used to let people in, let them take care of me.” His voice trailed off, and the vulnerability in it made Maldovin’s heart ache.

 

Maldovin tightened his hold slightly, but not in a way that would make Kallias feel confined. He just wanted to remind him that he was there, that he wasn’t going anywhere.

 

“Do you miss it?” Maldovin asked, his voice barely above a whisper, careful not to push too hard.

 

Kallias hesitated again, and when he spoke, his words were quiet, almost wistful. “Sometimes. But... it’s not something I can have anymore. Not with what I’ve done. Not with... everything that’s happened.”

 

Maldovin said nothing for a moment, just holding him as he processed Kallias’s words. He could feel the weight of the older man’s past pressing down on him, the unspoken burden he carried, and it wasn’t lost on Maldovin how much Kallias had been through. The hard exterior, the biting sarcasm, the refusal to let anyone get too close—it was all a defense mechanism. It was easier to keep everyone at arm’s length than to let them see what lay underneath.

 

But now, in the quiet comfort of the moment, Kallias was letting him in. Just a little.

 

“Home doesn’t have to be a place,” Maldovin said softly, brushing a strand of hair out of Kallias’s face, “It can be with people, too. With those who... actually care about you.”

 

Kallias didn’t answer right away. His breath evened out, his body relaxing further against Maldovin’s, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand gently gripped the fabric of Maldovin’s tunic, almost like a silent acknowledgment.

 

And in that moment, as the world outside continued to turn, as the chaos of their lives simmered on, they both found a small piece of solace in each other’s presence.

 

Kallias, for the first time in a long while, let himself feel a little less alone. And Maldovin, even if he didn’t fully understand the depth of Kallias’s pain, was more than willing to offer him the comfort he so clearly needed.

 

For now, that was enough.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Odysseus lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind swirling in a storm of contradictions. The weight of everything—the lying, the pretending, the careful dance he'd been doing for what felt like forever—had become almost suffocating. But despite the pressure, he didn't care. Not really.

 

The soft sound of Maldovin's breathing beside him was calming, but it didn't stir any deep emotional reaction in Odysseus. He hadn't allowed himself to care in a long time, not about people, not about relationships. Everyone in his life was just another pawn to move around the chessboard, and Maldovin was no different. He could pretend to care—he could let his body respond to the closeness, to the comforting weight of being held—but deep down, he knew it was all a performance.

 

The things Maldovin said, the things he did to comfort him... Odysseus didn’t need them. He was fine on his own. He always had been. He’d built walls around himself so high and so thick that no one could get through. No one but himself. And the less he cared about anything or anyone, the easier life became.

 

But still, here he was, letting this farce continue. Maldovin’s presence, his soft words, his attempts to make him feel something—it all felt so futile. Maybe, just maybe, Odysseus would let it go on a little longer. He could pretend to enjoy the closeness, pretend that Maldovin’s affection meant anything. But he wasn’t fooled. None of it was real. None of it mattered.

 

Odysseus rolled over on his side, pulling the blanket tighter around himself, staring out into the dimly lit room. The ache inside of him—the hollow, gnawing emptiness—was familiar, and he had long stopped trying to fill it. He was used to the loneliness. It was better this way. Easier.

 

Maldovin stirred beside him, a soft murmur escaping his lips, but Odysseus didn’t respond. He didn’t want to. It wasn’t worth it. This whole situation wasn’t worth it.

 

He could feel the pull of something—the temptation to break down, to let himself fall into the illusion of care, to let someone else in. But it wasn’t him. He would never let it happen. Not now. Not ever.

 

And as the quiet of the night settled in, Odysseus closed his eyes, not for rest, but because it was easier to shut everything out than to face the truth: He didn’t care. He never had.

 

Five minutes later, Odysseus sighed deeply, the sound escaping his chest like a weight lifting—if only for a moment. His eyes remained wide open, staring at the ceiling, unable to escape the thoughts circling in his head. Every time he closed his eyes, the silence would grow louder, the reality of his situation more apparent. The weight of the lies, the tension in the air, the hollow ache that he couldn’t shake, even though he told himself it didn’t matter.

 

Maldovin was beside him, breathing softly in sleep, oblivious to the turmoil running through Odysseus’ mind. And yet, despite the calmness of the moment, Odysseus couldn’t seem to find any peace. The more he lay there, the more his thoughts began to spiral, like a current pulling him deeper into his own mind.

 

He shifted slightly, the bed creaking under his movement, and let out another frustrated sigh. He wasn’t going to sleep. He knew it. And even if he could, it wouldn’t change anything. Nothing ever changed.

 

He thought about Maldovin's kindness, the way he held him earlier, and yet the emotion felt so distant. So distant, in fact, that Odysseus wondered if he was even capable of truly connecting anymore.

 

This, all of it, was just another act. A performance he was running on autopilot. And the worst part was, he couldn’t even bring himself to care enough to feel guilty about it. That, more than anything, unsettled him.

 

For a moment, he considered getting up—leaving the warmth of the bed, sneaking into the quiet of the bakery, losing himself in the familiar rhythm of kneading dough, the scent of flour and yeast that always made him feel grounded. But he stayed. He didn’t want to face the cold, not tonight. Not with everything swirling around in his chest.

 

With a sigh, Odysseus closed his eyes again, but the ache inside of him remained. It was easier to pretend to sleep than to confront the fact that no matter how much he tried to escape, he would always be running.

 

Maldovin, still half-asleep, shifted beside Odysseus and instinctively pulled him closer. His arm snaked around Odysseus' waist, drawing him in. Without a thought, he kissed the older man's forehead, a soft, comforting gesture in the stillness of the night.

 

Odysseus tensed immediately, his body rigid against the warmth that Maldovin radiated. He hadn’t expected it—he never expected it—and the suddenness of the action made his heart race, even as his mind fought to suppress the feeling.

 

“What—” Odysseus grumbled, his voice low and tired but tinged with annoyance. “What the hell was that for?”

 

Maldovin, now fully awake and still holding him close, simply smiled, the corners of his mouth curling up in that mischievous, warm way Odysseus had grown used to. “What? You looked like you needed it.” He teased, brushing his thumb lightly against Odysseus’ cheek.

 

Odysseus blinked, trying to compose himself, but the warmth was making him uncomfortable in the strangest way. “I didn’t need anything from you,” he muttered, his words sharp but lacking the usual venom he might’ve injected. He shifted, trying to create space, but Maldovin held him tighter.

 

“Come on,” Maldovin said, his voice teasing but gentle. “You act like I’ve never done that before.”

 

Odysseus huffed, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, but that was different. You didn’t do it when I was half asleep and trying to figure out why I haven’t gotten any sleep in the last hour, did you?”

 

“Well, maybe I would’ve if I knew you were this grumpy about it,” Maldovin said with a wink, nudging Odysseus lightly with his shoulder.

 

Odysseus sighed, running a hand through his hair, frustration still evident. “Stop trying to act like we’re some happy little family. We’re not. I’m not. You... don’t need to be doing that.”

 

Maldovin raised an eyebrow, his teasing grin never faltering. “Doing what? Showing you that I care? You’re really going to push me away after all that?”

 

Odysseus' eyes hardened for a moment, but the defensiveness that usually came so naturally to him was missing. He was tired. Too tired to keep the walls up. But he couldn’t let his guard down completely, not with anyone.

 

“I’m not looking for anything like that,” Odysseus muttered, his voice quieter, almost wistful.

 

“Then what are you looking for?” Maldovin asked, his tone softening, but still playful. “Because I know you, Kallias. And right now, you’re being difficult, but I’m still here.”

 

Odysseus gritted his teeth, staring at the ceiling again. He didn’t know how to answer that. He didn’t know what he was looking for—he’d stopped trying to figure it out a long time ago.

 

“Nothing,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not looking for anything. Just... go to sleep. It’s late.”

 

Maldovin, sensing the shift in Odysseus’ tone, didn’t press further. Instead, he nestled closer, tucking his head under Odysseus’ chin, sighing in contentment. “Alright. I’ll let you rest. But I’m still here, no matter what you think, okay?”

 

Odysseus didn’t respond, but he didn’t pull away either. The weight of the silence between them wasn’t comfortable, but it was familiar.

 

It was the only thing he could handle at the moment.

 

Maldovin’s soft breathing soon filled the room, and for the first time in hours, Odysseus felt his body begin to relax, even as his mind remained a jumbled mess.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

The flickering light of a small candle in the corner of the inn cast long shadows over the room, but the warmth from the fire and the exhaustion of travel made sleep inevitable.

 

Polites and Eurylochus were nestled together on a bed, tangled in a soft, disheveled blanket. Eurylochus, despite his usual stoic nature, was completely relaxed, his head resting comfortably against Polites' chest. Polites' arm was draped around him, a protective yet tender gesture as they both slept deeply in each other's company.

 

The soft rise and fall of their chests was the only sound that filled the space, the peaceful rhythm a stark contrast to the chaotic events of the days before. The turmoil of the journey, the uncertainty of their mission, had left them both drained, and now they found solace in the quiet comfort of one another’s presence.

 

Polites shifted slightly in his sleep, his hand instinctively tightening around Eurylochus, as though ensuring the man was still there, still within reach. Eurylochus didn’t stir, his features calm and peaceful for the first time in days. He trusted Polites implicitly, and the feeling of being held—of being safe—was something he hadn’t realized he needed until now.

 

For a while, neither of them moved, each lost in their dreams, oblivious to the world outside. The inn’s atmosphere was warm and gentle, offering a brief reprieve from the storm of their responsibilities.

 

They were fine.

 

They would be better once they found their stupid snake.

Chapter 27: 🏮﹒⿶﹒Old and New Faces﹒⁑⁑

Odysseus sat up so fast he nearly knocked his head against the wall. His chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths, and his hands trembled as they gripped the blanket tangled around his legs.

 

Polites saw him.

 

Polites was going to tell Athena.

 

"Athena," he muttered under his breath, as if saying her name would summon her. His stomach twisted in a violent knot, bile creeping up his throat. She was coming.

 

The weight of that realization hit him like a war hammer to the ribs. His hands went to his face, running over his skin as if he could somehow peel away the growing sense of doom pressing against him. He had thought he could handle this. He had planned for every possible scenario. But Polites —Polites, of all people—was the worst possible person to have seen him.

 

He knew Polites. He knew that Polites loved him like a brother, but Polites would never keep his mouth shut.

 

And Athena? Athena would tear Mysia apart stone by stone if she thought he was hiding here.

 

His breath came in quicker, his fingers clenching in his hair. He had to run. No, he had to vanish. He needed to change his appearance again, to disappear before she arrived, because if Athena got her hands on him— if she got her hands on him, he was never leaving her sight again.

 

He curled in on himself, gripping his arms.

 

Think, Odysseus. Think.

 

His mind raced with escape routes, but none of them mattered. Athena would find him. She always did. She was relentless, obsessed, and if Polites confirmed he was alive, she would never stop.

 

His breath hitched. He was running out of time.

 

Odysseus clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He had to leave. Now. Tonight. Before Athena even set foot in Mysia.

 

But where?

 

His mind spun through the possibilities. There were other kingdoms— farther ones. If he could slip onto a merchant ship heading east, he could disappear into the vastness of the world. He could change his name again, fade into obscurity, start over somewhere else.

 

But then what?

 

Would that get him closer to Ithaca?

 

His breathing slowed, thoughts grinding to a halt. No. It wouldn’t.

 

It would push him even further away.

 

His hands shook.

 

Mysia was dangerous now, but the ships were coming in a week. A week. If he could just hold out until then, he’d finally be able to go home.

 

His jaw clenched. Seven days. He just had to survive seven more days.

 

But Athena wouldn’t give him seven days. She’d tear through Mysia like a storm, sniffing him out like a wolf on a blood trail.

 

His pulse pounded in his ears. If he ran now, he’d be delaying his return to Ithaca for gods knew how long.

 

If he stayed, he was risking everything.

 

He gritted his teeth.

 

Seven days. He had seven days to stay ahead of Athena.

 

Odysseus exhaled sharply, forcing the panic down as he pushed himself up from the bed. His body felt stiff, his muscles wound tight from the sheer force of his stress. His fingers twitched at his sides, desperate for something—anything—to focus on.

 

Bread.

 

He needed to make more bread.

 

The repetition, the precision, the control—it would ground him. He had no control over Athena, or Polites, or whatever storm was brewing outside these walls, but he could control his hands, the flour, the dough.

 

Silently, he pulled away from Maldovin, careful not to stir him. The man mumbled something in his sleep, shifting slightly, but didn’t wake.

 

Good.

 

Odysseus padded downstairs, his movements swift and practiced. He didn’t bother lighting a candle—he could move through his bakery in the dark with his eyes closed. The scent of flour and yeast greeted him, familiar and steady.

 

He reached for the ingredients with methodical precision. Flour, water, salt. His hands worked on instinct, rolling up his sleeves, dusting the counter. He mixed the dough, pressing and kneading, the motion burning some of the anxiety out of his limbs.

 

The quiet kneading filled the room with soft, rhythmic sounds—his palms pressing, folding, stretching. He could almost pretend he wasn’t trapped in a collapsing lie, that Athena wasn’t breathing down his neck, that his past wasn’t about to catch him.

 

The warmth of the dough under his fingers was real. This was something he could do. Something that wouldn’t shatter under the weight of his deceptions.

 

He just had to keep going.

 

Seven days.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Maldovin woke with a sharp inhale, his arms instinctively reaching out—empty.

 

His heart lurched. The warmth that had been beside him, the steady weight of Kallias' presence, was gone. Gone.

 

He shot up so fast that the blanket tumbled off the bed, barely registering the cold air biting at his skin. His breath hitched, his mind already spiraling through the worst possibilities.

 

Had someone taken him? Had he run?

 

No. No, he wouldn’t have—right?

 

Maldovin swung his legs over the bed and rushed toward the door, his pulse pounding in his ears. His eyes darted across the dimly lit room, searching for any sign, any hint of where Kallias had gone.

 

The bakery was silent, but faintly, beneath the smell of lingering candle wax and sleep, there was something else.

 

Flour. Yeast. Dough.

 

Maldovin exhaled a shaky breath and pushed forward, stepping down the stairs, his footfalls light but hurried.

 

And there, hunched over the counter, kneading dough with an almost desperate focus, was Kallias.

 

Maldovin froze, his heart still hammering, though for a different reason now.

 

For a moment, he just watched.

 

The way Kallias’ shoulders were drawn tight, the way his fingers dug into the dough like it was the only thing holding him together. His expression was unreadable, lost in whatever war was raging inside his head.

 

Maldovin exhaled, rubbing his face, trying to calm his own nerves. He’s here. He’s safe.

 

But something was wrong.

 

And damn it, Maldovin was going to find out what.

 

Maldovin stood there for a long moment, arms crossed, watching Kallias manhandle that poor lump of dough like it owed him money.

 

Of course . Of course the bastard was up at this ungodly hour, stress-baking like some tragic widow instead of, oh, he didn’t know— sleeping like a normal person.

Maldovin exhaled sharply through his nose, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Should he even be surprised at this point?

 

He wasn’t.

 

“Kallias.”

 

Nothing. The other man didn’t even flinch, still kneading like his life depended on it.

 

Maldovin narrowed his eyes. “Kallias.”

 

Still nothing.

 

Oh, so that’s how it was.

 

Maldovin rolled his shoulders and stomped forward, placing his hands on the counter with a loud thump . “Hey, flour gremlin, I know you’re ignoring me.”

 

Kallias finally paused, his fingers halting against the dough for just a second before he huffed, eyes flicking up in clear irritation.

 

“You’re awake,” Kallias muttered. Flat. Unimpressed.

 

Maldovin gave him a deadpan look. “Yeah, no shit. Hard to stay asleep when my supposed bed partner decides to sneak off like some guilty lover in a bad play.” He leaned in, voice dropping. “The hell are you doing?”

 

Kallias exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening. Oh, he was doing that thing again. The one where he looked like he was debating whether lying was worth the effort.

 

Maldovin drummed his fingers against the counter. “Let me guess. Couldn’t sleep?”

 

Kallias didn’t answer.

 

Maldovin rolled his eyes. Bingo.

 

“Right. So instead of doing something reasonable—like, I don’t know, lying there and suffering through it like the rest of us —you decided to come down here and make bread?” He gestured vaguely at the mess of flour and dough. “Because the answer to all life’s problems is apparently gluten.”

 

Kallias scowled, rolling the dough with more force than necessary. “It helps.”

 

Maldovin stared. Then exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. Gods, give me strength.

 

"You’re a nightmare,” he muttered.

 

Kallias shrugged. “And yet, you’re still here.”

 

Maldovin let out a long, slow sigh, already regretting all of his life choices. “Unfortunately, yes.”

 

Then, before Kallias could react, he reached over, grabbed him by the waist, and hoisted him up.

 

“What—Maldovin!” Kallias flailed, arms instinctively snapping around Maldovin’s shoulders as he was lifted like a goddamn sack of flour.

 

Maldovin ignored the protests, carrying him toward the stairs. “You, my friend, are going back to bed.”

 

Kallias kicked his legs in weak protest, but Maldovin held firm, entirely unimpressed. “Put me down, you absolute—”

 

“Nope.”

 

“You are insufferable —”

 

“You love it ,” Maldovin said, deadpan, already trudging back upstairs.

 

Kallias huffed, face flushed, grumbling something incoherent under his breath as he reluctantly clung to Maldovin’s shoulders.

 

Maldovin smirked. Yeah. That’s what he thought.

 

The lanky mercenary kicked the door open with his foot, not bothering to be gentle as he carried Kallias back to bed. He stomped over to the mattress and all but dropped the older man onto it.

 

Kallias landed with a soft grunt, immediately pushing himself up onto his elbows, his scowl sharp. "That was unnecessary."

 

Maldovin crossed his arms. "Oh? You mean like getting up before dawn to make bread instead of actually dealing with your problems like a normal person? Yeah, I’d say we’re both making unnecessary choices tonight."

 

Kallias exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. "It’s not that serious."

 

Maldovin snorted. "Right, of course. Because when most people can’t sleep, they don’t toss and turn or stare at the ceiling like a sane person. No, they go knead dough like some tragic widow mourning her lost love."

 

Kallias gave him a flat look. "You’ve already said that."

 

"Yeah, because it bears repeating." Maldovin pointed a finger at him, eyes narrowing. "I swear to every god listening, if you get up again, I will tie you to this damn bed. Don’t think I won’t."

 

Kallias raised an eyebrow. "Kinky."

 

Maldovin groaned, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. "Saints give me patience because I do not have enough to deal with this."

 

Kallias smirked—smirked, like he wasn’t just caught in the middle of an obviously suspicious stress reaction. "Oh, come on, Maldovin. You like having something to scold me about. Gives you a sense of purpose."

 

"Oh, fuck right off," Maldovin grumbled. He turned away and started pulling off his outer tunic, shaking his head the entire time. "I don’t know why I even bother. You never listen."

 

Kallias made a noncommittal sound, lying back down like he was just so comfortable now despite being a pain in the ass moments ago. "You're cute when you’re worried," he muttered, half under his breath.

 

Maldovin froze mid-motion.

 

Then, very slowly, he turned his head, narrowing his eyes at the other man. "What the fuck did you just say?"

 

Kallias didn’t answer. His eyes were already closed, and his breathing had evened out like he’d somehow managed to just fall asleep instantly.

 

Maldovin stared. His eye twitched. "Oh, you absolute—"

 

Kallias let out a long, contented sigh.

 

Maldovin took a deep breath, exhaled through his nose, and scowled at the ceiling.

 

"Saints above," he muttered. "I hate this man."

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Uloan sat in the small, dimly lit cabin, cradling his little sister in his arms. His broad hands gently cupped her small face, his deep voice softening as he peppered her cheeks with kisses. The girl giggled, her tiny hands pushing against his chest, trying to wiggle free from his affectionate onslaught. But Uloan only chuckled, tightening his hold.

 

"You’re too cute for your own good, you know that?" he murmured, nuzzling her little nose.

 

Her bright, innocent laughter filled the cabin, a stark contrast to the grim world outside. Uloan’s heart swelled with warmth, the protective instinct in him flaring up as he held her closer. He glanced at the door every few seconds, his sharp eyes always alert. He had his doubts, his worries—especially with the way things were changing in the mercenary world—but when it came to his sister, none of that mattered.

 

She squirmed and tried to break free again, but Uloan wasn’t letting her go that easily.

 

"Alright, alright, little troublemaker. I’ll let you down," he grinned, lifting her effortlessly in the air before setting her down gently on the ground.

 

She whined out, “I want bread!” 

 

Uloan grinned, ruffling Dahna's hair as she giggled from the attention. "Alright, Dahna, I'll make some bread for you. You know, you're getting so good at helping me in the kitchen, I might just have to give you a job as my official bread tester." He chuckled, setting her down and gently lifting her up before she scrambled down to the ground.

 

Dahna beamed up at him, her wide eyes filled with excitement. "Yes, yes! I'll help! I'll tell you if it's too crunchy, okay?"

 

He winked. "Deal. You can make sure I don't burn it this time." Uloan began moving towards the stove, the simple joy of having her around giving him an odd sense of peace. As he started preparing, he found himself laughing softly under his breath at her antics, just happy she was there, enjoying the little things.

 

"Go play while I get this ready, alright? I'll bring you some soon," Uloan added as he got to work. Dahna nodded eagerly, skipping off to another corner of the cabin to play.

 

Uloan set to work, his broad hands moving expertly despite the cramped space of the cabin. Dahna was hopping around the room excitedly, keeping a careful eye on him, and throwing in occasional, mostly unhelpful suggestions about how the bread should look or smell.

 

He was too busy trying to keep things from going horribly wrong to pay much attention, but he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering. There was something about Kallias— or rather, the man he'd been calling Kallias —that rubbed Uloan the wrong way.

 

The first time they met had been on a job. A routine mercenary assignment turned into something more complicated when Kallias showed up at the last minute. The guy was smooth, calm under pressure, but there was something too smooth about him. Uloan’s instincts kicked in when they spoke, and something in his gut told him that Kallias was hiding more than he let on. He had that air about him—the kind of person who always had just enough charm to avoid questions, to make others feel at ease, and that made Uloan uncomfortable.

 

Uloan knew better than to trust someone who made everything seem too easy. That night, after Kallias left the camp with a few other men, Uloan had stayed back, following at a distance. He wasn’t sure why, but his suspicions only grew as he watched the guy. Something about the way he moved, the way he made eye contact, just felt... off.

 

Since then, Uloan hadn’t crossed paths with him much, but the more he thought about Kallias, the more unsettled he felt. He’d always been suspicious of people with too many layers, and Kallias had layers like an onion.

 

His attention snapped back to the kitchen, where Dahna was now attempting to help him measure out the flour, her tiny hands struggling with the task. She was making a mess, but Uloan couldn’t bring himself to scold her. She was so excited to help; it almost broke his heart every time she smiled. The bread, however, wasn’t coming together quite as he’d hoped. The dough was sticky, clumpy, not quite the consistency he was used to.

 

"Uloan!" Dahna squealed, holding up her hands covered in flour, "I did it! Look!" She proudly displayed her flour-covered palms to him, her grin wide, even as the dough splattered on the floor.

 

Uloan laughed, though there was an underlying tension in his chest that wouldn’t go away. “Yeah, you sure did.” He paused, carefully kneading the dough again, more forcefully this time. "Alright, I think we’ve got it this time. Let’s shape it properly, and—"

 

He glanced down at the lump of dough that refused to cooperate, and for a second, he felt that familiar, gnawing unease in his gut again. It had been too long since he'd thought about Kallias—too long since he'd let his mind rest on that man. And now, even while attempting to bake bread with his little sister, it was back. That feeling. That suspicion. It was almost as though the man was stalking the back of his mind, refusing to be ignored.

 

The next time they’d met—a few days after that first encounter—Kallias had opened his bakery. A little too friendly for Uloan's taste, but he’d brushed it off. There were rumors of mercenaries joining together for jobs, but Kallias seemed too... personal, too familiar with his history, for comfort. 

 

It hadn’t been the words so much as the undertone. It was almost as if Kallias was trying to manipulate him, to play at his ego, to make him second-guess everything he was doing.

 

Uloan hadn’t fallen for it, but that didn’t mean it didn’t leave a mark. And now, with his hands awkwardly trying to shape the dough that still didn’t want to cooperate, he couldn’t help but feel a little resentful of how smoothly Kallias had slid through his life. There was something off about the guy, and Uloan couldn’t shake the feeling that he was involved in something much deeper than he was letting on.

 

But right now, with the bread a total mess, Uloan had a more pressing concern: how the hell was he going to explain this to Dahna?

 

“I think this one’s a little... overdone,” Uloan grumbled, poking at the dough, trying to salvage whatever was left of their attempt. He stood up, scratching the back of his neck as he glanced over at Dahna, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching him with a face full of expectation.

 

“I don’t think this one’s going to make it,” he said with a sigh. "But maybe tomorrow, huh?"

 

Dahna pouted, then shrugged. “It's okay, big brother. Maybe next time."

 

Uloan chuckled, sitting down beside her, before his thoughts wandered again. This time, they weren’t just about bread or Dahna or the cabin. They were about Kallias—and the part of him that still felt like something was terribly wrong about the whole thing.

 

Uloan sighed and rubbed his forehead, trying to push the thoughts away. "I'm just overthinking it," he muttered under his breath, glancing down at the dough that was still a lumpy, uncooperative mess. “It’s probably nothing.”

 

His thoughts quickly flickered back to Kallias again, despite his attempts to shove them aside. That guy was just a baker, right? A simple tradesman. Uloan had seen him selling his pastries and breads. Nothing special. Kallias had never been anything more than a man trying to make a living, just like the rest of them. He’d even said, with that easy smile of his, that his bread was something special. Maybe he was just a baker who knew his craft too well.

 

Uloan exhaled loudly, leaning back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. He could still see Kallias in his mind, that quiet, self-assured air about him. When Uloan had first met him, he hadn’t felt any immediate sense of threat. But there had been something about the way Kallias had laughed, the way his eyes glinted when he spoke, that left a sour taste in Uloan’s stomach. Maybe it was all just his instincts going haywire—he was a mercenary, after all—but now it felt like he was being too paranoid.

 

But why would someone like Kallias get involved with them in the first place?

 

Uloan’s brow furrowed, but then he felt a small hand grab his sleeve. Dahna was looking at him, big brown eyes full of concern.

 

“You’re thinking too much again, big brother,” she said softly, a small frown pulling at her lips. “Let’s just make the bread again tomorrow. I like the way you try. It’s okay.”

 

Her words, simple and sweet, cut through his spiraling thoughts. He smiled down at her, ruffling her hair. "Yeah, you're right, little one. Maybe I'm just tired."

 

But then, just as quickly as the thought came, another popped into his head.

 

Kallias is a baker. He’s got his own place. Maybe he can help with some bread for Dahna—something nice, maybe something fancy. Dahna would love that.

 

Uloan couldn’t help but let out a little chuckle to himself at the thought. “You know what? Maybe a mercenary friend I have could help. He knows bread better than anyone. We could ask him to make something special for you. Maybe even teach me a thing or two.”

 

Dahna’s eyes lit up. “Really?!”

 

“Yeah,” Uloan nodded, his mouth tugging into a half-smile. “If you’re lucky, he might even make something with lots of butter, like he always does. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

 

She clapped her hands, giggling with excitement. “Yesss! I love butter bread!”

 

Uloan gave her a mock stern look. “Okay, okay. I’ll go talk to him tomorrow. We’ll get you some real bread. How’s that sound?”

 

Dahna immediately threw herself into his arms in excitement, hugging him tightly. “Thanks, Uloan!”

 

As Uloan held her for a moment, his mind started to calm again. Kallias might have seemed a little suspicious, but if he really was just a baker—if he was just that simple man running a bakery—then maybe it would be fine. He was probably overthinking it.

 

He’d get Dahna some good bread tomorrow, from a baker who wasn’t involved in whatever paranoid thoughts were spinning around in his head. He’d make sure Dahna got what she wanted. Maybe Kallias would even give him some tips on making bread—maybe even help him fix this mess he’d made.

 

That would be nice.

 

Uloan gave a deep, quiet sigh and smiled, looking at his sister. “Alright, let’s clean up this mess before our mother sees it.”

 

But as he stood up, his mind still lingered on Kallias, though this time, it wasn’t with suspicion. It was with a small, hesitant curiosity.

 

Maybe the guy wasn’t so bad after all.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Diomedes lay in the dimly lit inn room, curled up against the pillow, his face buried deep in the fabric. His chest rose and fell with quiet, shaky breaths as he whispered Odysseus’ name over and over, as if it was some sort of mantra that calmed his spiraling thoughts. He clung to the pillow tightly, squeezing it like a lifeline, a small whimper escaping his lips. It was almost childish, the way he sought comfort from the soft cushion, but he couldn’t help it.

 

His mind was racing, overwhelmed with thoughts of Odysseus—his absence, the uncertainty, the worry gnawing at his insides. He hadn’t seen Odysseus in so long, and despite the stoic demeanor he tried to maintain, he was terrified. Terrified that something had happened to him, that maybe Odysseus was lost, or worse, that he’d forgotten about him.

 

"I... I just want to see him again," Diomedes murmured, his voice muffled against the pillow, like a child who had been abandoned by their favorite toy. He wasn’t sure if it was the exhaustion that made him sound so vulnerable or the desperate yearning that clung to his every word.

 

His grip on the pillow tightened as he buried his face deeper into it, imagining the feel of Odysseus' hand on his shoulder, his voice reassuring him that everything would be okay. But the longer he lay there, alone in the quiet, the further that image seemed to slip away.

 

"Dumb snake... leaving me, like an idiot." he whispered again, his voice breaking slightly as he let himself believe for a moment that his words might somehow reach the man he yearned for.

 

Diomedes grumbled, rolling over onto his back with a deep sigh. His eyes fixed on the ceiling, the shadows of the room pressing in on him as his mind churned with frustration. He clutched the pillow tighter, his knuckles white as he buried his face in it for a moment.

 

"Viper..." he muttered under his breath, the name rolling off his tongue like a curse. The man was always a thorn in his side, a slippery, scheming bastard who never did anything without a hidden motive. And yet, for all his frustration, there was something about Odysseus— Snakey , as he liked to call him—that kept Diomedes tangled up in his thoughts.

 

"I should be focused," Diomedes said, his voice flat but carrying an edge of annoyance. "I should be thinking about the mission, about getting this damn war over with." He ran a hand over his face, brushing his hair back in frustration. "But no, I keep thinking about him ."

 

His teeth ground together in a silent snarl. "Dammit, Viper, I should be rid of you by now. You're not even here, and I'm wasting my damn time thinking about you. You always did have a way of getting under my skin."

 

He pushed himself up into a sitting position, his legs hanging off the side of the bed, staring at nothing in particular. The anger he felt toward Odysseus— Snakey —was buried under layers of reluctant respect, grudging loyalty, and something deeper, more complicated. That was the part that grated on him the most. He didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to acknowledge how that bastard had wormed his way into his head. But there it was, gnawing at him.

 

"Why the hell do I care?" he muttered, clenching his jaw. "The idiot’s probably fine. He always is."

 

He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing back the frustration that threatened to bubble over. "I need to focus. I need to stop thinking about him ." He leaned back on the bed, staring at the ceiling again, his expression cold. His breath came in a slow, measured rhythm as he forced his thoughts into order.

 

"Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t change a damn thing." He exhaled sharply, finally letting some of the tension in his shoulders ease. "Viper’ll figure it out, like always. He always does."

 

Diomedes let out a final, quiet growl of frustration, then gripped the edge of the bed, standing up and pacing to the window, his eyes scanning the darkness outside. "If he doesn’t come back this time... I’ll just force him to.."

 

His lips curled into a tight, stoic frown. "Damned Snakey."

 

Diomedes lay still on the bed, staring into the darkness, his mind refusing to quiet. The images kept swirling in his thoughts, his fingers gripping the pillow tighter as his chest tightened with longing.

 

Odysseus…

 

No, not Odysseus . Viper. That’s what he was, always slipping away, always with his tricks, his lies. Diomedes couldn’t stand it anymore. He couldn’t stand how Odysseus kept everyone at arm’s length, how he always kept his distance, even when people tried to care for him. It was maddening. And yet, Diomedes couldn’t stop the thoughts that crept into his head.

 

What if he didn’t have to run anymore?

 

His breath hitched as he imagined it: Odysseus, not running from him, not playing his mind games, but coming to him for comfort. Diomedes imagined pulling him close, holding him tightly, feeling the weight of his body against his own. He could almost hear Odysseus’ breath, shaky and hesitant, against his chest.

 

He’d let me hold him.

 

Diomedes squeezed his eyes shut, imagining his arms wrapped around Odysseus, keeping him safe, keeping him grounded. Odysseus would be soft in his arms, fragile in a way no one ever saw. And he would stop pushing people away. He would stop acting like he had to carry the weight of the world alone.

 

He’d need me... Diomedes thought, and the warmth in his chest grew. He imagined Odysseus, broken, helpless, with no more tricks to hide behind. No more lies to weave. Just him, vulnerable, and Diomedes would be there. He’d be the one to hold him, to whisper softly to him, to make him feel safe for once.

 

The thought made Diomedes' heart race, his mind racing with what could be. He could imagine it in such detail—the way Odysseus’s face would soften when he realized there was no escape, no need to hide anymore. Diomedes would protect him. He’d take care of him . He would stop Odysseus from making those dangerous choices, from keeping everyone at arm’s length.

 

I could fix him, Diomedes thought, his pulse quickening. I could make him forget everything that made him so damn cold and distant. I could make him feel loved.

 

The idea of holding Odysseus close, feeling his warmth, feeling his trust... It was intoxicating. Diomedes could picture it so vividly now. Odysseus’s body against his, soft and tired, sinking into him like he belonged there. The way Odysseus would lean into his chest, feeling safe for the first time in ages.

 

And I would never let him go.

 

A shaky breath escaped his lips, and he had to force himself to let go of the fantasy. But deep inside, it felt like the only thing that made sense. Maybe this was the way to save him—by being the one to break down that wall. To show him that not everyone wanted something from him. To show him that someone, he , could be the one to hold him without expectation, without any games.

 

Diomedes ran a hand over his face, trying to steady himself. He didn’t want to admit it, but he wanted that. He wanted to be the one Odysseus needed. To take care of him, to hold him, to keep him safe from the world and from himself.

 

It wasn’t about breaking him. It was about giving him a reason to stay, a reason to trust.

 

And maybe—just maybe—if Odysseus could let his guard down, Diomedes would be the one to catch him.

 

He was trying his fucking best to stay sane.

 

Give him a break.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Hermes sat on the branch of a large, twisted tree, legs dangling lazily as he pouted. His golden wings fluttered occasionally, but even the gentle breeze couldn't ease the deep frustration coursing through him. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, and his lips were turned down in an exaggerated pout.

 

"Where is he?" Hermes muttered under his breath, kicking his legs against the tree trunk, creating a rhythm of annoyance. "How hard is it to find one measly mortal?"

 

His usual confidence and quick wit were nowhere to be found as he sulked in the tree. He’d been tracking Odysseus—or snakey , as the mortals here were calling him—for days, and every lead had gone cold. It wasn’t like Hermes to let a mystery slip through his fingers, and yet, this one was evading him at every turn.

 

"He's gotta be around here somewhere. You'd think a man with a big mouth like Odysseus would be easier to track down," Hermes grumbled, his voice dripping with irritation.

 

He glanced down below, watching the people move about the market with casual indifference. It was maddening. Odysseus had a way of getting under people’s skin, of always staying a few steps ahead. Hermes was starting to hate that.

 

He huffed, annoyed, kicking his feet against the tree again, causing a few leaves to flutter to the ground below.

 

"Why can't you just stay put, Ody?" Hermes muttered with a scowl. "You're supposed to be the one getting lost, not me ."

 

His mind raced as he tried to think of new ways to track the elusive man. Hermes had his usual tricks—his speed, his wit, his charm—but it wasn’t enough now. Odysseus was hiding in plain sight, blending into this strange new life. Hermes had to admit, he was impressed with how well the mortal had pulled it off. But still, it wasn’t good enough to get away from the messenger god. He wasn’t going to let him slip through his fingers.

 

With a dramatic sigh, Hermes jumped from the tree, landing lightly on the ground. He stretched, wings unfurling slightly, as his mind worked through different strategies. But no matter how much he scowled or pouted, it didn’t change the fact that Odysseus—or whatever he was calling himself now—had managed to keep his distance.

 

"Alright, fine," Hermes said, an almost childlike petulance in his voice as he paced back and forth. "I’ll find him. I’ll make him show himself."

 

But even as he said it, there was that nagging feeling in the back of his mind, the one that told him that maybe, just maybe, Odysseus was already too far gone for even Hermes to reach. And that thought? That made him pout even harder.

 

Hermes stalked through the bustling market, still grumbling to himself. His wings were tucked neatly behind him, hidden beneath the cloak of his mortal disguise. He didn’t need any attention right now; he was focused on his goal: finding Odysseus. Or whoever he was pretending to be these days.

 

He had no idea what name Odysseus hid behind. To Hermes, the idea of Odysseus taking on some new identity was nothing but another one of the mortal’s tricks. But it was the trick that had made him so damn elusive. He had checked every tavern, inn, and corner of the marketplace. The trail was getting colder with every passing moment.

 

His irritation only grew with each step.

 

As he walked, his eyes darted over the vendors’ stalls, noticing the wares—fruit, meats, trinkets, fabrics, pottery. Hermes couldn’t help but notice the little shiny bits and baubles glittering from the various sellers. His fingers twitched. It wasn’t a conscious decision, but his fingers reached out, nimble and quick, snatching a small, silver coin from the pocket of an unsuspecting merchant. The merchant didn't even notice, too busy with another customer.

 

Hermes smirked, slipping the coin into his palm and continuing down the crowded street, his expression a mix of mischief and annoyance.

 

Why can't I find him? he thought, pushing past a group of chatterboxes. I need to focus. Odysseus... Where the hell are you hiding, you clever fox?

 

He stole a small loaf of bread from a stall next, the vendor's back turned as he bartered with another customer. His stomach rumbled, and he tossed the bread into his satchel without hesitation. He was still grumpy, but at least the bread would keep him going.

 

The crowd around him surged forward, a cacophony of voices and movement. He reached out, his fingers snatching a brightly colored scarf from a vendor’s stand, just as a woman came up to examine the scarves. She didn't even notice when it went missing, too distracted by the variety of fabrics. Hermes tucked the scarf into his sleeve, rolling his eyes at his own behavior, but it was so easy.

 

And his annoyance, growing stronger by the minute, had to be channeled somewhere. So, he let it slip into his mischief, taking a piece of jewelry here, a trinket there. It was like second nature.

 

He wasn't stealing for the sake of profit—he didn’t need it. He wasn’t even stealing for the thrill of it anymore. No, Hermes was just irritated, desperate for some sort of control, and right now, he could control the small things. The petty things. He could take what he wanted when he wanted, and no one would stop him.

 

As he continued through the market, Hermes grew more restless. His pace quickened. He swiped another coin and some dried herbs from a spice merchant, all while keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of Odysseus. Or anyone who might know where the man was hiding.

 

Come on, he thought, gritting his teeth. You can’t just disappear, little mortal. This game of hide-and-seek can only last so long.

 

He felt the familiar rush of energy coursing through him as he walked, a quickening heartbeat as he flitted through the crowd, almost too fast to follow with human eyes. But his impatience was starting to show, his movements too abrupt, his temper flaring, and he couldn’t quite shake the growing sense of frustration.

 

The market was a blur of color and noise, but he was only half paying attention to it now. Every person around him felt like an obstacle, a distraction keeping him from what he wanted. And Hermes was used to getting what he wanted.

 

But today was different.

 

He sighed, knowing it. Even though his fingers kept snatching small treasures, his mind was still on one thing. One person.

 

Odysseus.

 

He needed to find him, and no amount of stealing or petty tricks was going to help him this time.

 

Hermes grumbled under his breath as he slipped through the crowd, his fingers still working, picking up little things here and there, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore.

 

“It was fun before,” he muttered to himself, almost as if explaining his actions to no one in particular. “It was all so easy, all so quick. But now? Now, it’s starting to get annoying. Boring, even.”

 

He plucked another trinket off a merchant’s stand—a small wooden carving of a fish—and tossed it into his bag without a second thought. It was just something to do, something to occupy his hands while his mind churned with frustration. He didn’t need the trinket, didn’t care about the little coin or the scarf he had swiped earlier. It wasn’t about the loot; it was about the distraction. The thrill, once intoxicating, was fading fast.

 

He sighed heavily, his irritation bubbling up. The market around him had grown more chaotic, the people even more frantic in their haggling, and the noise from the street vendors and children playing was starting to grate on his nerves. Every corner he turned was another dead-end. Another false lead. He was running in circles, and it was driving him insane.

 

“Where the hell are you, Odysseus?” Hermes muttered bitterly under his breath, as though the man could hear him from wherever he was hiding.

 

He was starting to feel... tired. Not physically—his divine nature kept his energy high—but mentally. His patience was wearing thin. The game had stopped being fun when it became a game of pure endurance.

 

He paused by a stall with some dried fish hanging, staring at the offerings without really seeing them. His hands rested idly at his sides. The thrill of the hunt had long faded, replaced by something else: the feeling of futility.

 

“I just wanted a damn challenge,” he muttered. “Not this endless ‘Where’s Odysseus?’ game. It’s starting to feel like one of those endless mortal games that never end. Never.”

 

He had always been good at this—good at finding people, good at being faster than them, smarter than them. But this? This was different. Odysseus had a way of slipping through his fingers, of always being one step ahead, and it was starting to rub Hermes the wrong way. It was like trying to catch smoke with his hands.

 

“You’re not even fun to chase anymore, Odysseus,” Hermes growled, frustrated beyond measure. “It was fine before, when you were... when you were just... there. But now?”

 

He kicked a small pebble in the street, his mood darkening. “Now I’m stuck, chasing shadows.”

 

Hermes stared into the sea of people, suddenly feeling like an outsider, like a child who wasn’t getting what they wanted. He hated this feeling, hated the helplessness of it. He was supposed to be the god of trickery, of speed, of delivering messages, but right now, he was just... stalling. Wandering aimlessly through the marketplace with no clue where to go next.

 

“Maybe I’ll just take a nap,” he muttered with a roll of his eyes, “and hope he shows up while I’m asleep.”

 

He stood there for a moment, still glancing around, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore. He’d been chasing Odysseus for too long, and it had stopped being fun. And if he was honest, he was starting to get a little... bored.

 

As Hermes continued to stand there, feeling the frustration creeping up again, something shifted in the air. A soft, warm scent wafted past him, carrying the unmistakable smell of freshly baked bread. It was a scent he hadn’t realized he was missing, the kind of comforting aroma that filled his senses and made his stomach stir.

 

He blinked, his ears pricking up. Bread.

 

His stomach growled slightly, though he tried to ignore it. He wasn’t interested in food—not really—but that smell... that warm, hearty scent. There was something about it. Something that felt like it could lead him somewhere.

 

He took a deep breath, letting the scent pull him in. His feet started moving on their own, almost against his will, following the path that led him through the crowded market and down a narrow street. The scent grew stronger, and soon, he found himself standing in front of a small, unassuming bakery. The sign outside was simple, wooden, with a few basic letters carved into it.

 

Hermes stepped inside the bakery, the doorbell chiming softly as he entered. The warm scent of fresh bread hit him immediately, and his mood shifted just a little. It had been a long day, and this place—this smell—felt like a small oasis.

 

The man behind the counter, clearly busy with his work, glanced up when Hermes walked in. His eyes were kind, though there was a quiet weariness to him that Hermes didn't think much of. He smiled politely.

 

“Ah, welcome to my bakery. How can I help you?” the man asked in a friendly tone, wiping his flour-dusted hands on his apron.

 

Hermes grinned. The pleasant warmth in the bakery matched the mood in his chest. It felt like a nice, peaceful moment—something he hadn’t had in a while. “Well, I couldn’t help but smell your bread from the street," Hermes said cheerfully. "It’s... amazing. I had to come in. What’s your specialty?”

 

The man gave a soft chuckle. “I take pride in all of it, but my fresh loaves and rolls are usually the most popular. Care for a sample?”

 

Hermes leaned in, giving the man a friendly wink. “Why not? I’m in need of something to eat anyway. It’s been a long day.”

 

The man grinned and began to carefully slice a loaf of warm bread, offering him a slice. Hermes accepted eagerly, tearing into it with delight. He chewed, savoring the soft texture, and looked back at the baker with a nod of approval.

 

“Good stuff! You’ve got a real talent,” Hermes said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What’s your name?”

 

“Kallias,” the man replied with a slight shrug, as if his name was no big deal. “And you?”

 

“Nakri,” he answered quickly. “I’ve got a bit of a reputation for getting into all kinds of mischief around here.”

 

Kallias laughed lightly, clearly not fazed by Hermes’ admission. “Well, it’s always good to meet someone with a sense of humor. And I’m sure you’ll find something worth your time here.”

 

Hermes leaned back on the counter, glancing around the small bakery with interest. “You’ve got a nice setup here. It’s cozy.”

 

“Thanks,” Kallias said, clearly flattered but still focused on his work. “I’ve been at it for a while. Keeps me busy. I’m just trying to make a living.”

 

Hermes smiled widely, sensing an easy camaraderie between them. He hadn’t been in the mood for anything too complicated, and this simple conversation with the quiet baker was just the thing to lift his spirits.

 

“You know,” Hermes said with a sudden burst of enthusiasm, “I think I’m going to have to come back here more often. Bread like this... it’s impossible to resist. Maybe I’ll even get a whole loaf next time.” He was already planning his next visit, even though he didn’t really need to buy anything at all.

 

Kallias chuckled again. “I’ll be happy to see you again, Nakri. Don’t hesitate to come by anytime.”

 

Hermes nodded, grinning. “I’ll be sure to,” he said, tapping his fingers on the counter. Then, with a wink, he added, “And don’t worry—I won’t steal all your bread. You’ve got to have some left for the rest of the folks around here.”

 

“Not a chance,” Kallias replied with a smirk. “There’s always enough to go around. Though if you want more, I’ll always have fresh batches waiting.”

 

“Good to know,” Hermes said with a chuckle. “Maybe next time I’ll bring some company. They’ll be jealous of your skills, I’m sure.”

 

With that, Hermes gave the baker a final, friendly wave and headed toward the door. He wasn’t sure why he felt so at ease here—maybe it was the bread, or maybe it was just the easygoing atmosphere—but something about the place felt right.

 

As he stepped out into the street, Hermes couldn’t help but hum a little tune to himself. It was nice to have a moment of peace, even if only for a little while.

 

And for now, that would be enough.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Odysseus watched as the man—who he knew by the name "Nakri"—bounced around the bakery, his upbeat demeanor grating on his nerves. Odysseus hadn’t even had time to finish kneading the dough when Nakri walked through the door.

 

"Great," Odysseus thought bitterly, mentally rolling his eyes. "A customer."

 

It wasn’t that he disliked customers, not really, but after everything that had happened in the past few days, the last thing he wanted was to deal with anyone who seemed so carefree. He was trying to keep his head down, blend in, but Nakri—Nakri was persistent.

 

The man’s energy was too much, too loud. As if he could never sit still for even a moment. He was the type to wander into any place, steal a piece of bread or two, and offer a grin in return. Odysseus had seen it too many times—mortal mischief in its purest form.

 

Why is it always him? Odysseus thought to himself, trying not to let his irritation show. He had half a mind to kick Nakri out of the bakery, but he knew better than to start trouble. Not when he needed to stay low, not when his whole survival depended on it. But damn it, this guy —Nakri, or whatever his real name was—was really starting to wear on him.

 

The mortal bounced up to the counter, practically floating on his own enthusiasm. He ordered bread like it was the best thing in the world, acting as if he hadn’t eaten a meal in days. Odysseus clenched his fists under the counter, forcing himself to stay calm.

 

He was tired of it. Tired of being trapped in this little corner of the world, pretending to be someone else. But here was Nakri again, acting like the world was still full of fun and possibilities, not like it had ever been for Odysseus.

 

Still, the man was buying bread, and that was what mattered, so Odysseus put on a polite smile— barely —and slid a freshly baked loaf across the counter. He couldn’t afford to lose his cool over a simple customer. That would be foolish.

 

"Take it easy," Odysseus muttered under his breath, just loud enough for himself to hear. "Keep your head down. You don’t need to get involved in whatever nonsense he’s bringing."

 

He went back to his work, hands moving automatically as he prepared more dough, though his mind was far from the task. He was so close to getting out of Mysia, back on track to Ithaca, but Nakri’s presence was a constant annoyance. Why couldn’t the god just leave him alone?

 

Maldovin walked over quietly, the soft shuffle of his boots against the floor barely audible. He had been awake for only a short while, but the moment he stepped into the bakery, his tired eyes found Odysseus hunched over the counter, focused on his work. A sigh escaped his lips, a low, drawn-out sound, as he made his way over to the older man.

 

Without thinking, he wrapped his arms around Odysseus’ waist, pulling himself closer, pressing his forehead into the back of Odysseus’ neck. His body, still half asleep, felt warm against the cool air of the bakery.

 

“Mmm…” Maldovin murmured, his voice muffled by the nape of Odysseus’ neck. “You smell like bread… and…” His words were slurred from the sleep still hanging in his chest, but there was an unmistakable softness to them. “...And you’re still working.”

 

He let out a soft hum of discontent, as if Odysseus should be taking a break, not wrapped up in his constant tasks. The arms around Odysseus tightened just a little, as though seeking comfort in the quiet intimacy of the moment. Maldovin wasn’t entirely awake, but he didn’t care. He was where he needed to be.

 

“Mmmm, don't work too much... Kallias,” he whispered, his lips brushing against Odysseus' skin as he spoke the name that felt so much more familiar than it should. His fingers traced idle patterns against the older man's shirt, still lost in his sleepy haze.

 

The room was filled with the soft sound of the oven ticking and the distant chatter of people outside, but in this little bubble between them, there was only the steady, comforting presence of Maldovin, clinging to Odysseus like he was the only thing keeping him grounded in a world that felt like it was always shifting.

 

Maldovin didn't know how long they stood there like that, his face still pressed against Odysseus’ neck, inhaling the familiar scent of flour and warmth, but he didn’t feel the need to pull away. Not just yet.

Chapter 28: ₊˚✩﹐彡﹒✒﹒Ravine

The sun had barely begun to dip below the horizon when the mismatched group of mercenaries—and one very disgruntled baker—gathered just outside the village gates.

 

Odysseus stood at the center, arms crossed, looking like a man deeply regretting every life choice that had led to this moment. “It’s just herbs,” he muttered. “A few sprigs of wild mint. Some sage. Maybe a little hyssop. Nothing dangerous.”

 

“That’s what people say before they get eaten by a wild boar,” Uloan grunted. The towering man was armed to the teeth despite the supposed harmlessness of the errand, and his thick brows were furrowed in skepticism. “You’re a baker, not a herbalist.”

 

Odysseus shot him a glare. “I’m versatile.”

 

“I thought we were going shopping ,” Lemenai whined, dramatically leaning on Maldovin’s shoulder like a wilted flower. “You said this was gonna be relaxing.”

 

“Did you pack snacks?” Gialaus asked, dead serious. He was holding a map upside down and hadn’t realized it.

 

Odysseus blinked. “It’s not a picnic. We’re going to the hills just past the grove.”

 

Maldovin was silent for a long beat, arms folded and expression unreadable. Then he finally muttered, “I swear to the Saints, if I step in another rabbit hole, I will throw you over my shoulder and haul you back here, Kallias .”

 

“I’d like to see you try.”

 

“You have , and I can.”

 

Odysseus clicked his tongue but didn’t argue further. He had, in fact, been carried—against his will—by Maldovin twice now.

 

“Do we even know what hyssop looks like?” Lemenai asked, now twirling a dagger between his fingers with dangerous nonchalance. “Last time Gialaus tried to help you, he brought you a weed and said it smelled spiritual.”

 

“It did smell spiritual,” Gialaus muttered, slightly offended. “Like incense. Could’ve been holy.”

 

“It was moss.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Uloan sighed loudly and started walking. “This is stupid. But if I don’t come and you all die because someone tried to feed a poisonous root to the baker, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“You say that like you care ,” Maldovin said dryly.

 

“I care about Dahna getting her damn bread,” Uloan growled. “Which I can’t make. So yes, I care.”

 

Odysseus clapped his hands once, ignoring the complete lack of enthusiasm in the air. “Great. Team spirit. Let’s go forage like idiots.”

 

And like idiots, they trudged off into the hills—four mercenaries and one very suspicious baker, bound together by the promise of bread, bad decisions, and the vague hope that none of them would fall into a creek this time.

 

“Are herbs supposed to hiss?” Lemenai asked, a hint of hesitance.

 

“No,” Odysseus said. “No, they are not.”

 

Lemenai grinned with childish glee as he bounded a little farther from the group, crouching near a sprig of green poking out from a patch of drier soil. “Look! It’s a carrot!” he shouted, yanking at the stem with all the enthusiasm of a toddler at harvest.

 

Odysseus looked up from the rock he was poking at with a stick, eyes narrowing. 

 

“Lemenai—wait, that ground doesn’t look—”

 

Crack.

 

Too late.

 

The dry patch beneath Lemenai’s boots gave way with a low, guttural groan. Dust puffed into the air. Lemenai let out a sharp yelp as the ground crumbled beneath him.

 

Odysseus’s body moved faster than his thoughts—sprinting towards the edge as the earth collapsed inward. “Lemenai—!”

 

But his shout was lost in the sudden roar of shifting dirt and rock. The earth gave a deep rumble and the slope split like a broken crust of bread. Uloan, closest to the disturbance, tried to dive back—but the ground beneath him buckled and crumbled, pulling him into the sinkhole with a thundering crash.

 

Maldovin cursed violently and lunged for Odysseus, grabbing his arm just as he began to fall. But Odysseus twisted instinctively to push Maldovin back—and ended up dragging them both down.

 

Gialaus barely had time to yelp before the edge beneath his boots snapped and pitched him into the chaos.

 

A moment of weightlessness. Earth and dust and sky blurring into one. Then—

 

WHUMP.

 

The world slammed into their backs. Dust exploded around them in a cloud. Rocks tumbled from the broken ceiling above. Everything stung.

 

Odysseus groaned first, coughing into his elbow, his body half-piled beneath Maldovin’s considerably heavier one. “Ow,” he muttered, voice muffled. “Did we die?”

 

“Not yet,” Uloan’s voice rumbled nearby. “But I swear to the Saints, if someone yells ‘carrot’ again—”

 

“I got it though!” Lemenai chirped triumphantly, lifting the mangled orange root in the air from where he lay flat on his back in the dirt, dust streaked across his cheeks. “Totally worth it.”

 

“You’re dead to me,” Maldovin hissed, rolling off Odysseus with a grunt, wincing as he held his ribs. “We fell into a cave. A fucking cave.”

 

Odysseus coughed again and sat up, brushing soil from his arms and muttering, “This is why I hate errands. Every time.”

 

Light filtered in from the collapsed ceiling above, but it was dim and patchy. Moss clung to the cave walls in pale veins. Stalactites hung overhead like teeth.

 

“I can’t believe this,” Gialaus said faintly, upside down against a rock. “We fell into a cave for a carrot. ”

 

Odysseus sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and quietly muttered, “I should’ve just made mint tea and gone to bed.”

 

Somewhere above, a pebble clicked and bounced.

 

Something deep in the shadows of the cave groaned.

 

Uloan raised an eyebrow. “...That wasn’t one of us.”

 

Lemenai slowly lowered his carrot. “...You think there's more veggies down here?”

 

Odysseus sat upright and started patting down his sides, fingers flying over buckles and straps as he took quick inventory of the pack that had somehow managed to stay looped around his back. Dirt still caked the corner of his mouth, and there was a dead leaf tangled in his hair.

 

“Alright,” he muttered, snapping the top flap open. “Let’s see what we’re working with.” He pulled out a dented canteen and shook it near his ear. “Half a canteen of water.” Next came a linen-wrapped bundle of bruised vegetables—mostly carrots, turnips, and something suspiciously close to rotting leek. “Great. Salads for dinner.”

 

Finally, he withdrew a small, curved dagger from a loop inside the pack, inspecting the edge before nodding once. “Still sharp.”

He looked up. “Lemenai. What’ve you got?”

 

Lemenai perked up, brushing dust off his tunic and digging at his belt. “Uhh… spare arrows—three of them. But, uh… no bow. Left it behind when we were just ‘getting herbs,’ remember?” He fumbled through a side pouch. “Oh, and two sticks! One of them’s really straight.”

 

Odysseus squinted at him. “Incredible. Truly.”

 

“Could poke something with them.”

 

“Please don’t.”

 

“Gialaus?”

 

Gialaus had already begun checking his own satchel, more serious in his movements than usual. “Medical kit—small. Gauze, poultices, bone setting splints, and a very short needle. Some thread and string. And…” He reached deep into a hidden side compartment and came out with a smug grin. “Dried fruit leather.”

 

Uloan grunted from where he was already standing and dusting off his shoulders. “Shield. Just my shield.” He gave it a small tap. “Didn’t think I’d need the rest for carrots. ”

 

“I’ve learned my lesson,” Lemenai said solemnly.

 

“No, you haven’t,” Maldovin said flatly, brushing gravel out of his hair. He slid a hand to the scabbard at his hip. “I’ve got my sword. That’s it.”

 

Odysseus huffed, pulling himself to his feet and cinching his pack tighter. “Alright. One dagger, one sword, a medical kit, some random sticks, and a very honorable shield.”

 

“And a carrot,” Lemenai offered helpfully.

 

“Put it away.”

 

There was another low groan in the dark—not from any of them.

 

Odysseus’s smile faded, and he turned to glance deeper into the cave. “...Let’s move before whatever that is realizes it has guests.”

 

“Do we follow the light?” Gialaus asked, squinting upward toward the slanted collapse above them.

 

“No,” Odysseus said dryly. “We follow the moss.” He tapped a patch on the wall. “Moss grows where there's moisture. Moisture means water. Water leads to outflow.” He gestured with two fingers. “Single file. Quiet as we can.”

 

Lemenai started forward, sticks in hand like swords. “Hero squad, form up!”

 

Uloan groaned. “You’re not naming us that.”

 

Maldovin ran a hand down his face. “I knew we should’ve left him in the woods.”

 

Odysseus kept one hand pressed to the damp, moss-veined stone as they moved, footsteps muffled by layers of ancient dust and crumbling debris. The narrow path curved downward in a jagged spiral, slick with condensation. Their only light came from the faint glow of some phosphorescent lichen clinging to the rock.

 

His breathing was quiet, focused. Each footfall calculated. One misstep, and the earth might swallow them again.

 

Then—there it was.

 

An opening.

 

But not to freedom.

 

The narrow tunnel suddenly spilled into a hollowed-out cavern, the walls echoing their entrance like the belly of a god. The light from above barely reached this far down, and what little they had of it revealed something worse than another fall.

 

Four paths.

 

One to the left—wide and oddly smooth.

One straight ahead—cluttered with jagged rock.

One to the right—sloping downward and flooded knee-deep in brackish water.

And one behind a twisted column of stone—barely visible, more of a crack in the wall than a tunnel, but real nonetheless.

 

Odysseus halted, mouth set into a grim line. “No.”

 

Lemenai stepped forward, eyes bright despite the dark. “Do we split up?”

 

“No,” Odysseus said instantly, sharply. “Absolutely not.”

 

Maldovin tilted his head. “There are five of us. We could cover more ground—”

 

“Which just means we’d die separately and slower,” Odysseus snapped. His voice echoed against the cavern walls. “This isn’t a city square. There’s no line of sight, no fallback. You lose your footing in one of these and you bleed out alone. We’re not splitting up.”

 

Uloan crossed his arms. “Then what’s your plan, Viper ?”

 

Odysseus didn’t flinch at the nickname. He stared down the tunnels, jaw clenched, thinking. His fingers drummed against the dagger at his belt. “We scout one at a time. Together. If we don’t like the look of it, we come back and try the next. We conserve water. We don’t overexert. We don’t panic.”

 

Gialaus eyed the sloping, flooded path. “That one’s already a ‘no’ from me.”

 

“Same,” muttered Maldovin. “I like my ankles dry.”

 

Lemenai raised a hand. “The smooth one looks almost… used. Maybe trafficked?”

 

“Or it’s too clean,” Uloan added. “Man-made, maybe. Could be a trap.”

 

Odysseus sucked in a breath, nostrils flaring. “We start left. The smooth one. Keep your eyes sharp, weapons ready, and for gods’ sakes—if you see anything move, you speak.”

 

He paused, turning to all of them in the low gloom. “We get out of this together. Or we don’t get out at all.”

 

The others exchanged glances, then nodded.

 

The tunnel narrowed at first, forcing them into a cramped line, shoulders brushing cold stone. But after several minutes of cautious, creaking footsteps, it widened just enough to allow them a semblance of comfort. The floor beneath their boots remained smooth— too smooth. Like something had deliberately worn it down over time.

 

Odysseus kept his hand on the hilt of his dagger, glancing back occasionally to check the group. Maldovin just behind him, sword drawn. Gialaus stayed in the middle with the medical kit and a nervous look. Uloan took up the rear, eyes sharp and broad shoulders tense. Lemenai bounced slightly ahead of Odysseus, seemingly unbothered despite the eerie quiet.

 

Until something moved .

 

A blur of motion near the edge of the tunnel. Low to the ground. Fast.

 

Lemenai froze.

 

Then shrieked— actually shrieked , like a kicked bird.

 

“ WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? ”

 

Odysseus snapped forward and shoved him back on reflex, pushing the younger man behind him and drawing his dagger in one motion. “What? Where?”

 

“There!!” Lemenai pointed violently, almost knocking Gialaus over. “It—it—it RAN! It was—It was— mushroom-shaped! ”

 

Uloan squinted. “Did you just say mushroom-shaped ?”

 

Maldovin stepped cautiously forward. “Wait, I see it. No— them .”

 

From the shadowed wall, the flicker of movement came again. Something small, maybe the size of a loaf of bread, darted into view—then another, slightly larger, bounding beside it on two stumpy legs.

 

It was a mushroom.

 

A running, squeaking mushroom.

 

Several of them, in fact. All scampering toward a crevice in the wall like a parade of fungal rabbits.

 

There was a moment of stunned silence as they all watched them disappear into the stone.

 

Odysseus blinked slowly. “You screamed. At mushrooms.”

 

“They were running !” Lemenai clutched his chest dramatically. “I wasn’t prepared!”

 

Maldovin groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re in a dark, probably cursed cave, and your line of defense is shrieking at mycology on legs .”

 

“They were unnatural!” Lemenai protested, voice cracking.

 

“They were adorable,” Gialaus muttered with mild offense.

 

“Don’t touch them,” Odysseus said, waving for silence. “No mushrooms. No talking mushrooms. No glowing mushrooms. No cute mushrooms. Just—no mushrooms.”

 

“Sounds like someone’s afraid of fungi,” Lemenai grumbled.

 

“I’m afraid of dying from inhaling spores and vomiting out my own liver , thank you very much,” Odysseus hissed back.

 

Uloan chuckled lowly from the back. “I’m not saying I agree with the kid, but those things moved faster than my cousin’s goat.”

 

“Don’t compare mushrooms to goats, I’m trying to focus,” Odysseus muttered.

 

Still grumbling, he turned his eyes back down the tunnel. The mushroom parade had vanished—but the path ahead was still open. Still too clean. Still silent again.

 

“Let’s keep going,” he said under his breath. “And this time—no screaming unless something tries to eat you.”

 

Lemenai lifted his chin defiantly. “If one jumps on me, I’m lighting it on fire.”

 

“No fire either,” Gialaus groaned.

 

They moved forward again. Deeper into the dark.

 

Behind them, the faintest squeak echoed from the wall.

 

They had barely taken ten more cautious steps before Maldovin broke the silence, squinting back toward the crevice where the mushrooms had disappeared.

 

“…They looked edible,” he muttered.

 

Odysseus stopped walking so fast he nearly tripped. He turned, eyes narrowing with something between exhaustion and disgust. “What.”

 

Maldovin shrugged with maddening calm, sword resting lazily on one shoulder. “I’m just saying. They looked fleshy. Like those spongy ones that grow under old trees in the wet season. Bet they taste like roasted marrow.”

 

“They had legs ,” Odysseus snapped. “ Legs , Maldovin.”

 

“And?” he replied flatly. “Crabs have legs. Deer have legs. Doesn’t stop me from eating those. ”

 

Lemenai gawked. “You’d eat something that squeaked and ran like a toddler?”

 

“If I’m hungry enough? Yes.”

 

“You’re disgusting,” Gialaus said without emotion.

 

“I’m practical,” Maldovin replied, eyeing the wall again. “I’m not saying I’d chase one down, but if it stopped running and just sat there… I wouldn’t not consider it.”

 

Odysseus dragged a hand down his face. “Gods. I’m trapped underground with mushroom-screamers and a man who wants to cook sentient cave mold. ”

 

“They weren’t sentient,” Maldovin said.

 

“They had eyes. ”

 

“Maybe it was just a birth defect.”

 

“Birth defect?!”

 

Uloan cleared his throat loudly. “Are we really debating mushroom morality right now? We fell into a sinkhole. We don’t even know how deep it goes.”

 

“Exactly,” Odysseus said, throwing up a hand. “Which is why we are not eating the local wildlife, no matter how edible it looks. ”

 

“I’m just saying,” Maldovin muttered again, smirking faintly, “if it comes between starving or a nice sautéed sprinting fungus…”

 

Lemenai cut in. “If you try to fry a mushroom that screams, I will cry.”

 

“Duly noted,” Maldovin deadpanned.

 

Odysseus took a long, slow breath through his nose, hands on his hips, before turning back around. “You’re all hopeless. Move. Before he decides to start licking the cave walls to see if they’re edible too.”

 

They continued on, boots echoing softly on the stone.

 

Behind them, from somewhere unseen, another soft squeak echoed in the dark. Maldovin muttered, “I bet the little ones are tender.”

 

They walked for what felt like an eternity—time was loose and slippery down in the dark, where their only sense of movement came from the sound of footfalls and the faint scrape of Maldovin’s sword against his belt. No sunlight, no wind, just that oppressive silence that made it feel like the stone itself was holding its breath.

 

Until they saw it.

 

Lemenai stopped first. “Wait. What…?”

 

A small shape appeared at the end of the narrow tunnel. At first, it looked like a shadow—or maybe a rock—until it tilted its head. Two wide eyes glinted faintly in the gloom. A soft tail wagged once. Twice.

 

It was a puppy.

 

A tiny, short-legged little thing, almost comically fluffy, sitting perfectly still in the middle of the dead end. Its fur was too clean. Its eyes too wide. Its smile too… deliberate.

 

Odysseus stopped dead. “Absolutely not.”

 

“What?” Lemenai blinked. “But it’s a puppy.”

 

“Nope. I don’t care. No. This is textbook fuckery. ”

 

Maldovin narrowed his eyes. “That’s a dog.”

 

“Exactly. A dog. Down here. In a sinkhole. At the end of a goddamn dead-end tunnel. Ask yourselves: How? ”

 

Uloan tilted his head. “Could’ve fallen in.”

 

“And stayed alive? Clean? Sitting perfectly still like a statue? Tail wagging like it’s trying to lure us into a false sense of security?”

 

“It’s… pretty cute,” Lemenai offered cautiously.

 

“Cute things KILL, Lemenai.”

 

“It’s literally just sitting there,” Gialaus muttered, skeptical but intrigued.

 

“That’s how it starts, ” Odysseus hissed, taking a firm step backward. “First it looks innocent. Then someone reaches out, 'aww, who’s a good boy,’ and BAM—everyone’s paralyzed or dead or hallucinating their grandma screaming at them in ancient Thracian.”

 

Maldovin squinted harder at it. “…Does it have human teeth?”

 

Odysseus immediately turned around.

 

“NOPE. Nope. Not doing this. I know what this is. I’ve heard stories. I’ve told stories. This is how people get turned into stone or fungus or trapped in hell forever while a puppy sings lullabies in your voice. I am not playing this game.”

 

“It might be harmless,” Uloan offered weakly.

 

“Great,” Odysseus snapped. “Then it can be harmless alone, while we walk the other direction at full speed with our heads still attached.”

 

The puppy tilted its head again.

 

Its mouth slowly opened. A long, low, gurgling sound echoed off the stone walls.

 

Odysseus didn’t wait for the others to agree. He turned on his heel and began marching the other way, muttering curses in several dialects.

 

Lemenai followed with a yelp. “Yeah okay nevermind I hate it I hate it I hate it—”

 

“Why does it sound like it’s gargling blood?” Gialaus whispered.

 

Maldovin gave one last glance, raised a brow at the thing, and muttered, “Should’ve brought a leash.” Then he turned to follow the others.

 

Behind them, the puppy didn’t move.

 

But it kept smiling.

 

They were walking fast now—faster than they probably should’ve in unfamiliar underground tunnels—but Odysseus was not slowing down.

 

“Alright,” he said, voice sharp and hand gesturing wildly as he paced ahead. “Listen and memorize, because I’m only saying this once and I swear if one of you ignores this and gets eaten by a mushroom or possessed by a toddler-shaped demon, I will say ‘I told you so’ over your corpse.”

 

Uloan snorted. “Is this the survival speech again?”

 

“Yes. But this is the specific subset of it. Lesson thirty-seven: If something looks cute and harmless, it is NOT. ”

 

“C’mon,” Gialaus muttered. “You’re saying nothing cute is ever safe?”

 

“No,” Odysseus snapped. “Not unless it’s Lemenai. ”

 

Lemenai, walking just behind him, blinked. “Wait, what?”

 

Odysseus half-turned, pointing a finger without missing a step. “ You’re the exception. You are a stupid little mutt of a man with a grin like sunshine and the IQ of a carrot and yet somehow you’ve never tried to eat a soul gem or touch a cursed relic or pet a literal haunted goat. I trust you. You’re dumb but you’re predictable. ”

 

Lemenai grinned proudly. “Aw.”

 

“Everyone else ,” Odysseus continued, waving his arms like a furious schoolteacher, “needs to understand: if it blinks too slowly, if it smiles too wide, if it just sits there and waits for you to come closer, you turn around and leave it the hell alone!”

 

Maldovin scratched his jaw. “So your rule is: trust nothing adorable… unless it’s this guy?” He nodded to Lemenai.

 

“Yes. Because if Lemenai were secretly some horrific monster in disguise, we’d be dead by now. He doesn’t have the brain cells to keep up a ruse.”

 

“I feel like I should be offended,” Lemenai mumbled.

 

“You should be flattered,” Odysseus said, deadpan. “You’re the only cute thing I trust not to try and flay me alive. ”

 

Lemenai looked like he might cry from joy.

 

Uloan muttered under his breath, “What if the puppy really was just a puppy?”

 

Odysseus whipped around and pointed. “You volunteer to go back and test that theory, then. Let us know how long it takes to regrow your limbs after the smiling hellhound turns into a pile of fangs and swallows your bones. ”

 

No one responded.

 

They kept walking.

 

“Thought so.”

 

They veered left into the next tunnel, the one Odysseus had reluctantly decided was the least likely to kill them instantly.

 

This path was different.

 

The second they stepped in, the air changed—humid, thick, and heavy with the scent of damp moss and something vaguely sweet but rotten , like overripe fruit left too long in the sun. The walls, once rough-hewn stone, were now webbed with creeping vines and faintly glowing fungi. Something dripped steadily from the ceiling.

 

Odysseus stopped just inside and let out a slow, annoyed sigh. “Wonderful. We’ve gone from cursed dogs to a fungal jungle. This feels like a better idea already.”

 

Lemenai’s nose wrinkled. “Smells like someone’s socks after a week in the swamp.”

 

“That’s specific, ” Gialaus muttered, stepping gingerly over a glistening patch of moss. “You good?”

 

“No,” Lemenai said. “My boots are wet.”

 

“You’re not dying, you’re fine,” Odysseus called back. “Eyes up. Everything here looks like it wants to hug you and digest your skin through osmosis.”

 

Uloan had drawn his shield now, not because it’d help with spores, but because it felt better to hold something solid. “This place is too alive. Nothing should be this alive underground.”

 

They trudged in further. Vines slithered across the ground like sluggish snakes, curling around stones and bones alike. Something hissed as they passed, and Maldovin’s hand instinctively dropped to his sword.

 

“Don’t,” Odysseus muttered. “Save your steel. If we cut the wrong thing, we could release spores or gas or worse.”

 

“Worse?” Gialaus asked.

 

“Memory spores. Paralytic mist. Hallucinogenic fruit gas. I’ve read things,” Odysseus replied.

 

Maldovin groaned under his breath. “You’ve read things. Fantastic.”

 

Lemenai stepped too close to a mushroom the size of his head and yelped as it squeaked and shuddered away like a startled animal.

 

“…Okay what the fuck ,” he whispered, pressing himself against Uloan.

 

Odysseus glanced over. “Do not touch anything unless it’s on fire. And even then, ask me first.”

 

“Gods,” Maldovin muttered, looking up at the thick canopy of vines above them. “How is this even here ? It’s a cave. Where’s the sunlight?”

 

Odysseus shrugged, more annoyed than mystified. “Underground bioluminescence, enchanted roots, maybe the gods are bored and wanted to watch us squirm. Take your pick.”

 

As they kept walking, the vines began to thin just slightly, opening into a wider chamber. A faint, pulsing blue glow emanated from the far end, casting eerie shadows on the twisting flora.

 

Odysseus narrowed his eyes.

 

“…We’re getting close to something. Stay behind me.”

 

“Why?” Uloan asked.

 

Odysseus pulled his dagger and smirked grimly. “Because if I die, you’ll know not to go that way. ”

 

And with that, he marched forward—vines crackling underfoot, dagger ready, eyes sharp.

 

The others, grumbling or silently praying, followed close behind.

 

The tunnel narrowed before opening up into a cavern far taller than anything they’d seen so far. Moss clung to the towering walls, glistening with condensation. The floor sloped slightly downward, and at the far end stood an ominous sight—a massive, ancient stone wall stretching from one side of the chamber to the other. It was thick with age, crumbling in places, and slick with moss and grime.

 

But it wasn’t the wall itself that made Odysseus freeze.

 

It was the sound.

 

Drip.

Drip.

Dripdripdripdrip—

 

A steady, increasing trickle of water seeped through the cracks between the stones. The scent of damp earth and rushing water churned in the air.

 

“…That’s a dam,” Odysseus said slowly, raising a hand to stop the others. “Or was, once. Shit. That’s pressure building. That wall is holding back—gods know how much —underground flooding.”

 

Lemenai leaned in, squinting with exaggerated curiosity. “You think there’s like, fish in there? Big, creepy cave fish? Maybe one with a moustache?”

 

“Don’t touch anything,” Odysseus warned, already stepping forward. “Seriously, not a single—”

 

Clink.

 

There was a pause. A horrible pause.

 

Odysseus’ head snapped toward Lemenai.

 

The idiot had wedged his fingers under one of the looser bricks and yanked it free, brick in hand, face lit with idiotic pride. “Hey, guys, look what I—”

 

SKRRRRR-SSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

 

A low groan echoed through the chamber, like the belly of the earth itself was growling.

 

And then—

 

CRACK.

 

The dam didn’t explode. It shattered . The bricks burst outward as water, dark and roaring, surged through the opening like a beast set free after centuries of imprisonment.

 

“ RUN! ” Odysseus shrieked, his voice cracking with panic. “RUN, YOU ABSOLUTE SHIT-FOR-BRAINS —MOVE!”

 

They bolted.

 

The roar of the flood chased them, a deafening tide that ate the light behind them as it swept across the chamber.

 

Odysseus grabbed Lemenai by the collar, practically yeeting him forward. “YOU’RE GOING TO DIE FIRST, I SWEAR TO THE GODS—”

 

Maldovin barreled ahead, grabbing Gialaus by the arm while Uloan threw his shield on his back and sprinted like the tank he was.

 

“LEFT, LEFT!” Odysseus shouted, dragging them toward a side tunnel—a narrow crack barely wide enough for them to squeeze through.

 

The water shrieked closer.

 

Odysseus shoved Lemenai through first, then Gialaus, Maldovin, Uloan—

 

And then, with the tide nearly on him, he dove into the tunnel just as the wave slammed against the stone behind them, splintering the wall and howling in its rage.

 

Darkness swallowed them.

 

Everything stank of wet moss, fear, and Lemenai’s deeply deserved regret.

 

Somewhere behind them, the dam was no more.

 

Water dripped from their hair, their clothes, their boots— everything soaked and clinging, the roar of the flood now a distant echo behind them as they lay gasping in the cramped, narrow tunnel.

 

Odysseus slowly pushed himself upright, hair plastered to his cheeks, eyes blazing as he turned toward Lemenai.

 

“You—absolute— godsdamned—cretin, ” he hissed, pointing a furious, shaking finger at him. “What part of ‘don’t touch anything’ translates to ‘let me yank a BRICK out of a DAM?!’”

 

Lemenai sat soaked and shivering, wide-eyed and sheepish, his wet curls stuck to his forehead like a scolded child. “I didn’t know it would—break…”

 

“ That’s the POINT of a dam! ” Odysseus barked. “It holds water! WATER YOU RELEASED LIKE A—A— fucking archaeologically illiterate goat! ”

 

Uloan, still wringing out his tunic, snapped a glare at Lemenai too. “And now we’re stuck in gods-know-where with nothing but soaked socks and a baker’s wrath. What next, you gonna lick a cave frog? Start a rock avalanche by sneezing?”

 

“I said I was sorry…” Lemenai mumbled miserably.

 

“Oh, you’re going to be so sorry,” Odysseus growled. “When we get back, you’re baking forty loaves of olive bread. And I’m eating none of them. They’re all going to Dahna. She knows not to yank load-bearing structures apart.”

 

Uloan nodded solemnly. “Even my six-year-old sister wouldn’t have done that. And she once tried to make soup by boiling bread and honey.”

 

Lemenai visibly wilted.

 

Then—

 

Warm arms slipped around Odysseus’ waist, and a familiar weight leaned into his back.

 

Maldovin pressed his lips lazily to the side of Odysseus’ damp neck, ignoring the mud and sweat as he mumbled, “Be nice to poor Lemmy…”

 

Odysseus froze, blinking rapidly.

 

“Maldovin,” he muttered. “Not now.”

 

“Shhh.” Another kiss. “He tried his best.”

 

“He nearly drowned us!”

 

“And he’s so cute when he’s guilty.” Maldovin peeked around Odysseus, smirking at Lemenai. “Look at those big eyes. Like a kicked puppy. A soggy, suicidal puppy.”

 

“I’m going to throttle you next,” Odysseus growled, though he made no move to break out of Maldovin’s grip. He stood there, face flushed and hair dripping, scowling into the dim as Maldovin just swayed slightly behind him, arms firm around his waist.

 

“…He is cute when he’s guilty,” Uloan admitted with a snort.

 

“I hate all of you,” Odysseus muttered.

 

“No you don’t,” Maldovin said sweetly, nuzzling his ear. “You love us. Especially me.”

 

“…I should’ve drowned,” Odysseus said. “That would’ve been simpler.”

 

Lemenai sniffled from the ground. “I said I was sor—”

 

“ Forty loaves! ” Odysseus snapped again, jabbing a finger at him. “ And you’re washing my cloak!”

 

Maldovin giggled into his neck.

 

Uloan just sighed and sat back against the wall. “Gods, we’re all going to die here and it’s gonna be Lemenai’s fault.”

 

Lemenai froze.

 

It wasn’t Odysseus’ threats, or Maldovin’s teasing, or even Uloan’s grim resignation that did it—it was the sound. A wet, clicking scrape, like claws dragging along stone. It echoed once. Then again. Closer.

 

His soaked curls stood on end. He didn’t breathe.

 

“Do you hear—” he whispered.

 

Odysseus spun on him. “Lemenai, if you’re about to say you hear water again— ”

 

Click.

 

Too close.

 

Lemenai’s hand flew to the arrow tucked into his belt. His breath hitched. He turned sharply toward the rightmost edge of the tunnel—there, half-shrouded in the gloom.

 

The shape emerged like a corpse clawing from a grave. Bone-thin, its limbs too long, skin stretched tight and gray over a jagged skeleton. Its eyes—if they could be called that—were pits. Hollow and sunken. The jaw hung open in a too-wide, leering grin.

 

A ghoul.

 

Lemenai didn’t think.

 

He let the arrow fly.

 

It whistled through the air and slammed into the creature’s throat. The ghoul gave a gurgling screech—high and horrible—and staggered back, clawing at the shaft as dark ichor spilled over its chest.

 

“WHAT THE FUCK—” Odysseus shouted, whirling just in time to see the creature recoil into the shadows.

 

“Ghoul— fucking ghoul!” Lemenai shrieked.

 

“I saw it,” Uloan barked, shield snapping up, eyes scanning the dark. “It’s not alone. Things like that never hunt alone.”

 

“Gods below,” Gialaus muttered, scrambling to his feet, clutching the medical kit like it could fend off evil.

 

Maldovin had already drawn his sword. “Lemenai,” he said, his voice suddenly low and serious, “good shot. Stay behind me.”

 

Odysseus grabbed his dagger, eyes scanning the gloom. “They’re attracted to warmth. Smell. Noise.” His voice was tight. Cold. “If we’re lucky, that was just a scout.”

 

“Do we look lucky?!” Lemenai hissed.

 

The tunnel was darker now. Quieter. The thing had fled.

 

But not far.

 

The echoes returned—more claws on stone. More limbs dragging, skittering, scraping forward.

 

“Back to back,” Odysseus ordered. “Circle formation. Now.”

 

They pressed close, weapons up, soaked and shivering and terrified.

 

“Well,” Maldovin muttered, glancing around, “at least something finally agrees with Kallias about splitting up being a bad idea.”

 

“Shut. Up,” Odysseus hissed, heart pounding.

 

Behind them, Lemenai slowly reached for another arrow. His hands were shaking.

 

But his eyes were sharp.

 

Odysseus’s eyes darted toward the passage behind them, breath shallow and fast. The walls felt like they were pressing in—closer now, crawling with the sounds of things that should’ve stayed buried.

 

“I saw another hall,” he said quickly, voice low but cutting through the rising tension like a blade. “A few pous back—just past the mossy arch. If we’re fast, we can reach it before these bastards close in.”

 

“A dead end like the last one?” Gialaus asked, voice strained.

 

“No,” Odysseus snapped. “This one turned. Downward. It might lead deeper, but it’ll get us out of the open.”

 

Uloan grunted. “You want us to run toward the deeper dark?”

 

“I want us to not die here , you brick-headed ox,” Odysseus snarled, stepping forward. “Uloan, you’re on point. You’ve got the shield. You can clear a path.”

 

Uloan gave a grim nod, adjusting the battered shield on his arm. “I’ll get us through.”

 

“I’ll cover the rear,” Odysseus said, already moving into position. “If something lunges, I’ll buy you time.”

 

“No,” Maldovin said sharply, spinning toward him. “ No , you are not—”

 

“Maldovin,” Odysseus said tightly, “you have the sword. If I fall, you take over. You protect them.”

 

Maldovin’s jaw locked, muscles clenching like he wanted to argue more—but one look into Odysseus’ eyes silenced him. The kind of look a man wears when he’s done the math. When he’s already accepted what has to be done.

 

“I hate you,” Maldovin muttered under his breath. “You absolute fucking mule.”

 

“I know,” Odysseus said dryly, backing up into position.

 

“Are we doing this or dying here?” Uloan barked, glancing behind him. “Because I can smell more of them coming.”

 

“Go!” Odysseus snapped.

 

They broke formation.

 

Uloan surged forward, shield first, bull-like and unflinching as he barreled into the passage. Lemenai and Gialaus followed close behind, the former clutching another arrow, the latter still gripping the medical kit like a shield.

 

Maldovin was at their backs, eyes flicking between Odysseus and the dark behind them, sword raised and teeth bared.

 

Odysseus turned once more, scanning the shadows as they flickered with movement—limbs twitching, claws dragging, grins too wide.

 

He bared his teeth and whispered to the dark, “Come on then.”

 

And ran .

 

Boots pounded against stone and splashed through puddles as the five of them charged down the hall like headless chickens. Odysseus darted glances over his shoulder, barking directions that nobody was listening to, because Lemenai had screamed again and veered left instead of right , and Uloan followed him like a freight cart with no brakes.

 

“This is the wrong way!” Odysseus shouted.

 

“It’s a way !” Lemenai shouted back.

 

Gialaus tripped on a wet patch, recovered with a shriek, and kept running, half-dragged by Maldovin, who was trying very hard to not slice off his own allies in the chaos.

 

They turned another corner. Another. A third.

 

“THIS IS A CIRCLE—WE’RE BACK WHERE WE STARTED!” Odysseus roared, skidding to a stop and grabbing Lemenai by the collar. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING ?!”

 

“I panicked!” Lemenai yelped, eyes wide. “They were so gross ! Their teeth—!”

 

“THEIR TEETH ARE CLOSER NOW!”

 

“I NOTICED!”

 

Behind them, the ghouls were gaining—skittering over walls, snarling, wet footprints slapping against stone. One lunged—

 

And then Uloan punched it in the face with his shield and screamed .

 

“YOU WANNA GO?! FIGHT ME, YOU SPINELESS MUSHROOM RAT!”

 

It hissed .

 

Odysseus blinked, then let out a strange, wild laugh. “You know what? Fine! New plan!”

 

“What?” Maldovin shouted.

 

“We chase them ! We go feral ! That’s the plan now!”

 

Lemenai blinked. “Are we allowed to do that?!”

 

“WE’RE THE GODDAMN HEROES!” Odysseus barked. “WE SET THE RULES!”

 

With a battle cry that was equal parts frustration, chaos, and sheer pettiness, Odysseus turned and charged the ghouls .

 

And to everyone’s disbelief—the ghouls panicked . One tripped over another, they scrambled to scatter, and suddenly the entire situation reversed.

 

Gialaus flung his medical kit like a grenade.

 

Lemenai threw a stick with righteous fury.

 

Uloan started yelling war cries in his mother tongue while chasing one with a brick.

 

“Why is this working ?!” Maldovin shouted.

 

“DON’T QUESTION IT!” Odysseus yelled, elbowing a ghoul as it scrambled up a wall.

 

Finally— finally —after one particularly pissed-off ghoul skidded around a corner and vanished into a crack in the wall, the five of them stumbled into a wide stone chamber. The air shifted. Cold, but still. The ghouls didn’t follow.

 

A thick iron door stood half-ajar, marked with sigils they didn’t understand, and a glow came from beneath it.

 

Safe.

 

Maybe.

 

Odysseus slammed it shut and braced against it, panting. “Nobody… say anything… I swear…”

 

“I think we won,” Lemenai wheezed.

 

“We ran in circles and then chased them !” Gialaus cried.

 

Maldovin leaned against the wall, rubbing his face. “I have no idea what just happened.”

 

“I do,” Uloan grunted. “We’re idiots. But we’re alive.” He looked at Lemenai. “Don’t touch any more bricks. ”

 

Lemenai gave a meek thumbs up.

 

Odysseus slid down to sit on the ground, hair falling loose around his face. “I hate this cave. I hate these stairs. I hate you all. But mostly Lemenai.”

 

“I didn’t even touch a ghoul,” Lemenai muttered.

 

“Exactly,” Odysseus growled. “Useless.”

 

“Hey!” Lemenai protested.

 

Odysseus didn’t respond. He was too busy looking around the room again. That glow wasn’t just magic—it was warmth. A hearth?

 

Something ahead.

 

Something old.

 

Something maybe worth it.

Chapter 29: 🌺﹒Found，⟢

Odysseus stepped forward without thinking, putting himself in front of the others, arm instinctively spread just enough to edge them back. His gaze was locked on the strange warm light trickling from the cracks beneath the ancient iron door. It shouldn’t have been warm. Not here. Not now.

 

His boots squelched faintly on the damp stone, and he felt something drip against his cheek.

 

He reached up, wiped it, and grimaced.

 

The dye in his hair was melting—slowly running down his neck and temple with each bead of sweat.

 

Shit.

 

Shitshitshit—

 

He touched the roots of his hair. Pale brown, fading into dark—no longer uniform black. If anyone with the wrong eyes saw it—

 

He shook it off. One crisis at a time.

 

He crouched near the cracked door and tilted his head just enough to peek inside.

 

And stopped breathing.

 

There, at the center of the room beyond the door, was a hearth. Old, impossibly old, but still burning. The flames were small, yet steady—crackling gently as though fed by unseen breath.

 

Before it sat a woman.

 

Her legs were folded beneath her like a priestess, her back unnaturally still. Her long, brown hair fell like a curtain over her face—but her fingers… Odysseus saw them, trembled as he did. Her fingertips were blackened, charred to the knuckles, and pressed tightly over her closed eyes. As though she were keeping herself from seeing.

 

A whisper clawed up his throat.

 

“…Aidios Hestia.”

 

It wasn’t a question.

 

It was horror.

 

His stomach dropped. His hands felt ice-cold despite the warmth in the room. Of all the people he could find—of all the gods to see here—it had to be her ?

 

She turned her head.

 

Not fully.

 

Just enough that her face shifted out from behind that curtain of hair, and—

 

Odysseus’ lungs seized.

 

She looked inhuman.

 

Her skin was ashen white, glowing faintly like pale embers under porcelain. Her lips were split, the corners singed as if she had tried to swallow fire and smiled through the agony. Her eyes—when she lowered her hands—

 

Were glowing pits of dying coals.

 

She wasn’t blinking.

 

She wasn’t breathing.

 

She was watching.

 

“…Hatchling,” she said softly. The voice didn’t echo—it hummed. As though the stones themselves remembered the taste of her name. “So… far from your den.”

 

Odysseus didn’t speak.

 

He couldn’t.

 

Behind him, Lemenai whispered, “What’s wrong? Who is it?”

 

Odysseus raised one shaking hand and hissed, “ Don’t. Talk.”

 

He looked back toward her.

 

Hestia hadn’t moved.

 

She didn’t need to.

 

Her flame was already crawling toward him.

 

Lemenai shifted behind him, brow furrowed in confusion. “Kallias, who—?”

 

Odysseus didn’t answer. His whole body was taut, like a bow drawn to the edge of breaking. The hairs on his arms were standing. The air was too warm, too thick —as if the smoke curling from that room was wrapping around his neck, coaxing him forward.

 

Uloan grunted and reached out. “Move aside, I wanna see—”

 

Odysseus shoved his arm back without even looking.

 

“ Don’t. ”

 

The word wasn’t loud.

 

It was razor-sharp.

 

It cut through the confusion and heat like a blade, made even Gialaus flinch. Uloan’s eyes narrowed, more confused than offended. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

 

But then—

 

They heard it.

 

A giggle.

 

Soft.

 

Delicate.

 

So wrong.

 

It slipped out from behind the half-open door like a breeze across a grave. Faint and giddy—like a child stifling laughter behind her hands. It danced between the stones and echoed off the dripping walls, wrapping around their ankles, clinging to their ears.

 

Lemenai went pale. “What the fuck was that.”

 

“She’s laughing,” Gialaus said quietly, as if confirming it would undo it. “Why is she laughing—?”

 

Another giggle.

 

Then a whisper .

 

“Ohh, Hatchling…” the voice sing-songed. “You brought playthings.”

 

Odysseus took a half-step back. “Don’t move,” he muttered. “Don’t speak. Don’t look. ”

 

Maldovin was watching him now with narrowed eyes, arms folded. “Who is she?” he asked, voice low. “Kallias who is that?”

 

Odysseus didn’t answer.

 

Because he didn’t know.

 

Because this wasn’t a regular god. Not really.

 

Because if he opened his mouth and said her name again, he was afraid she’d crawl inside it and take his breath for good.

 

Odysseus took a slow, steadying breath, ignoring the weight in his chest as he tilted his head to peek inside the chamber again.

 

Gone.

 

The room was empty.

 

Where she’d been just a moment before—where those scorched fingers had hovered, where that laughter had coiled around his ribs like a snake—there was nothing now. Only soot-blackened stone, a low fire crackling in a pit of ash, and the heavy silence of a place that had just been vacated .

 

Odysseus exhaled shakily.

 

"...She's gone," he said, forcing a dry, humorless chuckle from his throat. "Great. Fantastic. Let’s just pretend that didn’t happen.”

 

He turned, rubbing a hand over his face and trying to paste on a half-hearted smirk, but Lemenai was already grabbing his sleeve, wide-eyed and pale.

 

“Kallias, what the fuck was that?” Lemenai demanded, voice trembling. “Why were you so freaked out—why didn’t you want us to look?”

 

“I wasn’t freaked out,” Odysseus said flatly, tugging his sleeve back. “You were freaked out. You screamed at a mushroom.”

 

“That was a terrifying mushroom, ” Lemenai snapped, still holding onto him.

 

Maldovin’s arms crossed over his chest, brows drawn low. “You recognized her.”

 

“No, I didn’t.”

 

“Kallias.”

 

Odysseus waved him off. “We’re underground. There’s probably mold in the air. Hallucinations. Let’s just find another tunnel and—”

 

“You looked like you’d seen a ghost,” Gialaus said quietly. “And you shoved Uloan. You never shove Uloan. He’s too big. It’s suicidal.”

 

Uloan grunted in agreement.

 

“I said she’s gone,” Odysseus muttered, straining to keep the edge from his voice. “That’s all that matters.”

 

“No, Kallias,” Maldovin said, stepping in front of him. “What matters is you didn’t answer a single question. What. Was. That?”

 

The firelight cast sharp shadows over his cheekbones. He wasn’t letting this go. None of them were.

 

Odysseus gave a pained smile. “Some crazy blind chick playing mind games. You want a name? Call her Hysteria. Now can we keep moving before the mushrooms come back?”

 

But none of them laughed.

 

Lemenai still hadn’t let go of his sleeve.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

In the shadows of the crumbling chamber, behind stone cracks too thin for any mortal eye, Hestia watched.

 

Oh, she watched .

 

Her head was tilted like a curious bird’s, long brown hair veiling the places where her eyes should have been—burnt-out sockets cloaked in soot and old firelight. Her fingertips, blackened and split, flexed gently as though remembering the warmth of the hearth… or the sensation of someone’s fear brushing against her skin.

 

That boy.

 

That clever little mouse.

 

Her smile widened, warm and crooked and just slightly too wide to be natural.

 

“Athena’s hatchling?” she whispered to herself, swaying slightly with delight. “So far from home? My, my…”

 

Her voice was a sing-song hush, no louder than a breeze curling under a doorframe. She pressed her ruined fingers to her lips in amusement, giggling behind them.

 

He had grown up so sharp. So sweet. So spiced. Hestia adored spiced things.

 

She crouched in the dark, her long limbs folded neatly beneath her, her burnt mouth pulled into a delighted, thoughtful grin.

 

“He hides himself well,” she murmured. “So clever. So careful. But oh, little one… you should not be here.”

 

The smile didn’t fade. Her singed fingers traced an invisible pattern through the air, her body flickering faintly in and out of visibility as the firelight from the main chamber shifted.

 

“You’ve wandered far, little ember,” she crooned. “Does she know? Your grey-eyed mother? Does she know you’re playing among my ashes?”

 

She laughed again, high and musical and wrong in its echo. Not malicious. Not cruel. Just… off.

 

And yet, there was affection in it.

 

“…I’ll keep watching,” she whispered. “Until you burn.”

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Odysseus’ breath quickened, each inhale feeling like a weight crushing his chest. His body was stiff, locked in place, eyes fixed on the empty space where Hestia had just been. That laugh —her voice ringing in his ears—was like a knife turning in his gut. It wasn’t right. None of this was right.

 

His mind raced, thoughts splintering in a thousand directions, colliding and tangling into a mess of pure panic.

 

Will she tell Athena?

 

His heart hammered in his chest, every beat loud in his ears, drowning out the world around him. The others were too caught up in their own confusion to notice, still glancing around with wide eyes, but Odysseus—Kallias, he reminded himself—couldn’t stop his trembling hands from betraying him.

 

Athena. The thought of her… No, no, no .

 

What if Hestia had seen enough? What if she decided to go running straight to her? Athena would— Athena would know .

 

No. No, he couldn’t go back there. He couldn’t face her again. Not after everything. The idea of being back in her grasp —back under that watchful, calculating gaze—it made his stomach twist. He wasn’t ready to be swallowed up by that world again.

 

His breath faltered, the weight of the thought pressing against his lungs. He fought to steady himself, forcing his body not to shake as the panic threatened to rise. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn’t supposed to be here, in this place, with these people, with these memories creeping in.

 

He clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles cracked, grounding himself in the pain. He had to breathe. Just breathe. Calm down.

 

But what if Hestia decided to warn Athena? What if she was already on her way to do so? He couldn’t keep running, not forever. He couldn’t outrun Athena. He couldn’t hide from her.

 

His head spun.

 

But maybe… maybe she wouldn’t tell her . Maybe Hestia was just playing with him, having fun, like a child with a new toy. But then again, he didn’t know Hestia. He didn’t understand what she wanted, what she would do next. Would she let him slip away?

 

He could already feel his chest tightening again, the panic creeping back like the slow, steady tide. His vision blurred for a second, as if the walls themselves were closing in on him.

 

“ Kallias? ”

 

Lemenai’s voice broke through his spiraling thoughts, and Odysseus’ head snapped up, his heart leaping into his throat as he realized the others were looking at him. Their faces were filled with concern, suspicion lingering in the air.

 

But he had to play it cool. He had to.

 

“Y-Yeah?” he croaked, his voice much more fragile than he intended.

 

Uloan raised an eyebrow, and Gialaus stepped forward, his medical kit still in hand. “You good, man? You look like you saw a ghost.”

 

Odysseus forced a smile, though it felt too tight, too forced. “Yeah. Yeah, just... tired, I guess.”

 

Maldovin shot him a sideways glance but didn’t push. “Right,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders, “Well, let’s get moving then. No time for resting.”

 

But Odysseus didn’t hear him. His mind was still reeling, still trapped in the same spiral. What if Athena did find out? What if everything fell apart?

 

He couldn’t let it happen.

 

“Let’s just go,” he managed to say, his voice shaky but resolute. “We’re not safe here. We need to keep moving.”

 

The group stood there, their breaths shallow and quick, eyes scanning the narrow, dark passageway before them. It was barely large enough for a single person to squeeze through, the jagged edges of the stone surrounding it making it look more like a crack in the wall than a true opening.

 

Odysseus' mind was still swirling with the anxiety over Hestia’s possible intentions, his body tense, but he forced his gaze to the small gap in the wall. The air in the cavern felt thick, heavy, and he knew they couldn’t stay here much longer. 

 

They had to move forward, but the only viable path was the one that didn’t seem to lead anywhere—just further into darkness.

 

He looked at the others, eyes narrowing as he considered the situation.

 

Uloan, broad and stocky, grumbled, glancing down at the gap. “There’s no way I’m fitting in there. I’d need to suck in my stomach for hours just to even try.”

 

Gialaus, too, shook his head. “Not happening. Too wide of shoulders.” He glanced at Maldovin, who raised an eyebrow at the small hole, as if it was some cruel joke fate had thrown their way.

 

“Looks like it’s up to you two,” Maldovin said, his tone a mix of dry humor and resignation. He had no intention of squeezing himself through such a tight space, and he certainly wasn’t going to ask Uloan or Gialaus to try.

 

Odysseus swallowed. He could feel his nerves start to coil again, but he knew this was their best shot. He glanced over at Lemenai, who stood at his side, tapping his foot impatiently.

 

Lemenai’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’m definitely going through. You coming with me?”

 

Odysseus hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. It’s the only option we have. If we don’t make it through, then we’re stuck here.”

 

Lemenai grinned. “Yeah, yeah, that’s the spirit! Come on, old man. Let’s see if you can fit through there.”

 

The tension in Odysseus' shoulders loosened just a little. “Old man? I’m not much older than you, you little brat.”

 

Lemenai shot him a look, one that was almost endearing, despite the teasing. “We’ll see about that.”

 

Odysseus sighed, not even bothering to argue. He was too tired for it. He moved toward the gap, eyeing it carefully before deciding to go first. The opening looked narrow, but it was tall enough for him to duck his head and crawl through. 

 

He sucked in a breath and tried to calm his mind, pushing past the dread and anxiety. They needed to move forward, to get out of this maze.

 

Lemenai was already bouncing around impatiently beside him, eager to get through. “Let’s go, let’s go, Kallias! Don’t slow me down.”

 

Odysseus shot him a brief, tired glance. “I’m not slowing you down, just trying to avoid getting stuck,” he muttered under his breath.

 

As he crouched low, squeezing through the narrow opening, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just one of the many strange twists in this bizarre journey. First Hestia, now this—what else was there waiting for them?

 

He felt his muscles strain as he crawled through the opening, and then, with a final push, he emerged on the other side, stumbling into another dimly lit passageway. His breath was shallow, but he was through. He looked back at Lemenai, who was already there, grinning like he had won a race.

 

“Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Lemenai asked, brushing off his knees and grinning.

 

Odysseus chuckled despite himself, his anxiety still gnawing at him, but feeling slightly lighter now that they were moving again. “You’re an idiot, but sure. Let’s keep moving.”

 

They both glanced back toward the others, still waiting behind, their figures barely visible in the low light. Odysseus could hear them muttering to each other, no doubt discussing their options for getting through.

 

“We’re going to be okay,” Odysseus muttered to himself, even though he wasn’t entirely sure he believed it.

 

But there was no turning back now. They’d come this far, and there was no other choice but to keep pushing forward.

 

As Odysseus and Lemenai started moving down the narrow passage, the air grew damp, the walls slick with condensation. The ground beneath their feet, once firm and reliable, had begun to feel slippery. 

 

Odysseus took careful, measured steps, but Lemenai—ever the enthusiastic idiot—had other plans.

 

“Watch your step, Lemenai,” Odysseus muttered under his breath, eyes scanning the ground ahead, the wet stone making every step feel like it could give way at any moment. 

 

He was still adjusting to the change in terrain, his heart racing from the constant worry that something could go wrong. It was a long, winding tunnel, with shadows playing tricks on him and every step feeling heavier than the last.

 

Lemenai, however, was charging ahead with his usual reckless energy, grinning as he practically skipped along the slick floor. “What? It’s just a little water, Kallias. What’s the worst that could—”

 

In the blink of an eye, his foot slipped. A sharp gasp escaped his mouth as his balance failed him. His arms flailed out in a desperate attempt to grab onto anything, but it was too late. With a loud, surprised huff, Lemenai lost his footing entirely, his feet skidding out from under him.

 

"Shit!" he cursed, and before Odysseus could react, Lemenai collided with him, yanking him down in the process. The two of them tumbled onto the slick stone, their bodies crashing into the wet ground with a loud thud . Odysseus grunted as his chest hit the ground first, followed by Lemenai’s weight on top of him.

 

There was a moment of stunned silence before Lemenai burst out laughing. “Well... that wasn’t the plan, but hey, at least we’re both down here now.”

 

Odysseus groaned, pushing himself up slightly to lift Lemenai off of him. “You are an idiot, you know that?”

 

Lemenai didn’t even seem remotely bothered, still chuckling as he helped Odysseus up. “You’re just mad ‘cause I got you down here with me. Come on, Kallias, it’s not that bad.”

 

Odysseus gave him an exasperated look, rubbing his neck where it had slammed into the cold stone. “You just pulled me down with you, Lemenai. That’s not exactly my idea of a good time.”

 

Lemenai straightened up, brushing off his tunic, the grin still plastered across his face. “I think I’m just lucky. You could’ve been worse off, but now you’ve got me to catch you.” He winked dramatically, arms out in a show of exaggerated balance.

 

Odysseus let out a sigh, shaking his head as he grabbed Lemenai’s hand to pull him up. His nerves were still on edge, but at least with Lemenai, things never stayed too heavy for long.

 

“Focus, alright? We’ve still got a long way to go,” Odysseus muttered, wiping some of the wetness from his sleeve.

 

Lemenai tilted his head, looking him over. “Yeah, yeah, no more slipping. Promise. But, uh, are you good?”

 

Odysseus nodded, adjusting his hair, which was now damp from the fall. “I’m fine, but we should be more careful. We don’t know what’s ahead, and falling isn’t going to help anyone.”

 

Lemenai raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued but not entirely convinced. “Yeah, sure, but where’s the fun in not falling once in a while?” He gave a lighthearted shrug, his energy unchanged despite their mishap.

 

Odysseus could only shake his head in disbelief, his own anxiety kicking back in. But he knew he couldn’t waste time arguing. They were still stuck in a dangerous place, and they needed to keep moving.

 

“Let’s just—” Odysseus began, but then froze, his gaze snapping back down the passage. He felt a shiver run through him.

 

“Lemenai... listen,” Odysseus whispered, his voice suddenly low and serious. The air felt colder, the sounds of water dripping from the walls growing louder. Something was different.

 

Lemenai’s grin faltered for a split second. “What’s up?”

 

Before Odysseus could answer, the ground beneath their feet suddenly shifted again. This time, the noise wasn’t just the wet sound of their slipping; it was something heavier, deeper, as if the entire passage was about to shift.

 

Odysseus tensed, his hand instinctively moving to the dagger at his belt. Something was coming.

 

The tension in the air thickened, the sound of shifting stone and dripping water echoing through the narrow passage.

 

Odysseus froze, his senses on high alert as he scanned the shadows ahead, but the sound soon began to fade, the unsettling shift in the earth slowly subsiding. 

 

For a moment, everything was eerily still. The only sounds left were their breathing and the distant dripping of water from somewhere deeper in the tunnel.

 

Lemenai, ever the curious one, took a few cautious steps forward. His boots slid slightly on the damp stone, but he remained steady, his eyes narrowed as he looked around, trying to make sense of the situation.

 

Odysseus stood still, his hand still hovering near his dagger. His mind raced. Was it the ground shifting again? Or something else? He couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was watching them, waiting for the right moment to strike.

 

But then Lemenai spoke, his voice quieter than usual. “Hey, Kallias... your hair. It’s—" He paused, taking a step closer. “It’s lighter. Than normal.”

 

Odysseus stiffened, his stomach sinking. He’d noticed it earlier with Hestia. Likely how she recognized him. The deep, dark brown dye he’d carefully applied earlier had started to fade, the color pulling away at the edges, revealing strands of his natural lighter brown hair beneath. 

 

His fingers twitched, and he instinctively reached up to touch his hair, though his fingers brushed against the already noticeable difference.

 

“It's nothing,” Odysseus muttered quickly, brushing it off with an almost forced laugh. “Just... probably from the water, or the damp. Doesn't matter.”

 

But Lemenai wasn’t convinced. He squinted at him, his head tilting slightly, a frown forming. “You sure? 'Cause I’ve never seen it this light before. You’re usually darker.”

 

Odysseus felt a pang of irritation, though he kept his voice steady. “It’s nothing. Just focus on the path ahead. We’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

 

Lemenai’s frown deepened, but he didn’t press the matter further. Instead, he simply gave a shrug, though there was a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. “Yeah, alright, Kallias. But don’t go hiding things from me, alright?”

 

Odysseus forced a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He couldn’t afford any more attention on his appearance—especially not now, not with Hestia watching them, and certainly not with everything else that was going wrong. 

 

The last thing he needed was for Lemenai to start suspecting something.

 

The last thing he needed was for anyone to figure out who he really was.

 

A sudden scuffling noise echoed down the narrow stone corridor—small claws pattering against wet rock.

 

Then, a blur of fur zipped past their feet.

 

Lemenai absolutely screeched .

 

“ AAAAHH!! ” he yelped, jumping backwards with an undignified flail that slammed him into the wall beside Odysseus. “ WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?! ”

 

Odysseus blinked, the sudden outburst jerking him out of his spiral. He glanced down just in time to see the blur disappear into a crack in the far wall.

 

“…It was a rat,” he deadpanned, staring at Lemenai, who was now clinging to the damp wall like it might save his life.

 

“That was NOT a rat, that was a demon rodent, ” Lemenai snapped, eyes wide. “It looked at me. With intent. ”

 

Odysseus stared at him a moment longer, then exhaled a slow, tired sigh. “It was the size of your hand, Lem. Calm down.”

 

“It was aiming for my soul, ” Lemenai insisted, brushing frantically at the legs of his trousers. “Did you see the glint in its eye? That was premeditated!”

 

Odysseus dragged a hand down his face, barely holding back the smallest twitch of a grin. “You’re lucky Uloan didn’t hear that scream. He’d never let you live it down.”

 

Lemenai huffed, finally pushing off the wall and smoothing his hair, which had gone slightly askew. “We made eye contact. I swear it knew fear wouldn’t stop me so it went for shock.”

 

Odysseus glanced back down the corridor the rat had vanished through, muttering, “We should all be so brave.”

 

Lemenai narrowed his eyes. “You know what? You can lead next time.”

 

“I am leading,” Odysseus replied dryly, stepping ahead with exaggerated grace.

 

“Yeah, and you’re doing a great job,” Lemenai muttered, falling in behind him and glaring at every dark corner with suspicion.

 

“…Demon rat,” he grumbled. “I knew it.”

 

Odysseus just kept walking, his face schooled carefully blank. But under it all, there was the faintest quirk to his mouth.

 

He did kind of miss this sort of dumb chaos.

 

They rounded a bend in the cramped tunnel—Odysseus first, Lemenai trailing close behind, mumbling about curses and shadow-rodents.

 

Then they saw it.

 

A lever.

 

Embedded into the damp wall, slick with condensation and covered in rust, with a faintly ominous glow pulsing from a carved indentation beneath it.

 

Odysseus froze. “Lemenai, don’t—”

 

Click.

 

“Lemenai,” Odysseus hissed, turning on him. “Did you just pull that?!”

 

Lemenai stood proudly, hand still on the now-lowered lever, beaming like a child who just solved a puzzle box. “Yup.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I dunno,” he said brightly. “It was just—right there. I mean, why put a lever here if no one’s supposed to pull it?”

 

“Because it’s a fucking trap, you glorified garden sprite—!”

 

The walls groaned. Somewhere far down the corridor, a deep grinding sound echoed—like stone sliding against stone, too large, too heavy. The air grew colder.

 

“Do you hear that?” Odysseus hissed, head snapping toward the sound. “That is not the sound of ‘congratulations, you win.’ That’s the sound of—of consequence! ”

 

“I think it was worth it,” Lemenai said, nodding to himself. “Mystery lever. Big noise. We’ve triggered something. It’s exciting.”

 

Odysseus stared at him. “You are why things go wrong.”

 

“I like to think I’m why things are interesting. ”

 

Another sound rumbled through the stone beneath their feet—this one like something breathing. Or maybe something waking up.

 

Odysseus slowly stepped away from the lever. “I swear to every star in the sky, if we die in here, I’m haunting you.”

 

Lemenai grinned. “Then we’ll finally have matching jewelry.”

 

“ I hate you. ”

 

“Love you too, boss.”

 

There was a sudden crack above them—followed by a rush of cold air and a low, grating grroooooaan as a large stone slab in the ceiling slid open.

 

Odysseus barely had time to shout, “Wait, wait, no—!” before—

 

THUMP.

 

THUD.

 

CRASH.

 

A rain of limbs, weapons, and grunts dropped straight from above.

 

First came Maldovin, arms flailing in sleep-stupor as he slammed down flat on his face with a muffled curse.

 

Then Uloan, who didn’t so much fall as slam down like a brick thrown off a roof, his broad body shaking the ground and knocking over Lemenai like a sapling.

 

And finally, Gialaus—graceful for half a second, and then his boot caught Uloan’s shield and he spun sideways, landing hard with an audible oof.

 

Silence.

 

Then a gasp.

 

And then—Odysseus broke. He doubled over, clutching his stomach, laughter bursting out of him so hard it echoed down the stone halls.

 

“Wh—wha— pffft —the fuck was— snrk —what was that!?”

 

Maldovin groaned and lifted his head just enough to glare at Odysseus from the ground, hair mushed against the dirt. “The fuck do you think that lever did?!”

 

Odysseus stumbled back against the wall, still laughing. “You fell —you all— pfft —like sacks of flour! ” He gestured wildly, eyes watering.

 

Uloan sat up with a grunt, rubbing the side of his head. “This is why I didn’t want to follow you into the demon hole.”

 

“I told you,” Odysseus managed between gasps, “splitting up is a bad idea! But no, let's go down the lever tunnel—!”

 

“ You said not to pull the lever!” Gialaus groaned from his back.

 

“Exactly,” Odysseus wheezed. “And yet here we are. Gravity’s bitches.”

 

Athena had spoken of this thing called “Gravity” before. 

 

Lemenai, from beneath Uloan’s leg, muffled, “Worth it.”

 

Maldovin picked himself up with a growl, stalked over to Odysseus, and tried to shove him in the shoulder, but Odysseus was still too busy laughing and just leaned into it, snickering, “I’m keeping this memory forever.”

 

Gialaus muttered, “I think I cracked a rib for your memory.”

 

“Guys—” Odysseus raised a hand, suddenly quieting. “Shh. Listen.”

 

The others fell silent.

 

Chirp. Chirp-chirp. Chirp.

 

“Crickets,” Gialaus murmured, slowly sitting up.

 

“Crickets mean air,” Uloan said, pushing to his feet with a small wince. “Crickets mean outside .”

 

Odysseus was already moving. “Go. Go! Follow the sound!”

 

The group surged forward, half-limping, half-scrambling, navigating the uneven floor and slick walls with new urgency. The sound of crickets grew louder, echoing off the stone like a promise.

 

Lemenai lit up with hope. “I knew the lever was good luck.”

 

“You are not allowed to make decisions anymore,” Odysseus barked, shoving him forward.

 

“I got us crickets! ” Lemenai shouted back.

 

“Crickets are not a valid currency for survival!”

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

The cave air was damp and cool, but the chirping of crickets echoing from somewhere up ahead gave it a strange, peaceful ambience—like a misplaced piece of nighttime lodged under the earth. Polites walked a little ahead, one hand holding a glowrock that cast a dim gold sheen over the jagged tunnel walls. His other hand brushed lightly against Eurylochus’ back every few steps, just to make sure he was still there.

 

They'd fallen in hours ago, chasing a rat. A rat. Polites sighed.

 

“Note to self,” he mumbled under his breath, voice dry and tight with exhaustion, “don’t chase anything that scurries unless you want to meet the gods underground.”

 

Behind him, Eurylochus snorted and muttered something incoherent. Diomedes followed last, arms crossed, expression unreadable but eyes constantly scanning. His mood had been sour since they dropped, and he hadn’t said a word aside from occasionally muttering “fucking snakey bastard” under his breath.

 

“Do you think the crickets mean an exit?” Polites asked quietly. There was a childlike hope to it, even though he tried to keep it neutral.

 

Eurylochus shrugged, brushing some dust off his shoulder. “Better than silence.”

 

“Unless the crickets are cursed,” Diomedes grumbled. “Wouldn’t put it past this place. Everything else is.”

 

Polites didn’t argue. Instead, he slowed down as the cave widened. The chirping was louder here—like they were close. Maybe too close. Maybe they were going to walk right into a pit of insects and regret ever breathing.

 

He looked back over his shoulder. “So, if we find our runaway down here—”

 

“You mean Odysseus,” Diomedes snapped. “Stop playing into his little game.”

 

Polites’ brow knit slightly, but he didn’t argue. Not now. Not when the walls were pressing in and Diomedes looked like he was one more twist away from violence.

 

“...If we find him,” Polites said instead, “can we all agree not to punch him until we’re out?”

 

“Fine,” Eurylochus said with a sigh.

 

Diomedes grunted. “I make no promises.”

 

Odysseus.

 

No, not Odysseus. “Viper.” That slippery, scheming bastard. That coward. That—

 

He tightened his jaw. His hands flexed, curling into fists before loosening again. One of them trembled.

 

Mine.

 

He was his.

 

He ran away to this festering backwater. Thought he could vanish. Thought he could hide behind new names, behind new people, behind soft smiles like he always did. But Diomedes knew. Diomedes always knew. There was no running from him. Not really.

 

“I’ll fix it,” he muttered to the dark, breathing heavily through his nose. “I’ll make it right.”

 

Diomedes took a light breath, watching to make sure that the other idiots did not hear him.

 

“I’ll take him from this dump of a town. Rip him from whatever sewer rats he’s gotten comfortable with. I’ll save him. I’ll break every last one of his legs if I have to—until he can’t even dream of running again.”

 

He breathed slowly. Then again. He could almost see it—the broken defiance in Odysseus’ eyes as he lay beneath him, furious and burning and finally still. Silent. Safe. His.

 

A calm spread across his face, a cold satisfaction like a storm’s eye.

 

“He’ll thank me for it. Eventually.”

 

The cave narrowed again as they continued forward, the sound of the crickets growing louder with each step. Polites glanced at Eurylochus, who still hadn't said much since the fall.


They both exchanged a glance before Polites turned his attention back to the path ahead, a tight feeling building in his chest. There was something unnerving about the way the walls seemed to close in on them, the crickets growing more insistent and the air thicker, heavier with each passing moment.

 

Eurylochus, always the more grounded of the two, cleared his throat. "You really think we're going to find him down here?"

 

Polites didn't respond immediately. The idea of finding Odysseus—or Viper , as Diomedes insisted on calling him—was a strange one. He wasn't sure if he wanted to find him, if he should want to. Part of him still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around how someone so clever, so slippery, could so easily disappear into the shadows of this place.

 

"I don’t know," Polites muttered, his eyes scanning the flickering light from the glowrock. "But there's no way we’re leaving without some answers."

 

Eurylochus let out a long sigh, and Polites could feel his frustration and worry bubbling up in the silence. The cave seemed endless, oppressive. But there was nothing to do but keep moving, keep searching.

 

"Hey," Eurylochus spoke again, more quietly this time, "you ever think about what we'd do if we actually found him?"

 

Polites looked at his friend, and for a brief moment, he caught a flicker of concern in his eyes.

 

"I don't know what I'd do," Polites said, his voice low. "But if I do find him, it's not just about answers anymore."

 

Diomedes, still a few paces behind, muttered something that Polites couldn’t quite catch. It didn't matter. He wasn't in the mood for whatever bitterness Diomedes had been holding onto since the fall. T

 

he tension was getting thick, and the darker it got, the closer they seemed to be to something. Something that might either be their salvation or their doom.

 

"Look," Polites said, louder now, trying to break the tension in his voice, "If we find him down here, we're sticking together. No one goes off alone. We don’t know what the hell’s lurking in these caves."

 

Eurylochus gave a half-nod, but Diomedes only grunted, his jaw tight as he continued to walk ahead. Polites wasn’t sure what was going through his mind, but the muttered threats against Odysseus—Viper—were becoming more frequent. Every time Diomedes spoke, it was as if Odysseus was already beneath his boot, already broken.

 

"Look at that," Polites muttered to himself, almost relieved to see a bit of light ahead. They had reached another widening, and the crickets were louder than ever.

 

Eurylochus stopped beside him. "It's an exit?"

 

Polites didn’t answer immediately. His instincts told him it wasn’t going to be that easy, not with the way things had been going so far. But the faintest glimmer of hope tugged at his chest. He moved forward, stepping carefully toward the light.

 

The walls were slick with dampness, the air growing cooler as they neared the opening. But before they could get any closer, something caught Polites’ eye. A shadow darted quickly into the light, disappearing so fast that it was almost as if it hadn’t been there at all. It was brief. A flash of movement. And then the crickets grew quieter.

 

"What the hell was that?" Diomedes’ voice snapped from behind them, cutting through the stillness.

 

"I don’t know," Polites murmured, his heart rate picking up as he looked around. "Stay alert."

 

Diomedes didn’t need any more prompting. He unsheathed his sword, scanning the area with a glare that could’ve set the cave walls on fire. Polites felt his pulse race.

 

"That was too fast to be a rat," Eurylochus said, voice hard and low.

 

Polites didn’t answer. He was already moving forward, eyes narrowed. They were close. He could feel it. Maybe they were finally at the end of this hellhole.

 

“.. Odysseus?”

 

Polites didn't even think, his body acting before his mind could catch up. He launched himself at Odysseus with a sharp grunt, his arms wrapping around his friend, and they both hit the ground with a thud. Odysseus barely had time to brace before Polites was on top of him, his hands hammering against Odysseus' chest in furious rhythm.

 

"You absolute idiot!" Polites growled between strikes, each hit landing harder than the last. "You don’t just disappear like that! What the hell were you thinking?!" He paused only long enough to catch his breath, but his fists didn’t stop.

 

Odysseus tried to push him off, but Polites was relentless, his strength fueled by a mixture of fear and anger. "You dumbass ! We were all left wondering if you were dead! You could’ve been—no, you were —you could’ve been hurt, or worse, and I had to sit there, thinking about that for days! Days, Odysseus!" Another heavy hit landed square on Odysseus’ chest, pushing the breath out of him.

 

Still, Polites didn’t seem to notice the other four men. His entire focus was on the man beneath him, his anger consuming him, each word harsher than the last. "What the hell is wrong with you? Leaving like that without a word?" Another punch landed, this one even harder, leaving Odysseus winded and stunned.

 

Polites’ chest was heaving as he straddled his friend, his hands curled into fists at his sides as if he couldn’t decide whether to hit him more or simply keep scolding him. It wasn’t until he finally paused, looking down at Odysseus, that his anger shifted to something more fragile. His voice, barely above a whisper, held the smallest hint of vulnerability, though it was still laced with frustration.

 

"I couldn’t lose you, Odysseus... Don't do that again."

 

Odysseus, in the midst of the furious assault, saw an opening. He gasped for air as Polites' fists kept landing, but then he shifted his expression, changing his tone, pretending to be someone else entirely.

 

"W-wait," Odysseus stammered, forcing a weak laugh through his breaths. "I'm not—I'm not Odysseus. I’m Kallias, just a simple baker. You've got the wrong man, friend." His voice cracked with feigned panic as he tried to squirm out from beneath Polites, though it was clear he was trying to throw off suspicion.

 

But Polites didn’t seem to buy it, and before Odysseus could say anything more, the sound of boots crashing against the earth signaled someone else’s approach.

 

Diomedes was there in an instant, his face twisted with rage, his eyes wide with a terror that was hard to mask. He didn’t even pause to process what was happening.

 

His hands shot out, grabbing Polites by the shoulders and throwing him off Odysseus with a brutal shove. Polites flew back, hitting the ground with a grunt, but Diomedes didn’t care. He was already on top of Odysseus, pinning him down with a strength that seemed to come from a place of pure anguish.

 

"No! No, no, no!" Diomedes shouted, his voice hoarse with desperation, his fingers digging into Odysseus' shoulders like a vice. His breaths came in ragged bursts, and his tears—tears—streamed down his face, leaving wet trails in the dust. He wasn’t just angry; he was hysterical. "You left us! You left me ! I thought you were gone, you bastard!" His voice broke with a sob, the weight of his words pressing down on Odysseus' chest like a thousand tons.

 

Odysseus was momentarily stunned, the facade of being "Kallias" crumbling under Diomedes’ frantic onslaught. He couldn’t understand the depth of Diomedes’ grief, not at that moment, as his friend’s body shook with barely contained fury. The tears kept coming, each drop a reminder of the fear Diomedes had been living with since the moment Odysseus had disappeared.

 

"Why—why the hell would you do that to me?!" Diomedes screamed, his chest heaving as his nails clawed at Odysseus' shirt in desperate frustration. "I need you, Odysseus! Don’t you get it?!" His voice was raw, each word a cry from the deepest place of pain. "You can’t just leave like that without a damn word! Don’t you ever do that to me again, do you hear me?!"

 

Odysseus’ heart twisted painfully, and for a brief moment, all he wanted to do was reassure Diomedes, to tell him he was fine, that it wasn’t what it seemed. But the weight of everything he’d done hung heavy in the air.

 

Lemenai stood frozen, staring at the chaos unfolding before him. His eyes flicked between the man, hysterical and drenched in tears, and the man beneath him— Kallias . The name rang in his mind, echoing in an almost unsettling way. 

 

This wasn’t the first time he’d seen the story not line up, but the intensity of the situation made it clear that something far more complex was happening here.

 

He knew the man as Kallias , the one who had somehow integrated himself into their lives without any real explanation. Always calm, always composed, Kallias was a mysterious figure—someone who had never fully revealed himself. 

 

His dark eyes had always seemed to carry more weight than a simple baker should, but Lemenai had never thought much of it. There were bigger things to worry about, after all.

 

But now? The man was on the ground, pinned to the ground, and he was… acting like he wasn’t Kallias . He was pretending to be someone else, someone who didn’t even exist, and Lemenai couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

 

Who the hell was Kallias really? His stomach twisted with confusion. The way the man was sobbing and screaming—it was like he’d just discovered a truth that had shattered him. Was this some twisted game?

 

Lemenai felt a strange pressure in his chest, like a weight he hadn’t expected. He had always known Kallias as this calm, almost unflappable figure, a man who never seemed rattled. But now… now, with the world breaking down around him, he was watching him crumble. The mask was slipping, and what lay beneath it was something far darker and deeper than he could have imagined.

 

His eyes narrowed, and his throat tightened. What had happened to the man he thought he knew?

 

Kallias—or whatever his real name was—looked vulnerable, almost small beneath Diomedes’ weight. The self-assured baker was nowhere to be seen, replaced by something desperate, something lost. 

 

Lemenai had to swallow the growing knot in his throat. Who was this man really? And what kind of lie had he been living?

 

His hand flexed at his side, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. He didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know who this Kallias was or what had driven him to pretend like this.

 

Lemenai’s mind whirled. One thing was certain: the truth was somewhere beneath all of this madness. But right now, he didn’t know if he wanted to find it—or if he even could.

Chapter 30: ❁﹐🗯﹒✬﹒Again™

Odysseus sat on the ground with his arms crossed and his bottom lip jutted out in a dramatic, petulant pout. He sniffed once. Loudly. Like a scolded eight-year-old caught with a stolen pastry. His cheeks were red—not from embarrassment, no, but from sheer defiance . He was not sorry. He was never sorry. He curled in tighter, chin tucked, sulking like a brat as Polites paced in front of him, hands flying everywhere.

 

“YOU ABSOLUTE DUMBASS,” Polites exploded, voice cracking with sheer frustration as he pointed a shaking hand at him. “YOU RAN AWAY. IN THE MIDDLE. OF A WAR.”

 

“I didn’t run,” Odysseus mumbled sulkily, nose scrunching. “I walked very fast.”

 

“ You vanished, ” Polites barked, stomping the ground. “You faked your death like some melodramatic prince of a dying kingdom, and what—for fun?!”

 

“Wasn’t fun,” Odysseus muttered. “I didn’t mean to. It just kinda happened.”

 

“‘Just kinda happened’?! OH. OH, I SEE. You accidentally forgot to tell anyone you were alive. You accidentally ended up playing house with four strangers and letting us all spiral into hell thinking you were dead!”

 

Odysseus shrugged and picked at a frayed edge of his tunic, utterly refusing to make eye contact.

 

“LOOK AT ME WHEN I’M SCREAMING AT YOU—!”

 

Meanwhile, Eurylochus was wrapped around Odysseus’ arm like a vine, face buried in his shoulder, clutching him like a lifeline. He didn’t even try to hide the way he was trembling—or the venomous glare he kept fixed on the four mercenaries hovering awkwardly nearby. Gialus, Lemenai, Uloan, and Maldovin all stood there like accused kidnappers, hands either up or buried in pockets, exchanging confused, deeply uncomfortable looks.

 

Eurylochus’ teeth were clenched so hard his jaw ticked. If looks could kill, the four of them would’ve been dust.

 

“You don’t get him back,” he hissed lowly, eyes locked on them with the rage of a betrayed saint. “You don’t get to look at him again. You don’t —”

 

“I wasn’t stolen, ” Odysseus whined.

 

“ Shut up, ” Polites and Eurylochus snapped at the same time.

 

Gialus slowly raised one hand like he was about to ask a question in a very dangerous classroom. Maldovin subtly stepped behind Uloan. Lemenai just stood very still, as if moving might make him a target.

 

It didn’t help. Eurylochus’ grip tightened. Polites continued his tirade. Odysseus pouted harder. It was a disaster .

 

Maldovin had had enough .

 

“The fuck are you talking about?” he barked suddenly, snapping like a whip cracking across the air. His voice cut through Polites’ rant and Eurylochus’ seething like a blade. “Get your hands off him and back off . I don’t know who the hell you lunatics are, but he’s Kallias .”

 

Silence.

 

Three heads turned to him in slow, jerking unison.

 

Polites blinked.

 

Diomedes, still kneeling beside Odysseus like a madman just barely reassembled from his hysteria, froze .

 

Eurylochus didn’t even blink. His grip on Odysseus’ sleeve just slowly loosened as he stared at Maldovin like he’d spoken in reverse Greek.

 

“Kallias?” Polites echoed faintly, like he was tasting the word for the first time.

 

“Who the fuck is Kallias?” Diomedes rasped, bloodshot eyes narrowing.

 

Odysseus coughed lightly.

 

“...Me?” he offered, giving a weak little shrug and trying to slide slightly behind Eurylochus for cover. “That’s... that’s what they call me here.”

 

“Kallias,” Polites repeated again, slower this time, like it was a bad joke being told terribly. “You—you renamed yourself?”

 

“I didn’t rename myself,” Odysseus said defensively. “I just... repurposed. Temporarily.”

 

Eurylochus was squinting at him like Odysseus had grown horns.

 

“Is that a baker’s name ?” he asked blankly.

 

“YES,” Maldovin snapped, stepping forward and planting himself between them and the now very sheepish-looking Odysseus. “He’s our baker. He’s been with us for days . He saved Lemenai multiple times, he makes fucking honeybread, he tucks Dahna in when she has nightmares—what the hell is going on?!”

 

Lemenai, who’d remained shellshocked and still, blinked rapidly. Uloan raised his hand slowly again.

 

Diomedes, utterly unblinking, looked Maldovin dead in the eye and said with terrifying calm :

“That is Odysseus. King of Ithaca. Strategist of Troy. I’ve seen him cut a man’s throat with a broken lyre string and get paid for it.”

 

“…He bakes,” Maldovin said flatly, pointing at him like that invalidated everything.
“He whittles tiny cows. ”

 

Odysseus coughed again and muttered, “I can do both.”

 

All hell was breaking loose.

 

Diomedes lurched forward without warning.

 

Like a beast sensing blood, he surged past Maldovin’s half-hearted protest and grabbed Odysseus’ face between both hands—not gently, not tenderly, but with the raw desperation of someone convinced the world might vanish if he blinked.

 

Odysseus yelped, squirming. “Diomedes, what the—?!”

 

“Hold still,” Diomedes barked.

 

He turned Odysseus’ head left. Right. Tilted his chin up. Thumb brushed under one eye, then across the other cheekbone. His brow furrowed like a war map—searching for bruises, scratches, anything. When he spotted a fading cut near his temple, his jaw clenched so tightly the vein in his neck throbbed.

 

“Who hit you,” he growled. Not a question. A threat looking for a name.

 

“ Nobody, ” Odysseus said quickly. “I tripped. On bread. Dough. Dough bread.”

 

Diomedes didn’t blink. “You tripped on bread.”

 

“He tripped on Dahna’s stuffed rabbit,” Maldovin muttered with a sigh.

 

“It was next to the bread,” Odysseus added helpfully.

 

Diomedes ignored everyone, thumbs still pressed just under Odysseus’ eyes, glaring at every old scar and smudge like they were insults carved in stone.

 

Polites and Eurylochus watched silently now—Polites with a softened, exhausted expression, Eurylochus with his arms still looped around Odysseus’ middle like a goddamn human belt.

 

Lemenai had backed up to stand beside Uloan again, eyebrows practically hitting his hairline.

 

“…Are all soldiers like this?” he asked.

 

“No,” Uloan grunted. “Just them it seems.”

 

Gialus finally snapped.

 

“Alright,” he said, voice sharp and slicing through the madness like a thrown knife. “What the fuck is happening, and who the fuck are all of you? Because we’ve got a kid named Kallias being manhandled by a bunch of psychos who act like he’s their lost bride.”

 

Diomedes didn’t even flinch. Still had both hands on Odysseus’ face like he was checking a priceless relic for damage.

 

Polites let out a long, long exhale and looked at Odysseus like he was expecting him to handle it. Eurylochus just tightened his hold and growled low in his throat.

 

Odysseus, still squashed between them all, sighed like a guilty teenager caught sneaking out a window.

 

He glanced at the floor. Then at Maldovin. Then at Lemenai, who was staring like the world’s dumbest jigsaw puzzle had just exploded in his lap.

 

“…Kallias Eryiades,” Odysseus said at last, slowly. “Formerly… Odysseus Laertiádēs.”

 

Boom.

 

Polites' eyes narrowed like someone had spat in his wine. Diomedes’ grip spasmed. Eurylochus made a sound halfway between a groan and a strangled “WHAT.”

 

Maldovin’s mouth dropped open. Uloan muttered something that sounded like “are you shitting me” under his breath. Lemenai took a step back, blinking fast.

 

“You what ?” Gialus demanded.

 

Odysseus gave a crooked little smile. “It’s a long story.”

 

“You LIED to us?” Lemenai looked wounded , of all things. “You’re a king ?”

 

“No—yes— former king,” Odysseus corrected quickly. “I ran away. Retired. Incognito.”

 

Eurylochus made a strangled noise.

 

Polites pinched the bridge of his nose. “You disappeared during a war , Odysseus. We thought you were dead . Achilles cried himself to sleep for days. ”

 

Odysseus winced. “I was gonna come back eventually—!”

 

“AFTER BREAD RETIREMENT?” Diomedes roared.

 

Before the shouting could start again, Gialus raised a hand, tone clipped. “No. No, no, no. Intros. Now. All of you. Before I lose it.”

 

Polites gave Odysseus one last scorching glare, then stepped forward stiffly.

 

“…Polites,” he said, each syllable tight and clean. “Ithacan. Royal guard. Captain. Medic.”

 

“Eurylochus,” came the hissed reply, chin tucked stubbornly against Odysseus’ shoulder. “Second-in-command. Friend .”

 

Diomedes straightened, voice hoarse but formal. “Diomedes. King of Argos.”

 

That drew another stunned look from Lemenai, who looked like he might pass out.

 

Then Gialus clapped his hands sharply. “Wonderful. Now that everyone’s dropped their fucking bombshells—what the hell do we do with all this?”

 

Odysseus quietly tried to shrink back into Eurylochus’ arms. It didn’t work.

 

Gialus rolled his shoulders, jaw clenched. “Right. Our turn, apparently. Since royalty ’s back on the menu.”

 

He shoved a thumb toward his own chest. “Gialus. Ex-legion. Current pain in everyone’s ass. I’m the one who kept your runaway king from bleeding out in a ditch. You’re welcome.”

 

Uloan snorted, folding his arms like a pissed-off stone wall. “Uloan. Former pit fighter. Now mercenary. Fed him. Patched him. Protected him. And watched him cry in his sleep, not that it’s any of your business.”

 

Lemenai stepped forward last, stiff-backed and betrayed. “Lemenai. I’m the one who shared a room with him. The one who taught him to gut a fish properly and braid wire traps. The one who didn’t know he was lying through his fucking teeth this whole time.”

 

Maldovin didn’t speak immediately. He was still staring at Odysseus— Kallias —like the earth had shifted sideways under his boots.

 

Then, slowly, with venom in every syllable:

 

“Maldovin. Former tactician. Now field captain of this little band of bastards. And I don’t give a shit what your name used to be. You were ours. You are ours. We pulled you out of hell, and now you’re saying we were just… what? A detour?”

 

Odysseus swallowed, guilt all over his face like bruises. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

 

“You let us care about you,” Maldovin snapped. “You let us love you. And now I find out you were never really ours to begin with?”

 

Polites opened his mouth like he was ready to start a war.

 

Eurylochus looked ready to finish it.

 

Diomedes was trembling like a ticking time bomb.

 

And in the middle of it all stood Odysseus, hunched and cornered, six wolves circling with blood in their eyes—because no matter who he was, too many of them had already decided:

 

He was theirs .

 

All of them.

 

Whether he liked it or not.

 

Odysseus’ mouth opened—then shut again, like he was drowning.

 

His hands twitched uselessly in his lap as six burning gazes pierced through him, carving him up like meat.

 

“I…” he rasped, voice hoarse and cracking. “I didn’t mean for it to be like this, I just—” He looked at Polites. At Diomedes. At Eurylochus. Then, almost pitifully, at the mercenaries. “I just wanted to get home.”

 

It came out so small. So raw. Like a child lost in a thunderstorm.

 

“I didn’t—I couldn’t take it anymore. The fighting. The noise. The blood. Everyone looking at me like I was supposed to know what the fuck to do all the time. I wanted to stop waking up with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. I just wanted… quiet. A name no one knew. A place where no one cared.”

 

His shoulders hunched, voice breaking around the edges. “Kallias didn’t have to be brilliant. Or brave. Or strong. He just had to be alive.. It was supposed to be temporary.. Until the ships come to bring me home to Ithaca.”

 

Eurylochus clenched tighter around him, fists curled in the fabric of his cloak like a lifeline. Polites went terrifyingly still, golden eyes softening just barely. Diomedes stared like he wanted to scream again—but didn’t.

 

And across from them, Gialus scoffed, spitting into the dirt. “Well congrats, Kallias. You’re alive.”

 

Maldovin’s mouth was set in a line so sharp it could cut steel. “But you don’t get to pretend none of it matters. Not to us. Not to them. ”

 

Lemenai’s face twisted, wounded. “You should’ve just told us. ”

 

Uloan didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The betrayal in his glare said more than words ever could.

 

Odysseus stared at the ground.

 

He didn’t look like a king.

 

He looked like a man who had already lost everything.

 

Maldovin exhaled through his nose. Long. Sharp. His jaw ticked once before he strode forward, boots crunching over dirt and ash, ignoring every warning glare like they were beneath him. He crouched down in front of the trembling ex-king—this half-sunken thing with shadows under his eyes and dried blood beneath his nails—and said nothing for a beat.

 

Then he reached out, firm but careful, and tugged Odysseus into his chest like he’d done it a thousand times before.

 

Odysseus didn’t resist.

 

His fingers gripped the fabric of Maldovin’s coat like it was anchoring him to the earth. And Maldovin—cold, sunburned, and pissed as hell—just lowered his head and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the man’s forehead.

 

“You dumb little bastard,” he muttered, voice thick and low, just for Odysseus. “You think you’re hard to love? You think disappearing made it easier for the people who gave a shit?” His arms tightened just a little. “Next time you pull something that idiotic, I’m breaking your knees.”

 

It was fond. In the way a blade could be fond before it cut.

 

And immediately , the air thickened with rage.

 

Polites looked seconds from biting through his own tongue. Eurylochus had stopped blinking entirely, arms locked around Odysseus like Maldovin’s touch was a curse. But it was Diomedes who looked ready to go feral—shoulders tense, eyes blown wide, lip curled like he’d just watched someone spit on a corpse.

 

“Get. Your hands. Off him,” Diomedes growled, a step forward already taken.

 

Maldovin didn’t even blink. “He’s mine.”

 

“HE’S—!” Diomedes’ voice cracked. “He’s not ! He’s not yours ! You think because you knew him for a few days—?”

 

“Seven,” Maldovin said calmly, one hand carding through Odysseus’ hair like a possessive wolf. “And if I’d had a day longer, he wouldn’t have run.”

 

“Try it again,” Polites said, dangerously quiet. “Say he’s yours again, merc.”

 

“ Please ,” Eurylochus hissed through his teeth, “ please give me an excuse.”

 

Odysseus, still half-curled against Maldovin’s chest, let out a weak, “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

 

Diomedes’s eye twitched. Just once. But it was enough to set the air vibrating around him. His nostrils flared, his fists clenched, and he looked down at Odysseus—still tucked in Maldovin’s arms like a pampered cat—and said with lethal calm:

 

“…I’m telling Athena.”

 

The silence was instant . Even the birds stopped.

 

Odysseus flailed so hard he nearly kneed Maldovin in the face. “—NO. No no no no no! You can’t , Diomedes, please, PLEASE—”

 

“She deserves to know where you’ve been!” Diomedes snapped, already turning to storm off, murder and righteous fury in his stride.

 

“ SHE’LL KILL ME! ” Odysseus howled, scrambling after him, tripping over his own feet and grabbing Diomedes by the belt like a toddler about to get left at daycare. “Please! Please, D— Dio ! You like me, don’t you?? You said you liked me—!”

 

“I lied! ” Diomedes bellowed over his shoulder, striding harder.

 

“ YOU SAID I WAS YOUR FAVORITE! ”

 

Polites was choking. Whether it was on air or laughter, no one knew. Eurylochus had a hand clapped over his mouth, shoulders trembling with the strain of holding in cackles. Even Gialus let out a very undignified snort from where he was leaning against a tree.

 

Maldovin, still crouched, blinked slowly at the sheer display of degradation as Odysseus clung to Diomedes’ leg.

 

“…What,” he said blankly, “the fuck is happening right now.”

 

Odysseus’s fingers twitched.

 

His eyes darted, sharp and calculating despite the mess he’d just made of himself, and the second Diomedes turned his back—marching in big, stompy, divine-snitching strides—Odysseus bolted .

 

He spun on his heel like a deer on crack and ran . Sprinting across the clearing with the grace of a feral raccoon at midnight, half-sobbing, half-muttering, “I can still make it, I can still make it, if I climb that ridge and fake my death—again—they’ll have to let me go— ”

 

He didn’t get five feet.

 

Polites’s hand shot out like a whip.

 

“ NOPE. ”

 

YANK.

 

Odysseus was airborne for a full second before he was yoinked backward by the back of his collar like a disobedient child. His feet skidded in the dirt, arms flailing wildly as he was reeled in like a disloyal trout. A full-body wheeze left him as he landed on his ass with a loud, indignant thud at Polites’s feet.

 

Polites didn’t even blink. He just looked down at him like a parent at the end of his rope and said, flatly, " Try that again, and I break your kneecaps. "

 

Odysseus wheezed. “You used to love me, ” he rasped dramatically, one hand on his chest like a Victorian maiden fainting on cue.

 

“I did, ” Polites said. “Then you died. And faked your name. And forgot to send a letter. So now you get negative love until further notice.”

 

Diomedes spun back around like a storm with legs, just as Polites dropped Odysseus in a scolding heap of shame.

 

Without a word , Diomedes stalked forward, boots heavy in the dirt, hands clenching and unclenching like he was choosing between “strangle” and “snap in half.” Odysseus didn’t even have time to blink before those strong arms swooped around his waist and hoisted him up like a goddamn misbehaving cat.

 

“ Mine, ” Diomedes growled.

 

Odysseus let out a confused squeak as he was yanked flush against Diomedes’s side, half-hauled, half-cradled like contraband. His legs dangled slightly. “Wh—I—Diomedes??”

 

But Diomedes wasn’t looking at him.

 

No.

 

His eyes—dark, wild, brimming with insulted rage —were locked squarely on Maldovin.

 

And if looks could kill, Maldovin would’ve been six feet under, ash-blown, and exorcised .

 

There was no mistaking the fury in Diomedes’s glare. It was the possessive, murderous stare of a man who had fought through wars for someone, only to find that someone had been wrapped in the arms of some... other guy who gave him forehead kisses.

 

Maldovin just raised an unimpressed brow, unbothered as ever. “You must be the loud one.”

 

“Say that again,” Diomedes hissed, arms tightening around Odysseus’s waist like he might vanish if he didn’t crush his ribs in love.

 

Odysseus, squashed and alarmed, raised a hand meekly. “...Can I vote for no bloodshed?”

 

“No,” both men snapped.

 

Gialus sighed and rubbed his temples. “This is worse than when we adopted that raccoon and it bit Uloan.”

 

Lemenai paused. “...We never adopted a raccoon.”

 

Gialus blinked in turn, “Then what the hell’s living in Maldovin’s tent?”

 

Odysseus had just started to wiggle out of Diomedes’ crushing grip—he wasn’t exactly comfortable being treated like a sack of stolen bread—when a firm hand snatched his ear between two fingers.

 

“—OW—! POLITES!!” Odysseus screeched.

 

Gialus was wheezing. Diomedes had returned to glowering at Maldovin like a wrathful idol. And Eurylochus stood stiffly, still curled protectively behind Odysseus, hands clenched as he continued to glare holes through Lemenai, Uloan, and Maldovin as though they were wolves who’d sniffed too close to something sacred.

 

Lemenai, still confused, glanced between them all.

 

“…Why,” he said slowly, “were you talking about a goddess? ”

 

The group went silent.

 

Polites turned toward him, golden eyes narrowed into hard slits. “Oh, you didn’t know, did you,” he said with the venomous sweetness of a man barely hanging on by a thread. “Well. Isn’t that precious .”

 

Odysseus blinked. “Polites, don’t—”

 

“ This ”—he shoved a thumb at Odysseus’s head like he was about to sell him at a discount—“is Athena’s chosen. Chosen by a goddess. ”

 

Lemenai blinked.

 

“… What. ”

 

Polites leaned forward, a stiff, poisonous smile twitching at the corners of his lips. “Chosen by a divine tactician, who apparently sends visions and blessings and sometimes shows up to micromanage him directly, because the rest of us—” he paused, voice thick with bitterness —“weren’t good enough.”

 

Odysseus stiffened.

 

“Polites—” he began gently.

 

But Polites wasn’t looking at him anymore.

 

He was looking at Lemenai. At his armor. At the little familiar habits Odysseus had picked up. At the ease in his voice when he’d spoken to the mercenary. At everything he wasn’t.

 

And it burned.

 

Eurylochus had been quiet.

 

Too quiet.

 

While Polites fumed and Diomedes stood possessive and taut like a soldier seconds from launching a spear, Eurylochus—Odysseus’ brother in law, his shadow, his stubborn second—had not stopped watching Uloan. Not once. Not since the moment they arrived.

 

Because Uloan was broad. Built like a fortress. The kind of man who didn’t flinch at war or pain or fire, who stood behind Odysseus like a bodyguard, like a fixture , like he'd earned it.

 

Like he belonged.

 

Eurylochus' jaw ticked. His grip around Odysseus’ shoulder tightened.

 

He had been with Odysseus since they were children. He knew the freckle beneath his left collarbone, the way he huffed when he was annoyed, the way he paced when anxious. He’d bled beside him, starved beside him, nearly died for him.

 

And now this… this mercenary —with arms like battering rams and a face that looked carved from a cliff—was acting like he had the right to stand near Odysseus like that?

 

Like he was trusted?

 

“Do you lift him up too, ” Eurylochus snapped suddenly, voice sharp as a blade. “Or are you just the one who breaks bones when he stubs his toe?”

 

Uloan turned his head, slow and heavy, like a bear clocking a barking dog.

 

“What?”

 

“You heard me,” Eurylochus growled, stepping between him and Odysseus now, shielding his brother like the wall he’d always been. “You get to play protector now? Huh? Is that what this is? You carry his water, tuck him in, make sure he sleeps? That your job?”

 

Uloan arched a brow. “I don’t know who the hell you think you’re talking to—”

 

“I’m talking to the man who thinks he gets to replace me.”

 

Silence hit like a slap.

 

Even Diomedes glanced over.

 

Odysseus made a small, helpless sound in his throat.

 

“…Eury…”

 

“I didn’t replace you,” he mumbled.

 

But Eurylochus wasn’t listening.

 

He reached back— snatched Odysseus by the wrist—and dragged him forward, flush to his side like a half-stolen doll, his fingers tight enough to make Odysseus wince.

 

“I’m his fucking brother-in-law, ” Eurylochus snapped, voice cracking sharp and loud as a whip in the clearing. “You think I’m just some soldier who tagged along?! I’ve known him since we were kids! I was at his wedding! I stood beside him! I watched him cry when Telemachus was born!”

 

Odysseus opened his mouth—whether to defend or deflect, not even he knew—but Eurylochus cut through it like a sword through fog.

 

“I’M THE ORIGINAL, ” he snarled, jerking his chin toward the mercenaries—Gialus, Lemenai, Uloan, Maldovin. “You think you get to claim him ‘cause you found him broken in a ditch somewhere? You think that makes him yours?! You don’t even know the half of what he’s survived!”

 

Gialus’ brow furrowed. Lemenai froze, stunned. Maldovin folded his arms, eyes narrowing. And Uloan’s hands twitched at his sides, as if deciding whether or not to punch this man or shove him away.

 

Odysseus, halfway clutched between grief and war and the very real threat of his two lives colliding, just let out a small, pained whine.

 

“I was just trying to go HOME,” he mumbled again, looking more like a kicked dog than a cunning tactician.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Agamemnon sat in the center of his command tent—completely, utterly, fucking buried in maps.

 

Maps that were creased, ink-stained, misaligned, blood-smeared, and entirely incomprehensible without the man who used to mutter through them like they were bedtime stories.

 

“ Why does this one have a horse drawn in the corner?! ” Agamemnon bellowed , shaking a parchment like it had personally insulted him. “And what the fuck is ‘sneaky route #3— probably don’t die this time ?!’”

 

He shoved another scroll off the table in a rage. It unrolled mid-air, revealing an upside-down coastline with annotations that simply read: Too many Trojans. Don’t go here unless drunk or suicidal.

 

“Where the hell is Tydides?!”

 

“Missing, my king,” came the eighth report that morning.

 

Agamemnon dragged both hands down his face and let out a sound somewhere between a groan, a roar, and a godless scream.

 

“Fucking Odysseus. ” He spat the name like a curse, eyes twitching. “I’m going to strangle him when I find him. And then I’m going to kiss him. Then kill him again. ”

 

He turned to a young soldier frozen near the entrance.

 

“Fetch me someone with a brain.”

 

The boy blinked. “Sir… all the brains went with Odysseus.”

 

Agamemnon let out the kind of sigh that could wilt crops.

 

He slumped back in his chair—half-crushed under maps labeled with things like “ask Polites if this is real” , “not a trap (probably)” , and “secret path #7: DO NOT TELL AGAMEMNON.”

 

“…Get me Nestor,” he muttered hoarsely, like invoking an ancient rite. “For the love of every god we haven’t pissed off, get me Nestor. ”

 

A trembling aide bowed so hard he nearly fell over, then sprinted out of the tent.

 

Moments later, the flap rustled, and in stepped Nestor—ancient, calm, and just barely amused, as if the growing mountain of chaos was some bedtime story he'd heard before.

 

“You summoned me, my king?”

 

Agamemnon stared at him with wild, haunted eyes. Then, slowly, he stood, walked over, and dropped a map into Nestor’s hands.

 

It was upside down.

 

And labeled, in a familiar sharp scrawl:
‘DO NOT USE WITHOUT ODYSSEUS PRESENT. SERIOUSLY. THIS ONE’S WEIRD.’

 

Agamemnon gestured at it weakly.

 

“…Do you know what ‘bread route but backwards’ means?”

 

Nestor tilted his head. Read it again. And gave the tiniest shrug.

 

“…No. But I can guess.”

 

Agamemnon fell to his knees like a crumbling statue.

 

“ FIND ME ODYSSEUS, ” he begged the gods. “OR WHOEVER THE FUCK HE’S PRETENDING TO BE.”

“BEFORE I SINK THIS ENTIRE DAMN WAR OUT OF SPITE.”

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Odysseus paced restlessly, the damp stone floor of the cave cold underfoot. His mind raced with the thought of Ithaca—his home, his life, the life he wanted to return to. But every time he moved, he could feel the eyes of Diomedes, Polites, and Eurylochus on him, a constant reminder that they were set on dragging him back to the camp.

 

"They don't get it," he muttered under his breath, a frustrated edge to his voice. He needed to escape, and soon.

 

He looked over at the mercenaries, Gialus, Lemenai, Uloan, and Maldovin, who seemed to be on the edge of their own conflict—protecting him, but watching the others with an air of skepticism. 

 

They weren’t as aggressive as the Greeks, but they weren’t blind either. They’d be the key. If only he could gain their trust again.

 

His fingers twitched with the urge to move, but he held himself back. The moment they noticed his anxiety, they’d descend on him again. He needed to be smarter than that. He couldn’t let them catch on.

 

"Think, Odysseus. Think ," he whispered to himself, but the weight of it all pressed down harder. He couldn't afford to stay here any longer.

 

The mercenaries had been his chance to slip away unnoticed. But it wasn’t enough, not yet. He’d have to wait for the right moment—a slip, a distraction, anything. Anything to get back to Ithaca.

 

Odysseus’s leg bounced. His fingers twitched. His eye twitched. Every goddamned inch of him twitched.

 

They were all too busy bickering. Diomedes and Eurylochus were trying to one-up each other about who knew him longer, Polites was still glowering murderously at Lemenai for existing, and the mercenaries were puffing up like pissed-off pigeons , making vague threats about “claiming” him. Whatever the hell that meant.

 

He needed out. He needed Ithaca. His wife. His bed. His peace. His—

 

A glimmer.

 

A vine .

 

Dangling like the gods themselves had painted it in with a glowing circle around it—right where Diomedes and the other two assholes had come down from.

 

Odysseus's eyes narrowed .

 

Target acquired.

 

Without thinking (as usual), he lunged like a damn jackrabbit , grabbed the nearest wrist—Maldovin's—and yanked .

 

"Run!" he hissed.

 

"Wh—what?!" Maldovin blurted, skidding after him like a confused deer on a waxed floor. "WHERE ARE WE GOING?!"

 

"HOME!" Odysseus wailed, scrambling over rocks, clutching the vine like it was the last baguette on earth. "I'M GOING HOME AND YOU'RE COMING WITH ME, YOU SULKY TREE MAN!"

 

“I—what?! Odysseus?!”

 

“ Kallias! ” Odysseus snapped instinctively, trying to scramble up the vine like a drunk goat on stilts, Maldovin awkwardly flailing behind him. “ My name is KALLIAS now!! ”

 

Diomedes froze mid-scream.

 

Eurylochus blinked.

 

Polites stood up so fast he hit his head on the ceiling.

 

“OH MY GODS HE’S RUNNING AGAIN— ”

 

“GET HIM!!”

 

Chaos.

Utter.

 

Dumbass.

Chaos.

 

Odysseus was halfway up the vine like a possessed goat with Maldovin dangling behind him, still yelling, “ WHY ARE WE RUNNING?! ” when—

 

“WAIT FOR ME, YOU LITTLE SHIT!” Gialus bellowed, throwing down his gear and charging after them.

 

Lemenai didn’t even think—he scooped a fistful of dirt off the cave floor, hissed, “ Eat soil, you sandal-wearing barnacles— ” and hurled it full-force into Eurylochus’ eyes.

 

“ AUGH—MY EYES!! ”

 

“THAT ONE THREW DIRT AT ME—!!”

 

“GET THEM!!”

 

Lemenai booked it , vaulting over rocks like a startled deer, his boots slapping the stone, while Uloan just grabbed their bags and yelled, “ You’re not leaving me behind with THESE maniacs— !” and joined the stampede.

 

Odysseus was wheezing, half-climbing, half-flailing as he dragged poor Maldovin up the vine. “I’m almost there —home, Penelope, my bed, a fish stew—!”

 

“YOU. ABSOLUTE. SHIT,” Diomedes roared, leaping after them like a rage-filled lion, clutching the dirt in his own eyes.

 

Polites was already halfway up another ledge like some kind of hazel-eyed demon. “YOU CAN’T ESCAPE, ODYSSEUS!! YOU BELONG TO US!!”

 

“NO I DON’T!” Odysseus screamed.

 

“YES YOU DO!!” All three of them screamed back.

 

And somewhere in the middle of the chaos, Gialus turned to Uloan and shouted, “This is it. This is how we die. Chased up a wall by a trio of war-worshipping lunatics over a fake baker with commitment issues.”

 

“Shut up and climb!!”

 

Odysseus scrambled to the top like a rat with a deadline, wheezing, sweating, one sandal gone, hair stuck to his face. The second his foot hit solid ground, he turned and—without thinking— grabbed Maldovin by the armpits like a sack of potatoes and hauled him the last foot up.

 

“ Kallias— ” Maldovin blinked, breathless, “—what the HELL is going on—”

 

“Later. Team-building exercise. ”

 

Next came Gialus, who practically rolled over the ledge, groaning, “If I die, I’m haunting your dumbass forever.”

 

Uloan was climbing like a trained war beast, but Lemenai needed a bit of a yank, yelping and spitting through the last stretch. “I got dirt under my nails for you, you maniac—!”

 

“You’re all welcome!” Odysseus panted, grinning like an idiot. Then he turned to the vine, eyes blazing.

 

Below—just out of reach—Diomedes, Eurylochus, and Polites were scrambling up after them , war cries echoing through the cave.

 

“ODYSSEUS, DON’T YOU DARE— ”

 

“COME BACK HERE RIGHT NOW—”

 

“I SWEAR TO THE GODS IF YOU CUT THAT VINE I’LL—”

 

Snip.

 

There was a beat of silence. The vine whipped loose with a dramatic flutter and tumbled down the cliffside, coiling harmlessly like a snake. All three Greeks stared up, stunned and betrayed, clinging now to a ledge five feet down from the top.

 

Odysseus leaned over and waved, cheerful as hell. “Sorry! No visitors allowed. This is a bakers-only zone! ”

 

Gialus clapped a hand to his mouth to muffle a snort. Lemenai looked like he was about to faint from laughter.

 

Polites’ golden eyes blazed. “ODYSSEUS—!”

 

“NOPE! Kallias now!”

 

“YOU TREACHEROUS LITTLE SHIT—”

 

“Buh-byeee~!” Odysseus twirled the dagger he’d used to cut the vine and tucked it smugly back into his belt. He turned to the others. “Okay. Now where the hell do we run next?”

 

Uloan sighed deeply. “I miss bread. Let’s go find some.”

 

And just like that, the most chaotic getaway party in Greece sprinted off into the unknown.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

A few hours later…

 

The group had managed to lose most of the sweat, if not the trauma , and were trudging through dense trees and steep crags like the world's most unhinged pilgrimage. Odysseus, now with a stick Lemenai named “Captain Twig,” was poking rocks and mumbling to himself dramatically.

 

And then—he stopped dead in his tracks.

 

“…I left my stuff,” he said with grave horror, eyes wide. “I left my apron. My bread hook . My favorite ladle. Maldovin, I left my ladle—”

 

“Oh my god,” Gialus muttered.

 

“I need to go back.”

 

Uloan froze mid-step . The big mercenary turned slowly, like a boulder about to roll downhill. His eyes narrowed . “You want to what .”

 

“I need to get my stuff,” Odysseus whined. “My things , Uloan. My things . They’re in the bakery and the sun was hitting them just right and—”

 

“Do you want to get fucking caught by those war bastards?” Uloan snapped, voice like steel dragged across gravel. “Do you want Prettyboy, Brunette Fury, and the Tall One Who Growls to drag you back by your ear again? ”

 

Odysseus pursed his lips. “…No.”

 

“Then shut up about the ladle.” Uloan exhaled hard. “And you’re giving us a damn explanation soon. All of it. Names. Why those freaks are obsessed with you. Why one of them cried like a widow . Why you keep changing your name like a cursed bard.”

 

Odysseus blinked up at him, trying to summon a lie. A cute one.

 

Uloan’s glare intensified. “ Soon. ”

 

“…Right,” Odysseus mumbled, meek. “I’ll… uh. Work on the presentation.”

 

Lemenai patted his shoulder. “You’re so lucky you’re pretty.”

 

They were walking in circles. Odysseus was certain of it. Or maybe the trees were moving. Or maybe the guilt of leaving behind his ladle was clouding his spatial perception. Either way, it was Gialus who finally said what everyone was thinking.

 

“Where the fuck are we even going?” he snapped, swatting a branch out of his way with all the rage of a man whose last nerve was wearing tap shoes.

 

Odysseus looked up like a startled cat. “Uh.”

 

Gialus, breathing hard, raked a pale hand through his stark white hair, pushing it out of his face. His sharp red eyes glinted in the fading sun like someone had stuck two rubies in a snowbank and given it attitude. “We’ve been climbing over the same rotting log three times now. I counted. I named it. I kissed it goodbye. Why are we back?”

 

Odysseus lifted a finger, paused, then lowered it. “…Spiritual journey?”

 

Uloan muttered a curse and immediately sat down on a rock like the whole concept of “life” was exhausting.

 

Maldovin raised a brow at Gialus. “You wanna take over map duty, Albino Rage?”

 

“I will ,” Gialus snapped, hair falling back in his face. “And I’ll do it better , because I don’t have the navigational instincts of a dizzy goose on a hill.”

 

Odysseus tried to slink behind Lemenai.

 

Lemenai did not move.

 

“Odysseus,” Gialus said sharply, voice suddenly low and flat.

 

“…Kallias,” Odysseus corrected, holding up a finger.

 

“Shut the hell up,” Gialus growled, “and tell us where you were going before you got cult-napped by the war squad.”

 

Odysseus looked at him. Blinked. And slowly pointed in a random direction.

 

Everyone stared.

 

“…No. Nope. Sit down,” Uloan barked. “We’re making camp. And you’re giving us that explanation now before I start improvising your backstory myself.”

 

Odysseus opened his mouth.

 

“And if the words ‘simple baker’ leave your lips,” Gialus added, “I will throw a rock.”

 

Odysseus closed his mouth.

 

“Okay,” Maldovin said, pressing his fingers to his temple like the sheer audacity of today was giving him a migraine. “We make camp here. It's remote, it’s defensible, and it has less screeching birds than the last place.”

 

“Excellent,” Lemenai said brightly, already halfway up the nearest tree.

 

“ No, ” Uloan barked.

 

“ Please, ” Lemenai called down, wrapping one leg around a branch and leaning upside down like an overgrown possum. “Come on, please , I’ve always wanted to try building a treehouse—just one! Just a little one! Not even a whole house, like a—like a tree shack ! A tree hut ! A tree loft !”

 

“We’re building tents , not the next elven palace!” Uloan snapped.

 

Lemenai looked directly at Odysseus.

 

“Please,” he said again, all twinkling eyes and hopeful hands clutched like a child begging for a puppy.

 

Odysseus, who had no spine left after the day he’d had, nodded once.

 

Uloan turned on him. “Don’t you dare —!”

 

“Let him,” Odysseus said solemnly. “He’s gone through enough.”

 

Lemenai cheered , and instantly scurried higher into the canopy with the enthusiasm of someone who’d eaten bark as a child and liked it.

 

“He’s going to break his spine,” Gialus muttered, dumping supplies in a pile. “And when he does, I’m not carrying him. Albino backs don’t bend like that.”

 

Maldovin was already building the fire pit, tossing branches and leaves into a circle with a kind of resigned grace. “He falls, we roll him in moss and pretend we never saw him.”

 

Meanwhile, Odysseus was crouched awkwardly by a tree stump, arms wrapped around his knees, watching them all with a mix of fondness and terror.

 

He was going to have to explain things soon.

 

Maybe after the fire was lit.

 

And Lemenai fell out of a tree.

 

Maybe.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

Odysseus climbed the rope ladder with all the grace of a man climbing toward either salvation or the dumbest idea of his life—jury was still out.

 

When he finally reached the top, he blinked.

 

“…Oh.”

 

The treehouse wasn’t large. It wasn’t even technically a house. It was more like a very well-constructed glorified nest. But it had walls , a roof , and moss . Lots of moss. Moss in little patches lining the floor like Lemenai had carefully arranged every single scrap to make sure no one would get a splinter in the ass.

 

There were wool scraps tucked in the corners—new ones. Soft, too. Someone had clearly gone out and sheared a sheep recently, probably by glare alone.

 

Odysseus sank down onto the mossy padding in the corner with a slow exhale.

 

It was…warm. Comfortable. Peaceful.

 

A moment later, Lemenai popped his head through the window with his usual deranged cheer. “So? Huh?? HUH??”

 

“It’s…” Odysseus looked around, arms draped over his knees. “Kind of…cozy.”

 

Lemenai beamed. “ I know, right?! I even lined the corners so no bugs will crawl into your ears while you’re sleeping!”

 

Odysseus paled slightly. “…Thanks.”

 

A thud below made the boards shake slightly.

 

Uloan’s voice, flat as iron: “Tell him I want my damn knife back. The one I used to shear the wool. He’s sleeping on the handle.”

 

Odysseus glanced down beside him.

 

Sure enough. Wool. Knife hilt.

 

“…I’m not moving.”

 

“ You better, ” Uloan shouted up.

 

Odysseus buried his face into one of the wool-padded moss bundles. “This is fine,” he mumbled. “This is… honestly fine.”

 

Lemenai flopped down beside him like an overexcited puppy and kicked his legs off the edge.

 

“Let’s never go back,” he said. “War people are loud.”

 

“…You’re loud,” Odysseus murmured into the moss.

 

Lemenai grinned.

 

“Exactly.”

 

By nightfall, the treehouse had become a cramped, mismatched tangle of limbs, wool scraps, and warm breath. It was far too small for six grown men, and yet—somehow—they all managed to fold in together, grumbling half-heartedly about elbows and knees and someone’s cold feet (Lemenai’s, obviously).

 

Uloan lay nearest the entrance like a guard dog, arms crossed and a knife still sheathed but close enough to draw. Gialus lounged with his head resting on a rolled-up corner of moss, white lashes fluttering as he stared up at the roof beams, idly brushing the wool blanket with his fingertips. 

 

Maldovin had unceremoniously draped half his body over Odysseus’ legs—he hadn’t asked, he just did , and Odysseus hadn’t kicked him, so apparently that was allowed now.

 

And Lemenai, of course, was curled around Odysseus' side like a cat, one arm flopped over his chest as if he’d always had dibs.

 

Eventually, once the air had settled and the firelight below flickered softly through the gaps, Gialus spoke first.

 

“I used to steal the pastries off window sills in the village,” he muttered, red eyes glinting. “Not for food. Just to see if I could. I was a little shit.”

 

“You’re still a little shit,” Uloan muttered.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Lemenai piped up next, already giggling. “I once pretended to be a ghost and haunted a well for two months straight until a priest came to exorcise it. Then I made ghost noises at the priest .”

 

Maldovin snorted. “When I was six, I challenged a bull to a fight because my older brother said only brave people could face one.”

 

“…Did you win?” Lemenai asked, eyes wide.

 

Maldovin looked away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

Uloan, still deadpan: “I raised my little sister while working three jobs. She liked bread more than me.”

 

Gialus let out a sympathetic whistle. “Tough luck.”

 

One by one, the stories trickled out—bitter ones, silly ones, some with laughter, some with long pauses. Then, after a beat of silence, all heads slowly turned toward the one person who hadn’t said anything.

 

Odysseus blinked, still curled between Lemenai and Maldovin like a prisoner tucked between pillows.

 

“…What?” he mumbled.

 

“Story time,” Gialus sing-songed.

 

“Your turn,” Lemenai grinned.

 

“I don’t—” Odysseus stalled. Looked away. “I don’t really remember much.”

 

Uloan grunted. “You remember something. ”

 

Odysseus was quiet. Then, quietly, reluctantly:
“…When I was five, I tried to bake a pie using mud, because my mother told me good food makes people happy. So I mixed dirt and flower petals and stuck it in the sun.” A pause. “And then I gave it to my father.”

 

Lemenai covered his mouth.

 

“And he ate it, ” Odysseus said, tone dry. “All of it. Without blinking.”

 

Maldovin blinked. “What the hell?”

 

“Exactly,” Odysseus muttered, eyes distant. “…He said it was the best pie he ever had. Then took me inside and taught me how to make real ones.”

 

Everyone was quiet for a second.

 

Then Lemenai whispered: “…That’s kinda the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. Also, what the fuck .”

 

Odysseus rubbed his face and sighed, deeply.

 

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That kind of sums him up.”

 

Odysseus had expected the conversation to drift away from him after that—maybe someone would toss another joke, maybe Uloan would grumble about firewood or Gialus would bring up some new crime from childhood. But instead, they were all looking at him.

 

Waiting.

 

Lemenai’s chin was still propped on his chest like he was watching a bedtime story unfold. Maldovin had stilled completely, one arm still loosely looped around Odysseus’ shin. Even Uloan looked faintly expectant from his spot near the treehouse entrance, though he was pretending not to.

 

Odysseus sighed again, eyes turned up toward the ceiling beams.

 

“…Fine.”

 

Lemenai grinned.

 

“So—when I was seven,” Odysseus started, “I climbed the olive tree in the back courtyard to spy on my tutor. I thought if I waited until he left, I could sneak off to the harbor and watch the ships.”

 

There was a pause.

 

“…But,” he continued, grudgingly, “I slipped. And fell. On top of my baby sister.”

 

Maldovin snorted, trying not to laugh.

 

“She was maybe four at the time. I landed right on her like a sack of grain.” Odysseus rubbed his eyes. “I bit my tongue, scraped my knee, and started crying like the world was ending.”

 

Lemenai gasped. “And her?! Was she okay??”

 

“Oh, she was fine,” Odysseus muttered. “Didn’t even get a scratch. She just blinked at me, then crawled out from under my legs.”

 

The treehouse was quiet, hanging on the next part.

 

Odysseus exhaled, a small nostalgic smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Then she crouched down next to me, stared me right in the face, and started meowing. Like a cat. Over and over.”

 

“What?” Gialus blinked.

 

“She just—meowed. Loud and dramatic and with full commitment. ‘ Meow, meowww, meeeeeow, ’ right in my face.” He shook his head, that smile growing. “And when I finally looked at her like ‘what the hell are you doing,’ she just grinned and meowed again.”

 

“Did it work?” Lemenai asked, eyes wide.

 

“…Yeah.” Odysseus’ voice dropped a little. “I laughed. Even through the snot and the scraped knee and the sheer embarrassment of falling like a moron—I laughed.”

 

Maldovin chuckled lowly. “Your sister’s got style.”

 

“She’s got problems ,” Odysseus muttered, but the fondness bled through. “But yeah. She was like that.”

 

The treehouse fell into a warm, sleepy quiet again—filled only by soft rustling, the distant chirp of night insects, and the occasional creak of a branch. For the first time in a long while, Odysseus didn’t feel quite so stranded.

 

“…She sounds nice,” Lemenai murmured, voice drifting toward sleep.

 

“She was,” Odysseus said softly, almost to himself. “She really was.”

 

Gialus had been the first to crack.

 

“I once tried to eat a frog,” he muttered flatly from where he was curled against Uloan’s side, long limbs tangled awkwardly. “Thought it was some kind of sea delicacy. Was very confident. Turns out it wasn’t a sea frog. Or edible.”

 

There was a pause—then a snort from Lemenai that set off a chain reaction of snickers and muffled laughter.

 

“Was it alive ?” Odysseus asked, eyebrows raised.

 

Gialus just shrugged, blinking his red eyes slowly. “Briefly.”

 

Uloan muttered something unintelligible in horror and buried his face in his hands.

 

Lemenai, ever dramatic, wiped a fake tear from his cheek. “You poor, poor bastard. That explains so much .”

 

“I was five,” Gialus grumbled, pulling the blanket higher.

 

“You’re still a menace,” Maldovin said sleepily.

 

“Speaking of menaces—” Lemenai rolled onto his back with a grin, arms sprawled dramatically over the moss. “When I was little, I used to sneak out at night and rearrange all the shoes in the village. Left them on rooftops. Threw one pair into a pigpen. They blamed a spirit for two years. ”

 

Gialus wheezed. “You’re evil.”

 

“They built a shrine!” Lemenai cried, grinning wide. “For the ‘Foot Spirit’!”

 

More laughter echoed through the treehouse, warm and easy in the dark.

 

Odysseus had shifted during the stories, settling comfortably with Maldovin’s head in his lap. The older mercenary hadn’t complained, just blinked slowly like a very tired cat and curled closer. Absentmindedly, Odysseus’ fingers threaded through his hair, brushing gentle patterns against his scalp. Maldovin made a quiet, pleased hum, half-asleep.

 

Uloan looked over from his spot, muttering, “Soft bastard,” under his breath.

 

“Jealous?” Maldovin mumbled.

 

“No,” Uloan deadpanned. “You snore.”

 

Another ripple of laughter rolled through the space.

 

“…Once,” Maldovin offered lazily, “I broke my front tooth trying to bite a sword.”

 

Everyone blinked.

 

“What.” Odysseus paused mid-stroke.

 

“I was seven,” he said solemnly. “Wanted to prove I was tough.”

 

“That’s not tough, that’s stupid !” Lemenai howled.

 

“I was seven.”

 

“You’re still stupid,” Gialus yawned.

 

Odysseus snorted quietly, fingers resuming their slow combing through Maldovin’s hair.

 

The treehouse glowed faintly from the small lantern Lemenai had hung, shadows dancing on the walls. The laughter softened, eventually fading into tired sighs and shifting limbs as they tucked into each other—tired, safe, a little more tangled up than before.

 

Odysseus didn’t say much more. He just kept gently running his fingers through Maldovin’s hair, staring out at the stars beyond the tree branches, as if they might one day lead him home.

 

 

Chapter 31: 𓆞﹐Athena﹒🦉

The morning light filtered gently through the branches, speckling the treehouse in soft gold and green. Birds chirped lazily in the distance, and the forest breathed quiet and slow, wrapped in a sleepy hush.

 

Odysseus stirred only slightly, letting out a soft breath and curling tighter against Maldovin, head resting squarely on his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. His arms were wrapped loosely around Maldovin’s waist, one hand clutching the hem of the mercenary’s shirt as if daring the world to try and pry him away.

 

Maldovin sat half-awake, eyes bleary, lips twitching ever so slightly at the sight.

 

Gods, he thought. This man was supposed to be the terror of Troy . The master tactician. The silver-tongued king.

 

And here he was, nuzzling into his lap like a particularly clingy cat, hair sticking up in every direction.

 

Adorable.

 

He reached down and gently brushed a stray lock of hair from Odysseus’ face, thumb grazing his cheekbone before settling against his shoulder. Odysseus made a small, content noise and burrowed closer.

 

Across the treehouse, Lemenai had ended up half on top of Uloan, snoring softly and using the man’s chest as a pillow. One leg was thrown possessively over Uloan’s hip, and both his hands were bunched in the front of his shirt like an overly affectionate barn cat.

 

Uloan looked like he’d resigned himself to his fate sometime in the night.

 

“…You drooled on me,” Uloan grumbled.

 

Lemenai, eyes barely cracking open, mumbled sleepily, “You’re warm. Shut up.”

 

Uloan sighed like a man who had seen battle and found it less exhausting than this.

 

Gialus was hanging halfway off the edge of the platform, arms dangling, looking like he’d died mid-snore. The only thing keeping him from tumbling completely was the arm Maldovin had thrown out to stop him in his sleep—still there, holding Gialus' shirt without even realizing it.

 

There was a heavy grunt.

 

Then a thud.

 

Then a “SON OF A—”

 

Uloan had attempted to rise with the grace of a seasoned mercenary, and instead promptly tripped over Gialus’ dangling leg, sending both of them careening forward and crashing onto the moss-padded floor of the treehouse in a glorious heap.

 

“Wh—WHAT THE FUCK—?!” Gialus yelped as he was rudely jolted awake, face mashed into the wooden floorboards, white hair sticking in every direction.

 

Odysseus jerked upright, still half-asleep, blinking wildly and clutching Maldovin’s arm like a startled cat. Lemenai rolled out of his snuggle pile with a startled, “WHAT IS IT?! ARE WE BEING RAIDED?!”

 

Uloan groaned into the floor. “No. I tripped. Over this idiot. ”

 

“ You tripped over me?! ” Gialus sputtered, flailing from underneath him. “Your boot is in my mouth. ”

 

“Good,” Uloan muttered.

 

Odysseus, hair sticking up like a shocked dandelion puff, squinted at them. “…Why is it so bright?” He rubbed his eyes. “And loud. And wet.”

 

He blinked again.

 

“Wait… wet? ”

 

Maldovin, who had scooted to the edge of the platform to avoid the chaos, frowned and leaned down to peek over the side.

 

Then froze.

 

“…Odysseus.”

 

“Mmh?”

 

“ Do not look down.”

 

Naturally, Odysseus crawled to the edge and looked down.

 

Below the treehouse, where their campfire had once been, was now a glimmering, muddy lake. The rain from last night had been much heavier than they'd realized—and the gentle little rise their treehouse perched on was now a lonely green island in the middle of a shallow flood.

 

“…Oh,” Odysseus said eloquently.

 

“We’re trapped, ” Lemenai added helpfully, staring out at the water with wide eyes.

 

“…Gonna be honest,” Gialus muttered, still facedown. “I blame him.” He pointed vaguely at Odysseus without lifting his head.

 

Odysseus just sat there, blinking at the water, then at his mercenary companions.

 

“…Sooo,” he said with a weak grin, “breakfast?”

 

Lemenai, who had clearly taken his treehouse duties very seriously , perked up and rummaged through a moss-lined bag nestled in a nook of the wooden floor.

 

“I have… a carrot,” he announced proudly, holding it up like a sacred relic. “And also—uh—some wild onions, two tubers, and… this.” He pulled out a tiny, shriveled mushroom. “Don’t eat this one. It might scream.”

 

Everyone stared.

 

Odysseus, without missing a beat, reached over and yoinked Uloan’s shield clean off his back.

 

“ Hey! ” Uloan barked. “That’s not a frying pan—!”

 

“It is now, ” Odysseus said sweetly, already crouched and gathering the driest sticks he could find in the nooks of the treehouse, humming under his breath like this was a normal morning in a kitchen and not the aftermath of fleeing a flooded battlefield cave via vine escape.

 

Gialus just stood there, red eyes wide, blinking rapidly as Odysseus expertly struck flint against steel. “Why do you know how to cook on a shield— ”

 

“You learn things when you’re stuck in mountains for a week with only goats and regrets,” Odysseus muttered, already making the flame catch.

 

Within minutes, the improvised pan was heating over the fire, a thin sheen of oil from one of the mercenaries’ rations sizzling as Odysseus chopped the vegetables with a small knife pulled from somewhere. The smell of crisping onions and herbs filled the treehouse, and even Gialus shut his mouth.

 

The mercenaries stared. Odysseus stirred like a man possessed.

 

“…I’m so scared,” Lemenai whispered. “Why is it actually smelling good— ”

 

“Because I’m a baker, obviously,” Odysseus said smugly, not looking up as he tossed in the carrot.

 

“You’re a war criminal,” Uloan muttered, watching his shield sizzle.

 

“I’m a man of many talents, ” Odysseus said. “Now pass me the salt—or whatever counts as salt out here. Tree bark? Leaves?”

 

Maldovin just slowly sat down beside him and stared at the makeshift stir-fry like it was sorcery.

 

“…Did I fall in love with a domestic fugitive?”

 

Odysseus grinned, bright and smug, and plucked up a long, thin stick from the floorboards. With swift fingers, he stripped the bark off with his knife, smoothing it down with a few careful scrapes until it was clean and slender. Then he held it up with a flourish.

 

“A fork,” he declared, like he’d just invented civilization.

 

Lemenai blinked. “That’s a stick.”

 

Odysseus speared a bit of sizzling carrot and onion and waved it in Lemenai’s face. “It’s a fork if I say it is. Open up.”

 

Lemenai, eyes wide and mildly terrified, opened his mouth—and got a biteful of surprisingly well-seasoned vegetables.

 

“…Huh,” he mumbled around the food. “That’s actually not terrible— ”

 

“ Not terrible?! ” Odysseus gasped in mock offense, already moving on. He scooped up a bit of stir-fry and pointed the stick dramatically at Gialus.

 

Gialus leaned way back. “You come near me with that twig and I bite your hand. ”

 

“I hope you do,” Odysseus grinned wickedly, and fed him anyway.

 

Gialus choked. “What the—why is it good?!”

 

Uloan, arms crossed, tried to look above it all. Until the stick got pointed at him.

 

“…I’ll stab you,” Uloan warned.

 

“You’ll eat this stir-fry, ” Odysseus retorted, and popped a bite into Uloan’s mouth before he could finish the threat.

 

Uloan froze. Chewed. Squinted at the sky.

 

“…Okay. Fine.”

 

Maldovin leaned back lazily against the wall of the treehouse, arms folded, watching Odysseus feed the others like some feral camp dad with a wooden stick and a vendetta. He smirked.

 

“You missed your calling.”

 

Odysseus winked at him, picked out a particularly juicy bite, and held it out wordlessly.

 

Maldovin leaned forward, lips parting slightly—then chomped the food off the stick like a damn wolf, chewing slow, eyes locked with Odysseus the whole time.

 

“…Y’know,” he said after a beat, “if we weren’t stuck in a treehouse above a lake and running from three war-crazed lunatics, this’d be kind of romantic.”

 

Odysseus laughed, wide and warm. “Just another day in paradise.”

 

Lemenai, curled up with a blanket of rough wool and moss, munched on a sautéed sliver of carrot like it was a delicacy from a royal feast. He tilted his head toward Odysseus, brow furrowed thoughtfully.

 

“…Hey,” he said through a mouthful, “why’d you disguise yourself as a baker anyway? Like, out of everything. Could’ve said you were a traveling poet or a sad fisherman or, I dunno, a tax collector or something terrifying. Why that ?”

 

Odysseus paused mid-stir of the sizzling pan, his stick-fork held up in dramatic suspension. For a second, he just blinked at Lemenai like he hadn’t expected anyone to actually ask. Then he looked away and gave a small, sheepish snort.

 

“Because no one’s scared of a baker,” he mumbled, flipping a piece of onion. “No one asks too many questions. You give someone bread, they don’t ask why your hands are covered in old scars. Or why you flinch every time thunder rolls.”

 

The treehouse went quiet.

 

Uloan looked over, slowly lowering his carrot.

 

Gialus raised a single pale brow.

 

Odysseus cleared his throat and kept stirring. “Plus, I actually can bake. Wanted to learn when I was young.” He paused again, then added quieter, “And I liked it. It was quiet. You could think.”

 

Maldovin, still lounging like a cat with a blade, gave a slow, unreadable look at the back of Odysseus’ head. Then he shifted, stood, and stepped over to him. Silently, he reached out, took the stick-fork from his hand, and fed him a piece of the stir-fry with the same motion Odysseus had used on them earlier.

 

“‘S not just bread you’re good at,” he muttered.

 

Odysseus chewed and swallowed, looking caught.

 

Lemenai, meanwhile, was scribbling something into a damp notebook. “Okay so next time I’m on the run from violent lunatics I’m gonna say I’m a pastry chef—people love pastries.”

 

Gialus smacked him in the back of the head.

 

Odysseus smiled around another bite of stir-fry, eyes crinkling a little with something warm and tired but soft. He leaned forward on impulse, cupping the side of Maldovin’s face with one hand, and pressed a kiss right to his forehead — gentle, like a seal or a promise.

 

Maldovin blinked, completely still for a second.

 

Then his ears went pink. “...You can’t just do that.”

 

“I just did,” Odysseus said smugly, licking sauce from his thumb like a menace.

 

Lemenai, from the moss pile, gasped — audibly .

 

“EXCUSE me! EXCUSE me! I have also endured hardship, emotional trauma, and made you moss bedding like a feral wife!! Where is my forehead kiss?!”

 

Odysseus turned toward him, deadpan. “You hit people with dirt.”

 

“And I’d do it again!” Lemenai sniffed, adjusting his tangled ponytail with pride. “Now pucker up, Bread Prince.”

 

Odysseus sighed like a long-suffering father of ten, crawled over, and — very dramatically — smooched Lemenai’s forehead with a loud mwah.

 

Lemenai lit up like a sunrise. “I’m telling Uloan.”

 

“I’m right here,” Uloan grunted, absolutely unimpressed, munching on a carrot like it was a cigar.

 

“I’m telling you again,” Lemenai said sweetly, snuggling right back into his side like an aggressively smug barnacle.

 

Odysseus settled back down with a soft grunt, stretching his arms behind his head and glancing through the canopy of the treehouse roof. The rain hadn’t stopped — a gentle patter now, drumming steady against the wood and leaves overhead. Somewhere, the wind rustled, but up here… it felt safe. Insulated. Like a pocket of warmth in the middle of a flooded world.

 

One by one, they all gravitated toward him.

 

Lemenai curled up first, like a smug little cat, throwing a leg across Odysseus’ shins with zero shame. “You’re warm,” he mumbled.

 

“That’s because I’m being smothered,” Odysseus said dryly, not moving him.

 

Uloan settled next, grumbling something about space and boundaries — and then very obviously laid down close enough for their shoulders to touch.

 

Gialus, shivering slightly from the damp air, flopped down without a word and nestled himself along Odysseus’ other side, red eyes half-lidded. His fingers, pale and cold, brushed against Odysseus’ arm before stilling.

 

Maldovin hesitated the longest. He stood over them all for a second, arms folded, expression unreadable… until Odysseus reached a hand up, wordless.

 

Maldovin sighed, like this was all terribly inconvenient, and promptly lowered himself into Odysseus’ chest with surprising care. His head tucked beneath Odysseus’ chin like it belonged there.

 

No one said anything for a while. The warmth shared between them was slow, steady — like kindling that had finally caught. Rain hissed in the distance. Below, the flood sloshed quietly, but above, it was all moss, blankets, and soft breathing.

 

Odysseus smiled faintly to himself, eyes half-shut.

 

Maybe, just maybe… this wasn’t the worst kind of trap to be stuck in.

 

The rain hadn’t let up, but nobody really minded anymore.

 

With everyone curled around him like a pile of oversized, overdramatic puppies, Odysseus shifted a little—just enough to get more comfortable with Maldovin’s head tucked under his chin, Gialus’ arm loosely looped around his waist, Lemenai’s foot somewhere on his thigh, and Uloan acting like he wasn’t clinging at all when he clearly was.

 

“So,” Odysseus said suddenly, voice low and warm like a secret. “You wanna hear something really stupid?”

 

Gialus gave a muffled, “Always.”

 

Lemenai perked up instantly. “If it involves someone falling, I’m in.”

 

“Oh, it does,” Odysseus said, grinning. “Picture this. First month after Achilles joins the war. We’re scouting this ridge, right? Trying to find a better place to ambush a supply line. And Achilles—golden boy Achilles—decides he knows best. Starts sprinting ahead like a damn show horse.”

 

Uloan snorted.

 

“There’s a shallow ditch,” Odysseus continued, eyes glinting. “Barely a foot deep. You’d think the best warrior of our generation would see it. Right? Wrong. He trips, he flails, he falls face-first into the mud like a sack of flour.”

 

Lemenai wheezed . “No!”

 

“Oh yes,” Odysseus said. “And here’s the best part—Patroclus—his little shadow— laughs . Not a normal laugh. No, he laughs so hard he falls in too. They’re both rolling around in the muck, one screaming and one crying from laughter, and they’re covered .”

 

“They okay?” Uloan asked.

 

“Physically? Yeah. Emotionally? Absolutely ruined,” Odysseus said. “Achilles wouldn’t talk to anyone for a whole day. Patroclus kept calling him ‘Swamp Prince.’”

 

Everyone died laughing. Even Uloan, who tried so hard to be gruff, let out a huffed chuckle against the back of his hand. Lemenai was wiping tears. Gialus actually rolled off Odysseus’ side and thumped the moss.

 

Odysseus chuckled to himself and went on, “Then there was that time Diomedes ate something he thought was bread but turned out to be a hardened hunk of soap. Guess who found out after the second bite?”

 

“Oh my gods,” Gialus wheezed. “This war sounds like a traveling circus.”

 

“You have no idea,” Odysseus said fondly, his voice softer now. “It’s awful. It’s long. But the people in it… They make it bearable.”

 

And for just a moment, the laughter ebbed into something quieter, steadier. The kind of hush that came from shared warmth, from knowing someone trusted you enough to tell stories they didn’t have to.

 

Outside, the rain drummed on. Inside, in their treehouse cocoon, they were still warm. Still tangled together. Still laughing.

 

Gialus snorted, breath still catching from the last bout of laughter. “Alright, alright,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow, white hair falling into his face. “My turn.”

 

Everyone hushed up with expectant grins.

 

“So,” Gialus began, eyes gleaming crimson in the dim treehouse light, “back before all this mess, I was in this… group. Guild. Y’know. Organization of likeminded individuals with a shared interest in not starving to death. ”

 

“Sounds shady,” Uloan muttered into the blanket.

 

“Thanks, I try,” Gialus said with a wink. “Anyway. We’re escorting this fancy wagon through this festival crowd, right? Full parade energy. People dancing, nobles throwing roses, kids running around stealing snacks—I’m eating a candied fig, not doing a damn thing I’m supposed to—when our fearless, all-important, holier-than-thou guildmaster tries to jump down from the cart to make a grand entrance. ”

 

Odysseus already had a hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh too soon.

 

“Well,” Gialus said, dragging the word like a drumroll. “His foot catches on the rail. He flips. Like a fish. Arms windmilling, cloak flying like a damn flag. Lands face first into the lap of this high-ranking noblewoman. Directly. Into. Her. Crotch.”

 

Lemenai gasped . “NO.”

 

“Yup,” Gialus said smugly, basking in the chaos. “And he doesn’t even bounce off. He sticks there for a second. Just— whump . She's screaming. He’s screaming . The guards start drawing swords because it looks like an assassination attempt via pelvic impact. I’m in the corner choking on my fig.”

 

“Oh my gods,” Odysseus wheezed.

 

“What happened after?” Uloan demanded.

 

Gialus stretched like a cat and sighed dramatically. “He apologized, retired in disgrace, and now breeds chickens in a marsh. I send him letters. Sign them all with little doodles of noble ladies with angry eyebrows.”

 

They all cackled . Even Uloan let out a startled bark of a laugh, and Lemenai nearly rolled out of the treehouse. Odysseus’ face was buried in Maldovin’s shoulder, his whole body shaking with giggles.

 

“I have so many questions about that guild,” Lemenai panted.

 

“And you’re getting none of them answered,” Gialus said cheerfully, tucking his hands behind his head and grinning. “Guild rules.”

 

Odysseus wiped a tear from his eye. “That poor lady.”

 

“She sued us for emotional damage,” Gialus said. “Guild rule number three: never trust a cart.”

 

They all dissolved again, the sound of rain like applause overhead.

 

Lemenai, cheeks still flushed from laughing, suddenly shot upright and reached behind him. “Alright, that’s it,” he declared, grabbing one of the wool-stuffed makeshift blankets Uloan had hunted sheep for. “I can’t take Maldovin’s smug little grin anymore—”

 

“What?” Maldovin blinked, caught off guard.

 

WHUMP!

 

The blanket smacked him square in the face.

 

There was a stunned pause.

 

Gialus, wide-eyed, whispered, “You just declared war.”

 

“Oh, you’re dead,” Maldovin muttered through the wool, ripping the blanket off and grabbing the nearest moss-padded pillow with murder in his eyes.

 

“BRING IT!” Lemenai squealed, scrambling backward and immediately smacking Uloan with the edge of his own blanket in panic.

 

“Why me?!” Uloan grunted, before grabbing the moss-pillow and whacking Lemenai in the gut with the force of a disgruntled older sibling.

 

“Hey!” Lemenai wheezed, cackling.

 

Odysseus ducked just as Gialus launched another blanket missile, missing his head by inches and hitting the wall with a soft fwump . “This is sacred ground!” he yelped. “This is a home! A baker’s retreat! ”

 

“Oh gods,” Gialus said gleefully, tossing a pillow at him anyway. “The traitor bakes and lies! ”

 

Odysseus caught the pillow with both hands and lunged , twisting around and smacking Maldovin gently in the ribs with it. “Consider that payback for kidnapping me, sir mercenary!”

 

Maldovin grinned, catching him around the waist in retaliation and threateningly brandishing another pillow. “You kissed me this morning.”

 

“That’s unrelated!”

 

Lemenai screeched as Uloan picked him up entirely and deposited him in a pile of discarded bedding, then got pelted in the head by a triumphant Gialus wielding a blanket like a whip.

 

“You fools,” Odysseus called, standing on a pile of moss with a half-unraveled pillow like a flag. “You’ve underestimated a man who grew up with a little sister. I have training. ”

 

Maldovin tackled him.

 

And like that, the treehouse became a storm of moss, wool, laughter, and flailing limbs, the outside rain nothing compared to the riot of warmth inside.

 

Somewhere, in the chaos, Lemenai yelled, “WE NEED MORE BLANKETS!”

 

Gialus shouted, “WE NEED A KING!”

 

“—I abdicate!” Odysseus gasped out, barely able to breathe through his laughter as Maldovin wrestled him into the bedding pile again.

 

“You can’t abdicate! ” Gialus shrieked dramatically from his corner, launching himself across the treehouse like a feral squirrel. “You started the rebellion!”

 

“I started NOTHING—!”

 

Odysseus yelped, biting Maldovin’s shoulder.

 

There was a beat .

 

Maldovin froze.

 

“…Did you just bite me?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

 

Odysseus grinned up at him with too many teeth. “Maybe.”

 

“Oh it’s on,” Maldovin said, and bit back.

 

“HEY—!” Odysseus flailed.

 

“BITING IS ILLEGAL,” Uloan barked from across the room—right before Lemenai bit his arm and ran.

 

“YOU LITTLE DEMON—!”

 

“I LEARNED FROM THE BEST!” Lemenai screamed as he skittered across the bedding.

 

“WE’RE DESCENDING INTO PRIMALITY,” Gialus howled, before biting Maldovin’s arm.

 

“WHY ME?!” Maldovin barked, flailing.

 

“YOU STARTED IT,” Polites’ voice echoed from no goddamn where.

 

“Polites isn’t even here—!” Odysseus cried, full-body rolling away from Maldovin and biting his ankle on the way out.

 

“ODYSSEUS!”

 

They were a tangle. An actual, biting, snarling, laughing, shrieking tangle of limbs and teeth and pillows, moss flying through the air like battlefield debris. Uloan had Lemenai in a headlock; Lemenai was gnawing his way free like a rabbit. Gialus bit Maldovin, Maldovin bit Odysseus, Odysseus bit everyone.

 

“I TAKE IT BACK—” Gialus screamed. “WE DON’T NEED A KING, WE NEED A WARDEN! ”

 

“I’M THE WARDEN NOW!” Lemenai declared, biting Uloan’s knuckles.

 

“YOU’RE THE INMATE! ”

 

In the middle of it all, Odysseus cackled like a man possessed, one arm around a pillow and one leg latched to Maldovin’s waist, yelling, “WELCOME TO THE TREEHOUSE OF DEATH!!”

 

Someone bit his side.

 

“—OW!”

 

And the chaos rolled on.

 

The chaos reached its climax when Uloan lost his footing, slipped on a moss pillow, and collapsed into the entire writhing pile of limbs and teeth with a thunderous thud that shook the whole treehouse.

 

There was a beat of silence.

 

Then—

 

“…Ow,” someone muttered from the depths.

 

Then another giggle.

 

Then a snort.

 

Then absolute carnage .

 

The entire group burst into unfiltered, breathless, gasping laughter .

 

Lemenai was wheezing so hard he rolled out of the bedding entirely and flopped dramatically on the floorboards like a dying fish. Gialus had tears in his eyes, face flushed as he pointed uselessly at Uloan, who was groaning in pain and dignity loss. Maldovin was still pinned under Odysseus, who had one arm slung lazily over his chest, both of them laughing so hard they couldn’t breathe.

 

Odysseus wiped at his eyes and wheezed, “I—I can’t feel my ribs—”

 

“You don’t need ribs to rule,” Gialus choked out between snickers.

 

“Good,” Lemenai said brightly from the floor, still upside down. “We’re abolishing the monarchy.”

 

“Wha—I just got crowned—!”

 

“We voted. Uloan’s king now.”

 

“I don’t want to be king—” Uloan growled.

 

“You are!” Lemenai said cheerfully. “Anyway. New rule. No more lying.”

 

That actually got some quiet.

 

The rain was still gently pattering outside, and for the first time since the laughter began, they all looked at one another—breathless, half-covered in moss, tangled in each other and in blankets and warmth. The calm after the storm.

 

“No more lying?” Gialus asked, flicking white hair out of his eyes.

 

“No more,” Lemenai said, now sitting up properly, serious for once. “Not to each other.”

 

“Fine,” Maldovin grunted, giving Odysseus a pointed look.

 

“Agreed,” Uloan muttered.

 

Gialus raised his pinky. “Pinky swear or it doesn’t count.”

 

“Oh my god —” Uloan groaned.

 

“PINKY SWEAR.”

 

One by one, begrudgingly, pinkies were extended and linked.

 

Finally, all eyes landed on Odysseus, who looked very much like a cat being asked to take a bath.

 

He paused.

 

“…This is stupid,” he muttered.

 

Glares.

 

“…Fine.” He sighed dramatically, reached up, and hooked his pinky with Maldovin’s. “No more lying.”

 

“And no more running away,” Lemenai added.

 

“What? No—”

 

“NO MORE.”

 

“Ugh, FINE,” Odysseus groaned, flopping back into the blankets. “You all suck.”

 

“You love us,” Maldovin muttered, brushing his fingers through Odysseus’ curls.

 

Odysseus glared half-heartedly up at him.

 

Then sighed.

 

“…Yeah. I do.”

 

Odysseus was curled up between Maldovin and Gialus, half-listening to Lemenai try to convince Uloan that “if we eat the pillow, we become the pillow,” when he shifted to sit up—

 

—and felt something click against his ribs.

 

His brows knit. He reached under his shirt, fingers brushing against something smooth, cool, and unfamiliar.

 

He pulled it out slowly.

 

A tiny, carved wooden trinket , no bigger than his thumb. Worn, but unmistakable.

 

An owl.

 

Big-eyed. Smug.

 

And worst of all—

 

Burned into the base: Δ.

 

He stared at it in horror. In betrayal. In existential agony .

 

“What’s that?” Maldovin asked, still lazily running a hand through Odysseus’ hair.

 

Odysseus didn’t answer.

 

He was too busy dying inside .

 

“Odysseus?” Gialus asked, leaning closer.

 

Lemenai blinked and tipped his head.

 

“…Is that a bug?” Uloan narrowed his eyes.

 

“Is that— Did Diomedes bug you? ” Lemenai gasped.

 

Odysseus opened his mouth.

 

Closed it.

 

Opened it again.

 

“THAT LITTLE— !” he screeched, throwing the trinket across the treehouse. It bounced off the wall and thunked to the floor with the most smug owl energy imaginable.

 

“I knew he was clingy, but this?! A spy trinket?! I AM GOING TO PUNT THAT MAN INTO THE SEA—”

 

“So Athena knows where you are?” Gialus asked.

 

Odysseus grabbed his head and howled , flopping back down into Maldovin’s lap with a dramatic thump .

 

“I’m doomed ,” he moaned. “She’s gonna show up in my soup again—”

 

“She WHAT—”

 

“She materializes in food, Gialus, do not question the owl bitch’s ways—!”

 

Maldovin scooped the trinket off the ground, inspecting it.

 

“…Should we destroy it?”

 

“NO—yes— maybe —” Odysseus looked conflicted. “If we break it, she’ll know I found it. If we don’t break it, she’ll find me. If we give it to Lemenai, he’ll probably start worshiping it—”

 

“I would,” Lemenai confirmed.

 

“We need a decoy,” Uloan grunted.

 

“I need to lay down ,” Odysseus muttered.

 

“You are laying down,” Maldovin said gently.

 

Odysseus whimpered and covered his face. “Not emotionally .”

 

Everyone stared at the owl trinket.

 

It stared back.

 

Mockingly.

 

Judgmentally.

 

Athena was watching.

 

Lemenai slowly reached for a stick. “I will fight her.”

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

The cave stank of damp stone and frustration.

 

Diomedes sat on a rock, arms crossed, a storm cloud of guilt overhead. Beside him, Eurylochus and Polites were still sulking like kicked dogs. The cut vine dangled mockingly above them.

 

And in front of him, in all her mortal, furious, manic glory—

Athena.

 

Veins popped in her neck as she screamed , pacing in circles.

 

“—YOU LOST HIM?! You had ONE JOB— ONE! How do you lose Odysseus?! How do you lose my favorite mortal ?!”

 

“I—” Diomedes started.

 

“Shut up.” She spun on him, eyes crazed. “Do you know how long I’ve been planning this?! Do you know how delicate this timeline is?! The dreams I’ve sent?! The omens I hand-crafted?! I had to whisper into eight goat herders’ ears just to get you idiots close to that cave! Do you know what it’s like whispering into goat herders' dreams, Diomedes?! ”

 

He blinked. “…Not especially.”

 

“IT SUCKS!”

 

Eurylochus winced. Polites shrank back.

 

Athena began tearing leaves off a nearby vine like they’d personally offended her. “I should smite you. I should smite all of you. I should turn you into frogs and throw you into Ithaca’s sewers—”

 

“I bugged him.”

 

She froze.

 

Slowly, slowly , she turned.

 

“…What?”

 

Diomedes pulled a small replica of the owl charm from his cloak, held it up, and said calmly:

 

“I put one on his tunic. He doesn't know. Probably.”

 

Athena was still.

 

Then trembling.

 

Then shaking.

 

Then she shoved her fists into her mouth to muffle the shriek she was clearly trying to keep from escaping.

 

“…You beautiful, violent, paranoid man,” she hissed through her fingers.

 

“I know,” he muttered.

 

Her eyes gleamed.

 

She reached out, grabbed his face with both hands, and pulled him in nose-to-nose.

 

“If this works,” she whispered, trembling, “I’m making you a war god.”

 

Diomedes blinked. “Okay.”

 

“If it doesn’t , I’m turning you into a slug. ”

 

“That’s fair.”

 

She grinned, deranged. “We’re going hunting.”

 

Polites muttered from the side, “This is why Odysseus ran away.”

 

Athena didn’t even blink.

 

She turned toward the trinket’s faint signal in the distance, cracked her knuckles—
—and started walking with the kind of purpose that made trees wilt.

 

Diomedes followed.

 

Silently hoping Odysseus was not currently cuddling some strange mercenary on a mossy treehouse floor.

 

...Because he would never hear the end of it.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿　　

 

It was a peaceful morning.

 

The treehouse creaked gently in the breeze, the soft rustling of leaves lulling the group into a rare kind of serenity. Odysseus was curled up in the middle of the mercenaries’ dogpile, Maldovin's lap pillowed under his head, one hand lazily playing with the edge of Lemenai’s blanket while Uloan muttered something sleepy into a pillow made of wool.

Then—

 

FLASH.

 

There was no warning.

No sound.

No wind.

 

Just divine fury wrapped in maternal affection .

 

“ ODYSSEUS! ”

 

Before anyone could blink—

 

WHAM.

 

A blur of pale robes and glowing gold slammed down from the canopy above, like the wrath of Olympus wrapped in silk and obsession.

 

“ACK—!” Odysseus yelped as he was tackled to the floor of the treehouse.

 

Everyone shouted . Uloan went for a dagger. Maldovin lunged to grab Odysseus back—
But it was too late.

 

Odysseus was on his back, blinking wildly as a tall woman with owl-grey eyes and a crown of olive leaves smushed her face into his chest and wrapped her arms around him like a mother bear from hell.

 

“My baby,” she whispered, stroking his hair. “My sweet, squishy, precious favorite. ”

 

“…A-Athena,” Odysseus wheezed, stiff as a board. “Please get off—”

 

“Do you know how WORRIED I was?!” she sobbed dramatically, rubbing her cheek against his like some deranged aunt. “You ran away ! You fell off the map ! You cuddled people who weren’t me! ”

 

“I—what—who—???”

 

She ignored him.

 

“Look at you, all dirty and skinny and adorable,” she sniffled, cupping his face like he was five years old. “Were you eating enough? Who are these people? Did they poison you?!”

 

“W-We were eating stir-fry,” Odysseus said helplessly as Gialus, Lemenai, and Uloan all stared, stunned. “Lemenai picked the carrots—”

 

“OH, my smart little chef , always so clever,” Athena cooed, cradling his face and swaying. “And pretending to be a baker ? GENIUS. Only you would think of that.”

 

Maldovin was red in the face, jaw clenched.

 

“…Who the fuck is this?” he hissed.

 

Polites' voice drifted faintly up from the forest below.

 

“That's Athena,” he shouted. “She’s his divine stalker. ”

 

“I AM NOT A STALKER!” Athena shouted without looking up.

 

“…You bugged him,” Uloan muttered, glaring.

 

Athena just purred and pressed her forehead to Odysseus’.

 

“You can’t leave me, dove. Not ever again. Mommy’s here now.”

 

Odysseus looked like he wanted to die.

 

“…Please let me go,” he whispered.

 

She did not.

 

Odysseus stared up at the canopy of leaves overhead, completely and utterly stunned .

 

Athena— ATHENA —was sprawled over him like a weighted blanket made of divine madness. Her knees were digging into his ribs. Her hands were squishing his cheeks. And her face was buried so far into his neck that he could feel her muttering to herself like a lunatic.

 

This—this wasn’t normal.

 

“Athena…?” he asked hesitantly, squinting up at her. “You good? You’re not usually—um—like this.”

 

“LIKE WHAT ?” she barked, lifting her head with wide, manic eyes.

 

Odysseus flinched.

 

“This,” he gestured vaguely at her body sprawled over him. “You usually just… show up, make cryptic metaphors, slap me upside the head with fate, and then vanish in a flash of drama. Not… this.” He pointed. “This is new.”

 

Athena’s expression twitched.

 

And then she hugged him tighter.

 

“No, no no no no no,” she hissed, wrapping her arms around his waist like a snake. “You ran. You left me . You found other people to cuddle with. You made friends. You made jokes . Without me.”

 

“I didn’t think you liked jokes,” Odysseus said blankly.

 

“I DON’T,” she wailed, “but I like you ! And now you’ve bonded with—” she snapped her head toward Maldovin and sneered, “ that man. ”

 

Maldovin, halfway through trying to wedge a knife between them, paused.

 

“…What?”

 

“You weren’t supposed to make new friends!” Athena cried, rocking back and forth with him like a feral mother rocking her firstborn. “You’re mine , dove. My little mortal. My special chosen boy—look at your cheeks, they’re thinner. Have you been stressed? Has he been stressing you out?!”

 

“She’s insane,” Gialus muttered to Uloan, who was nodding grimly.

 

Lemenai was hiding behind a pillow.

 

Odysseus could barely breathe.

 

This was beyond anything he had ever experienced. Athena was acting like Ctimene used to when she was six and didn’t want to share him with other kids.

 

Athena’s arms wrapped tighter.

 

“I’m never letting go again,” she murmured, voice trembling. “Never. You’ll sleep in my temple. We’ll have breakfast every morning. I’ll braid your hair. I’ll destroy anyone who tries to take you. You’re MINE—”

 

Odysseus, in a desperate act of survival instinct—

 

Reached up and gently patted her hair.

 

Athena froze.

 

“…There we go,” he murmured shakily. “See? I’m still here. Just—just calm down.”

 

She stared down at him, lips parted, expression faltering like a lightning storm slowly fading into drizzle.

 

“…You’re petting me.”

 

“Yup.”

 

“…You’ve never pet me before.”

 

“Desperate times,” he whispered.

 

Athena, somehow, melted.

 

Her grip softened. Her face rested against his collarbone again. And for the first time since crashing into him like a divine meteor, she exhaled softly and went quiet.

 

Odysseus, still flat on his back beneath her, gave Maldovin a helpless, horrified look.

 

“…Help me,” he mouthed.

 

Maldovin mouthed back:

“You deserve this.”

 

Odysseus waited. Waited for the terrifying quiet to pass.

 

It didn’t.

 

Athena was still clinging to him. She had gone limp like a satisfied cat, her face mashed into his shoulder, one leg hooked over his hip like she lived there now. The kind of cling that said, “If you try to move, I will bring down the sky.”

 

Odysseus shifted.

 

She squeezed tighter.

 

He wheezed.

 

“I’m just—I’m gonna—just a little bit of air—” he mumbled, and tried to pry her off with both hands, fingers sliding desperately under her arms like a man trying to free himself from a very aggressive octopus.

 

Her grip didn’t budge.

 

Not even a little.

 

He grunted. Twisted. Tried leverage. Nothing. She was a goddess of war and wisdom and apparently also a divine boulder with abandonment issues.

 

“Athena,” he rasped, “you’re crushing my spleen—”

 

“I should CRUSH YOUR NECK,” she snapped, suddenly lifting her head just enough to glare down at him. Her hair was wild, her eyes glowing faintly. “WHAT were you thinking, Odysseus Laertiádēs?! Disguising yourself, disappearing, abandoning your mission—!”

 

“I just wanted to go home—!”

 

“You wanted to get killed! ” she barked, jabbing his forehead with her finger hard enough to thunk. “Do you know what the mortals down there would do to you? Your enemies? Your adorers ? Your idiotic companions?! ”

 

Athena took a deep breath, now full-on hovering over him like a righteous stormcloud.

 

“And YOU,” she seethed, shaking him by the shoulders. “You let yourself get dragged away by mercenaries. Mercenaries , Odysseus! Men with knives! That one bit someone!”

 

Lemenai, off to the side with a mouth full of dried bread, paused.

 

 “…I regret nothing.”

 

“I was FINE,” Odysseus insisted, flailing a bit under her. “I had a new name! I was a baker! I wore an apron and everything—”

 

“I don’t CARE what you wore!” Athena shouted. “You think an apron makes you un-stabbable? That you can escape fate with bread? What next, you gonna forge a peace treaty with some olive oil and call it strategy?!”

 

“…Can I?”

 

“NO!”

 

Odysseus groaned and buried his face in his hands.

 

Athena hovered. Fuming. Breathing hard.

 

“I thought you were DEAD,” she whispered, suddenly very quiet. “And I would’ve felt it. But I didn’t. And I—I was so confused. You just— left. Without a word. Without me.”

 

“…I left everyone,” Odysseus whispered.

 

“Well, don’t do it again ,” she snapped. And then she yanked him back into another chokehold of a hug. “Or so help me, I’ll chain you to my altar.”

 

He squawked.

 

“You’re not serious—”

 

“I’m making you a nest.”

 

“A nest—?”

 

Athena pulled out a scroll and began muttering about temple renovations.

 

Maldovin was already edging toward the exit.

 

Lemenai was hiding under a blanket.

 

Uloan just sat down and covered his face.

 

Odysseus sighed.

“…I miss the bakery.”

 

Odysseus' face was buried in Athena’s chest like a child lost at a festival—except he was not lost, and this was not voluntary.

 

She had resumed humming. Humming. While gently stroking his hair like a deranged bird mother returning to her precious chick. He could feel her grip slowly tightening, possessive and holy and deeply unhinged .

 

Odysseus’ eyes slowly creaked open, looking past her shoulder.

 

And locked eyes with Maldovin.

 

Wide. Wild. Desperate.

 

His pupils shrank to pinpricks as he mouthed:

 

“HELP ME.”

 

Maldovin blinked. Looked at Athena. Then back at Odysseus.

 

Odysseus added a frantic head shake.

He mouthed again, sharper:

“SHE’S INSANE.”

 

Lemenai peeked from under the blanket and caught sight of Odysseus’ face.

 

“…he’s got the Crazy Eyes,” Lemenai whispered.

 

“Yep,” Gialus murmured, brushing a twig out of his white hair. “He’s on the brink.”

 

“She’s gonna nest him like a damn pigeon, ” Uloan muttered.

 

Athena, still hugging Odysseus like he might vanish into mist, purred, “I think I’ll carve your name into my arm. Yes. Just to remind myself. O-dy-sseus. In Ionian script. Beautiful.”

 

Odysseus didn’t scream.

But he definitely whimpered.

 

Maldovin stood slowly, brushing invisible dust off his pants.

 

“We need a plan,” he whispered to the others. “He’s got the limbs of a war general and the dignity of a soggy sandwich right now, but we can extract him.”

 

“Bait?” Gialus offered.

 

“Explosions?” Lemenai suggested hopefully.

 

“I could punch her,” Uloan muttered darkly.

 

“No punching the goddess,” Maldovin said sternly.

 

“...Light punching?” Uloan tried.

 

“No.”

 

Athena, meanwhile, had started braiding Odysseus’ hair and whispering about turning his blood into ambrosia for communion rituals.

 

“Okay, we’re doing this,” Maldovin whispered. “Uloan, distract her. Gialus, rope. Lemenai, do literally anything chaotic. ”

 

Lemenai saluted like a gremlin general and yeeted a nearby rock at a tree trunk, which exploded in a very suspicious burst of powder.

 

“WHO DARES—” Athena’s head snapped up.

 

Odysseus BOLTED.

 

Or at least tried to—he made it two steps before she yanked him back by the tunic like an angry hawk reclaiming her prey.

 

“MALDOVIN!” he shrieked.

 

“ON IT—”

 

Maldovin dove in, grabbed Odysseus by the waist like a sack of flour, and yeeted him over his shoulder.

 

Athena lunged—Uloan blocked her path, lifting a chunk of wood like a shield.

 

“Back. I’m warning you.”

 

She glared at him.

 

He sweated.

 

Odysseus, now flailing upside down on Maldovin’s back, yelled, “WHY ARE WE UPSIDE DOWN—”

 

“You're not upside down,” Maldovin grunted. “ You are. The world is fine.”

 

Gialus looped a rope around Athena’s legs mid-lunge, tripping her just long enough for all four mercenaries—and their extremely confused, barely-braided war general—to escape into the woods.

 

Odysseus, breathless, wheezed, “I owe you so many loaves of bread.”

 

“You owe me a normal week ,” Maldovin huffed. “One. Just one .”

 

Behind them, Athena’s voice echoed through the trees like a banshee wrapped in divine fury:

 

“ODYSSEEEEEUS—!!”

 

He whimpered and clung tighter to Maldovin’s shoulder.

 

“I should’ve stayed a baker.”

 

They ran.

 

Not just "oops we’re being chased" ran—no, this was divine-horror-nightmare-run-for-your-soul kind of running. The kind of running where the trees bent wrong and the air felt sentient and spiteful, and the forest itself started to whisper.

 

“Odysseeeeeus~”

 

The voice slithered between branches, echoing unnaturally, close and far at once. Leaves trembled. Moss curdled. A fox looked up and dropped dead.

 

“She’s floating!” Lemenai screeched behind them. “SHE’S NOT EVEN WALKING! ”

 

“Of course she’s not!” Gialus barked, slipping in the mud. “GODDESSES DON’T HAVE TO WALK!”

 

“She’s smiling!” Uloan bellowed from the back. “WHY IS SHE SMILING?!”

 

“She’s not smiling,” Odysseus wheezed from where Maldovin was still hauling him like luggage. “She’s— hyperventilating from excitement. That’s worse.”

 

“She’s bleeding from the eyes, ” Lemenai added in a cracked voice.

 

There was a moment of silence as that processed.

 

Then:

 

“WE'RE GONNA DIE,” Gialus declared, wildly waving a stick. “SHE’S GONNA TURN US INTO BREAD. ”

 

“I knew I should’ve joined the fish cult!” Lemenai sobbed.

 

“I left my SISTER for this!” Uloan snapped, hurling a rock behind him. It bounced off a tree and burst into flames.

 

Athena’s laughter curled like smoke.

 

“ODYSSEEEEEUS—YOU’RE COLD. LET ME WARM YOU. LET ME—FIX YOU.”

 

Odysseus kicked his legs like a dying grasshopper.

 

“DOES SHE MEAN THAT EMOTIONALLY OR LITERALLY?! ”

 

“I don’t know!!” Maldovin shouted. “But her hands were glowing! ”

 

Suddenly—roots burst from the earth. Pale, slick, unnatural, reaching. One snapped like a whip toward Gialus, who screamed and somersaulted over it. Lemenai shrieked and bolted faster than any mortal had the right to move.

 

“I AM NOT BEING MOTHERED TO DEATH,” Lemenai wailed.

 

A divine beam exploded behind them, vaporizing a rock and most of a tree.

 

“She just vaporized a fucking TREE!” Gialus howled.

 

“Shut up and RUN!”

 

Maldovin skidded around a bend, still holding Odysseus like a sack of rice, who was now kicking violently.

 

“I CAN RUN MYSELF NOW—PUT ME DOWN—”

 

“YOU’LL SPRINT INTO HER ARMS—YOU’RE TOO TRAUMATIZED TO TRUST.”

 

“...fair,” Odysseus panted.

 

Uloan took the lead, hacking through vines. “We’re heading for the canyon—jump or we’re done.”

 

They reached the edge—

 

And there it was.

 

A sheer drop. Fogged. Treacherous. Probably fatal.

 

Behind them, Athena burst through the trees, her form glowing , eyes blazing, mouth open in a grin far too wide—

 

“COME TO MAMA—!!”

 

Lemenai screamed.

 

Odysseus took a breath, looked at his group.

 

Then yelled, “EVERYBODY JUMP—”

 

And over the edge they went.

 

SPLASH.

 

They hit the water like boulders—limbs flailing, mouths open, some of them screaming, one of them (Gialus) definitely crying.

 

Cold. Blinding. Sharp.

 

The river churned, swallowing them, dragging them under and then spitting them back up like it hated the taste.

 

Odysseus surfaced with a gargle, hair plastered to his skull, clinging like seaweed to Maldovin’s shoulder. “WHY IS THIS OUR LIFE,” he spluttered.

 

“I CAN’T FEEL MY SPINE,” Lemenai wailed somewhere downstream.

 

“MY EYES ,” Gialus gasped. “WHY IS THE WATER SPICY—”

 

“Get to the rocks—there’s a cave!” Uloan barked, already paddling with one arm and dragging Lemenai by the collar with the other like a soggy kitten.

 

They floundered, coughed, and swam like very determined, very waterlogged rats until they reached the edge. Uloan was the first to haul himself into the mossy, dripping cave mouth. Maldovin shoved Odysseus up after him, and soon the whole group was collapsed inside—shivering, soaked, half-dead—but alive.

 

And for a moment—

 

Silence.

 

The water still rushed outside. The storm hissed on the cliffs above. A droplet plinked off Gialus’ nose.

 

Odysseus sat up slowly, still panting, and looked around.

 

Dark, but not pitch black. Moss on the walls. Familiar curvature in the stone. A faint smell of wet limestone and—

 

He blinked.

 

“…I feel like I’ve been here before,” he muttered hoarsely.

 

Maldovin raised an eyebrow. “What?”

 

“I—It just feels… familiar. Like. I know this cave. Or one like it. I don’t know.” He rubbed his temples and squinted at the walls. “I think I almost died here once.”

 

“Bold of you to assume that narrows it down,” Gialus grumbled, wringing out his cloak like a miserable cat.

 

Lemenai coughed and sat up, rubbing his arm. “Okay but—more importantly— what in the nine hells was that?! What was that —” he pointed vaguely at the sky, “—why was that goddess unhinged like a cracked temple door?!”

 

“Yeah,” Gialus growled, pale eyes glowing slightly in the dark. “I’ve seen people obsessed with lovers, gold, revenge. That was something else. That was… like—like a holy possessive mother complex. That was unnatural.”

 

“I think she was purring,” Lemenai muttered, hugging his knees.

 

Everyone turned to Odysseus.

 

He stared at the floor like a man haunted by owls.

 

“I don’t know,” he whispered, voice small. “She’s never been like that before. I mean, she’s always been… attached. Protective. Controlling. But that?” He curled his arms around himself. “She was acting like I was going to vanish if she blinked. Like I was a porcelain doll. Like—like she needed me. Not just as a champion. But—like a son. Or a—”

 

“Pet,” Uloan offered grimly.

 

“Yeah.” Odysseus swallowed. “And she never acted like that before. Not in Ithaca. Not in Troy. Not ever. ”

 

Maldovin curled his arm around Odysseus’ shoulder and tugged him close again, brows furrowed. “She’s getting worse.”

 

“I think she sniffed me,” Odysseus said quietly.

 

“She did, ” Gialus confirmed. “She inhaled like she was trying to memorize your essence. ”

 

There was a heavy pause.

 

Then:

 

“I think we’re gonna need more carrots,” Lemenai said solemnly.

 

Everyone nodded.

 

 

Notes:

Athena is going a lil insane. I swear she has more sanity regularly, but the child she practically raised and was with 24/7 disappearing for a week DOES things.

Chapter 32: ⤷﹒⇅﹒🏹﹐ Artemis

Cut to Odysseus, kneeling on the damp cave floor like a man possessed, furiously trying to coax a spark out of two very unimpressed-looking sticks.

 

His hair was still dripping, his fingers pruned, and his jaw clenched tighter than a war drum. He had stripped off his outer layers and arranged a pit of twigs and half-soggy moss, teeth gritted as he struck the flint again—

 

fssht.

 

Nothing.

 

Again.

 

fssshkt.

 

A sad puff of smoke. Then a crackle as the damp moss hissed and died like it personally hated him.

 

“I—gods damn it—” he growled, sparks flying sideways and catching on absolutely nothing. “Light, damn you—I'm a war hero, this should be beneath me—”

 

“Stop yelling at the moss,” Lemenai muttered from behind a wool blanket, his voice muffled. “It’s scared.”

 

Odysseus snarled under his breath and tried again.

 

Nothing.

 

Then—

 

A strong, firm hand shoved him sideways like a sack of wet flour.

 

He toppled over with a yelp. “Hey—!”

 

Maldovin, eyes narrowed and jaw tight, dropped down onto one knee in his place. He struck the flint once.

 

fwoosh.

 

Fire.

 

A bright, clean flame burst to life like it liked Maldovin better. It licked at the wood with enthusiastic hunger.

 

“…How the fuck,” Odysseus muttered from the floor.

 

“You were wet. The sticks were wet. Your soul is wet,” Maldovin deadpanned, carefully feeding the flame. “Move.”

 

Odysseus looked personally offended.

 

Gialus offered him a blanket like he was handing it to a sulking child.

 

Uloan coughed loudly and muttered, “War hero, huh?”

 

“Shut up,” Odysseus snapped, crawling toward the fire like a damp gremlin.

Odysseus had just begun to reclaim a scrap of dignity—hands outstretched toward the blessed heat like a half-drowned cat—when two wiry arms suddenly wrapped around his torso from behind.

 

“Wh—?”

 

A nose buried itself against the side of his neck.

 

Lemenai.

 

Nuzzling.

Breathing in deep like Odysseus was a lavender sachet. “Mmm. You smell like smoke and moss.”

 

Odysseus stiffened. “That’s because I fell into a swamp trying to escape a deranged goddess, Lemenai.”

 

Lemenai only hummed softly and tightened his grip, legs hooking lazily around Odysseus’ waist like a sleepy koala. “Still. ‘S nice.”

 

Odysseus glanced down at the arms now caging him in, then at Maldovin—who blinked once and did absolutely nothing to help.

 

But the real tragedy was across the fire.

 

Gialus.

 

Watching.

 

Dying inside.

 

He was slumped back, face blank, red eyes twitching ever so slightly. A single vein in his temple throbbed.

 

Uloan, casually stirring the fire with a stick, didn’t even glance up. “You gonna cry?”

 

“I’m not gonna cry,” Gialus snapped too fast.

 

“Oh,” Uloan muttered, grinning. “He’s gonna cry.”

 

Odysseus tried to reach for his blanket but Lemenai’s arms weren’t budging. “Do you live in my personal space or is this a hostage situation.”

 

“I could let go,” Lemenai offered with zero sincerity, “but I won’t.”

 

Odysseus let his head drop into his hands.

 

Maldovin finally looked over.

 

“…Do you want me to peel him off?”

 

“…No,” Odysseus grumbled, ears pink. “It’s fine. I’ll just… die here. Quietly.”

 

Odysseus sat up straight, despite the persistent Lemenai scarf still latched around his ribs.

 

“Alright,” he muttered, brushing dirt off his soaked chiton. “We need a plan. A real one. Somewhere we can go that’s not flooded, isolated, and crawling with ancient deities who think I’m their favorite rag doll.”

 

He picked up a stick and started drawing in the mud.

 

“North is out. Too many cliffs. South leads to the war camp. East is cursed forest. West… maybe—”

 

“Maybe what?” Uloan asked, already suspicious.

 

“There’s an old riverbed near Caldra,” Odysseus muttered, half to himself, “hidden behind some overgrowth. I used to rest there between supply runs. Might be dry this time of year if we’re lucky, and there’s no temples nearby—”

 

“Yeah,” Gialus interrupted flatly, not even looking up from the wet blanket he was wringing out. “Great idea. Let’s just go ahead and pick a direction, start walking, and hope your feral goddess stalker doesn’t sniff us out like a bloodhound in a bridal veil.”

 

Odysseus blinked at him.

 

Gialus met his stare, deadpan. “She tackled you. From the sky. You got sniffed. You think she won’t find us again?”

 

Odysseus opened his mouth, shut it, then scratched a line through his crude little map in the dirt.

 

Lemenai, still clinging, whispered helpfully, “We could build a boat.”

 

“Out of what,” snapped Uloan, “your fucking dreams?”

 

Lemenai just shrugged, utterly unfazed.

 

Odysseus sighed and dropped the stick. “Okay. New plan. We fake my death.”

 

“You’re Odysseus.” Gialus deadpanned. “You faked your death like eight times already. She's gonna know.”

 

“…Damn it.”

Lemenai suddenly perked up from where he was draped over Odysseus like an overly affectionate cloak, chin digging into his shoulder.

 

“I have family!” he blurted out. Everyone turned. Uloan groaned.

 

“Oh no,” Gialus muttered, already anticipating disaster.

 

“No, seriously!” Lemenai grinned, pointing enthusiastically with one hand while still cuddled into Odysseus like a sloth. “They live in the Kingdom of Virelna! It’s peaceful, they don’t ask questions, and there’s a really pretty lake where old people sit around and tell stories about fish that grant wishes.”

 

“...That sounds fake,” Odysseus mumbled.

 

“It’s real,” Lemenai insisted proudly. “My aunt is the head gardener. My uncle runs a bathhouse. If we say I’m bringing home my spouse and his support group, they’ll let us in with no questions.”

 

Odysseus squinted. “I’m sorry, your what?”

 

Maldovin looked absolutely murderous.

 

“My spouse,” Lemenai said innocently, tightening his arms around Odysseus’ waist with a threateningly sweet smile. “Kallias and I are very happy.”

 

“Get off him,” Maldovin snapped.

 

“Make me.”

 

“Children,” Uloan barked.

 

Odysseus groaned and rubbed his face, muttering, “I can’t believe I’m running from a war, hiding from a goddess, soaked to the bone, and now accidentally married.”

 

Gialus snorted. “Honestly, that’s the most Kallias thing I’ve heard all week.”

 

Maldovin visibly deflated at Lemenai’s words, his shoulders slumping as an utterly betrayed expression crossed his face. He looked like someone had just kicked his puppy, burned down his house, and told him his cooking sucked—all at once.

 

“But I wanted to be Kallias’ husband…” he muttered, voice heartbreakingly soft. His bottom lip jutted out in a pout as he folded his arms over his broad chest, sulking like a kicked dog in the corner. “I let him sleep on my lap… I kissed his forehead… I hunted sheep for him…”

 

“You what?” Gialus blinked.

 

“I hunted sheep for him,” Maldovin repeated louder, clearly hoping Odysseus would suddenly remember and declare his undying love right then and there. “I skinned them and everything! For blankets! For us!”

 

Lemenai only held Odysseus tighter. “You didn’t kiss his forehead. He kissed yours. Big difference.”

 

“I didn’t know we were keeping score,” Maldovin hissed, standing up straight now, practically looming. “Would you like a list of how many times I carried him when he twisted his ankle on the hike here?”

 

“Please do,” Lemenai said sweetly. “It’ll give me time to recount all the times I made him laugh while you were brooding in the corner like a kicked wasp nest.”

 

“Okay,” Odysseus said loudly, raising a hand. “Let’s not turn this into a custody battle.”

 

Uloan, in the background, had his head in his hands. “Can we please focus on the part where a feral goddess is trying to kill us.”

 

“No,” Lemenai and Maldovin said in unison.

 

Gialus leaned over to Odysseus. “So, when’s the wedding, Kallias?”

 

Odysseus turned his head to stare bleakly at the flooded exit.

 

“...I miss the cave.”

Odysseus didn’t say a word—just stood up with a resigned groan, brushed moss and wet leaves off his thighs, and started trudging toward the forest like a man preparing to throw himself into the jaws of fate itself.

 

“Where are you going?” Gialus called after him, squinting as he stood, one eyebrow raised. “What’s out there, a better argument?”

 

“I don’t know,” Odysseus muttered, dragging one foot slightly behind the other. “Maybe silence. Maybe death. Maybe a bakery where no one’s in love with me.”

 

Maldovin and Lemenai both stood in sync.

 

“Kallias, wait—!”

 

But it was Uloan who noticed it first. His gaze narrowed at the way Odysseus' gait was off—how he winced slightly every time he stepped with his left foot, how he was favoring it like it had betrayed him in a past life.

 

“...You’re limping.”

 

Odysseus froze mid-step, spine straightening like a child caught sneaking sweets. “No, I’m not.”

 

“You are,” Uloan grunted, stomping forward. “When’d you hit it?”

 

“I didn’t hit anything—”

 

“He hit a rock,” Lemenai chimed in unhelpfully. “During the river scramble. I saw it. It went clang and then he screamed like a little girl.”

 

Odysseus glared at him over his shoulder. “I did not scream—”

 

“You screeched,” Gialus added. “It was very dignified.”

 

Odysseus opened his mouth to protest again, but Uloan was already in front of him, crouching down and grabbing his ankle without a word. The man’s grip was gentle but firm, his gaze analytical.

 

“I’m fine,” Odysseus insisted, trying to pull his foot back.

 

Uloan did not let go.

 

“You’re wet, cold, and in pain,” he muttered, inspecting the swelling just under the hem of Odysseus’ drenched pants. “That’s how dumbasses die in the woods.”

 

“Aw, he called you a dumbass,” Lemenai cooed.

 

“Endearing,” Gialus drawled. “Like poetry.”

 

Uloan let out a long sigh and then, without asking, stood—hooked his arms under Odysseus’ legs and back—and lifted him clean off the ground like it was nothing.

 

Odysseus shrieked. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

 

“Carrying you,” Uloan deadpanned, already heading back toward the others. “You’re not walking like that.”

 

“I CAN WALK—”

 

“You’re not going to,” he replied flatly.

 

Odysseus flailed helplessly, face red as the sun, as Lemenai clapped and Maldovin sulked louder.

 

“THIS IS HUMILIATING,” Odysseus cried.

 

“This is your life now,” Gialus said. “Get used to it, Kallias.”

 

The trees thickened around them like silent, watching gods—heavy, damp leaves drooping with the weight of last night’s rain. Mist clung low to the ground, curling between ankles and tree roots like smoke from some unseen fire.

 

Maldovin led the way now, hand resting on the hilt of his blade, his posture tense. Lemenai skipped ahead of him occasionally to point out mushrooms or oddly-shaped bark, until Uloan snapped at him to stay in line. Gialus hovered somewhere near the middle, pale hair catching faint dappled light like snow on blood.

 

And then, trailing near the rear—despite his protests—was Odysseus, still being carried by Uloan like a sack of dramatic, ancient potatoes.

 

“Put me down,” he hissed, wriggling again. “I can walk now, it’s fine—my ankle’s—”

 

“Swollen like a melon,” Uloan cut in.

 

“I’m not even heavy!”

 

“You are emotionally heavy."

 

“You’re emotionally—!”

 

And then—

 

A low, wet growl vibrated from the shadows to their left.

 

They all froze.

 

Lemenai was the first to speak. “...Did someone’s stomach just gurgle?”

 

Another growl. This one louder. Closer.

 

No one moved.

 

Then a third sound—crack—the snapping of a branch.

 

Odysseus instinctively curled tighter into Uloan’s chest like a cat bracing for doom.

 

Maldovin unsheathed his blade in a clean whisper of metal. “Not a stomach.”

 

Uloan slowly lowered Odysseus to the ground, shielding him slightly with one arm. Odysseus didn’t argue this time. His fingers curled into the wet grass, heart suddenly thundering in his chest.

 

From the thick fog ahead, a shadow shifted.

 

Four legs. Too low to be a bear. Too wide to be a dog.

 

“Is that a wolf?” Lemenai whispered.

 

“No,” Gialus said grimly, pulling out a throwing knife. “That’s several wolves.”

 

More growls.

 

Amber eyes began blinking open in the fog like the night sky itself had dropped into the underbrush.

 

Odysseus gulped audibly.

 

The growling hushed.

 

Not because it stopped—but because something else emerged.

 

Between the blinking eyes and shifting silhouettes, the wolves parted. A sickening, unnatural silence followed. Even the wind dared not rustle the trees as something stepped into view—no, glided. Moved like she was part of the forest itself.

 

Bare feet pressed into the soft, mossy ground, toes curled with dirt. Her skin was golden, sun-drenched in patches like speckled stone—spattered with something like bark or lichen, something not right. Short-cropped brown hair hung in damp curls, but at the tips… moss. Real moss. Vibrant green growing like a garden in decay.

 

She looked like a woman. From afar. A glimpse.

 

But then the light shifted—her eyes caught it wrong. Too bright. Too silver. And her mouth… too many teeth. A canine smile that reached too far. Fingers hung low at her sides, tipped with black claws that curved like bone. Her gaze swept over them in silence.

 

Odysseus froze.

 

“…Artemis,” he breathed.

 

The creature’s lips split into a wide grin.

 

“Oh,” she said, voice liquid and low. “So the mortal remembers.”

 

Lemenai took a slow step back, his arm instinctively shielding Odysseus. Gialus immediately dropped into a stance, knife raised—but even he hesitated.

 

“Why,” Artemis purred, “is Athena’s little doll playing hide and seek in my woods?”

 

Odysseus swallowed. “We’re—uh. Camping.”

 

Her head tilted. The wolves bristled, shadows of growls rumbling through the mist like thunderclouds with teeth.

 

She grinned wider.

 

“Wrong answer.”

 

“I knew I should’ve stayed in the bakery.”

 

Odysseus’ mouth opened—and promptly betrayed him.

 

“W-we’re not here for anything bad, I swear! I’m not stealing—I don’t even steal! I—I pay for my bread now! I don’t hunt, I don’t kill, I didn’t even bring a knife!”

 

His voice cracked, high and pathetic. “I am not a threat, I am a baker. A humble, extremely normal baker! We’re just passing through—respectfully! Kindly! Quietly!”

 

From his view on the damp earth, she looked colossal. Not in size, but in presence. Her hair twitched like roots writhing. Her legs bent backwards, ever so slightly, like a deer’s. Her neck moved wrong—too smooth, too fluid, like an owl tracking prey. And her eyes—

 

Those moonlit, dripping eyes were fixated on him.

 

She didn’t blink once.

 

Odysseus shrank, still holding his hands up in surrender, fingers trembling like leaves. “I—I don’t even like hunting. I'm—I'm practically vegan, really—like 70%—I only ate the stir-fry because they made me! I'm not disrespecting the forest! Or the wolves! Or—gods—I respect the wolves!! I fear the wolves!!”

 

Artemis said nothing.

 

Her grin deepened into something primal. The corners of her mouth stretched just a bit too far—muscles shifting under her skin like something else was waiting beneath it. The moss on her scalp bloomed. The claws flexed.

 

Lemenai was now fully shielding Odysseus with his body, dagger held shakily. Gialus gritted his teeth, hissing, “What is that thing?”

 

Odysseus whimpered, “A deity with standards!”

 

Artemis' voice slithered into the air.

 

“…And yet you trespass.”

 

She leaned forward.

 

Odysseus screamed, “I’M LOST, OKAY??”

 

The wolves snarled.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Artemis blinked once.

 

Then twice.

 

She squinted at the trembling man on the ground. He was all flailing limbs and wild hair, arms protectively over his head like a squirrel caught in the rain. His chiton was half-drenched and somehow still managed to be inside out, and the way he squeaked—squeaked—when her wolves growled?

 

Adorable.

 

She tilted her head, expression blank, watching him stammer about stir-fry and veganism like he was on the verge of crying or spontaneously combusting. His voice cracked again. He sniffled. He clutched at one of the mercenaries like a soaked, shivering kitten.

 

Her internal voice was calm, dispassionate.

 

Is this Athena’s great mortal champion?

 

Another beat passed as Odysseus tripped over his own feet trying to bow and apologize and shuffle behind Lemenai at the same time.

 

Oh gods, he is.

 

Artemis’ lips twitched—just slightly. The kind of expression a stern woman might make when watching a baby deer try to stand for the first time and fall on its face.

 

This was Athena’s “great tactician”? The master of strategy? The one the gods whispered about?

 

This panicking, sleep-deprived, mud-covered rat trying to convince her he was “practically vegan”?

 

She squatted slightly, leveling herself with his quivering form.

 

To her, he didn’t look like a hero. He looked like a very large, very frantic hamster who had wandered into the woods, gotten soaked, gotten cornered by wolves, and was now desperately trying to explain that he meant no disrespect to the noble wolf community.

 

“…Cute,” she murmured.

 

Odysseus yelped.

 

Artemis leaned forward, smooth as smoke, and reached out with her long, slender fingers.

 

Odysseus flinched.

 

Too slow.

 

With zero effort, she gripped his wrist and lifted—lifted—him off the ground like he weighed nothing more than a sack of flour. His legs dangled. His arms flailed. His soul practically screamed.

 

“W–wait—WAIT—LADY PLEASE—”

 

She tilted her head to the side, expression unreadable, silver eyes dragging up and down his squirming form. Her gaze wasn’t affectionate. Not admiring. Not angry. It was the kind of look one gave to a bird with a broken wing, or a particularly stupid-looking fish flopping on a dock.

 

Like he was a curiosity. A shiny thing she'd found in the mud.

 

Her voice came low and amused, like wine trickling from an amphora. “So this is what all the fuss is about.”

 

Odysseus winced, still dangling like a particularly unlucky caught rabbit. “I’m not worth fuss! I—I have flat feet! I scream when I see spiders! I cry at funerals even if I didn’t know the guy—"

 

“You’re not impressive,” she noted, as if confirming it aloud for herself. “You’re actually… alarmingly average.”

 

She twisted his wrist gently, watching the way he jolted and yelped. “You bruise like fruit.”

 

Behind her, the wolves circled protectively. Lemenai had his dagger halfway raised, looking ready to jump out of a tree if it meant getting Odysseus back. Uloan was tense. Gialus was whispering, “Don’t do anything stupid, don’t do anything stupid—”

 

Maldovin stared with quiet murderous intent.

 

But Artemis? She didn’t even glance at them. Her attention was fully on Odysseus, like he was a broken puzzle she couldn’t believe someone had actually kept.

 

“You’ve caused quite the mess,” she said sweetly.

 

“I—I’m sorry I exist???”

 

She finally—finally—lowered him. Not gently. He landed like a sack of rice, knees buckling under him.

 

Artemis dusted her hands. “Mm. Athena’s taste has always been questionable.”

 

Odysseus blinked up at her, face pale, hair in his mouth. “…I don’t know whether to thank you or cry.”

 

She gave him a little pat on the head. Not affectionately.

 

Like one might pat a frog for doing a decent jump.

 

“I haven’t decided whether I’ll kill you yet,” she said pleasantly, and turned her attention to the mercenaries with a bright, empty smile.

 

“Who’s next?”

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Odysseus didn’t think. He panicked.

 

The moment Artemis turned her head toward the others—her smile sharp enough to slice a throat—he lunged.

 

He grabbed Lemenai by the arm. “MOVE.”

 

“Wha—wha??” Lemenai yelped as he was yanked like a sack of potatoes, nearly tripping over his own feet as Odysseus sprinted.

 

Adrenaline roared in Odysseus’ ears. The trees blurred past. His ankle screamed. His heart screamed louder. Artemis could probably hear it. He didn’t care.

 

“GO GO GO GO!”

 

“WHY ARE WE RUNNING?!”

 

“BECAUSE I’D RATHER BE EATEN BY A BOAR THAN WHATEVER THAT WAS!”

 

Behind them, wolves snarled. Branches cracked. Something howled.

 

Odysseus nearly slipped on a wet patch of moss but refused to fall. He gripped Lemenai’s wrist like a lifeline.

 

“WE’RE GOING TO DIE,” Lemenai wheezed, barely keeping up.

 

“THEN WE’LL DIE TOGETHER, YOU LITTLE SHIT, NOW MOVE!!”

 

A blur of silver passed behind them. Something grazed Odysseus’ shoulder.

 

He didn’t stop.

 

Didn’t dare.

 

“WHY IS IT ALWAYS GODDESSES—”

 

“ASK THE SKY WHEN YOU’RE DEAD!”

 

They shoved through branches, tore through leaves, and hurled themselves toward the narrowest slope of rock and mud, slipping and sliding down—

 

Odysseus let out a shriek the whole way.

 

And somehow—by the sheer will of some other forgotten god—they hit the bottom.

 

Alive. Breathless. Faces covered in mud. Hair full of twigs.

 

Odysseus lay there panting like a fish, chest heaving.

 

Lemenai rolled onto his side, wheezing. “I don’t… I don’t even know where we are anymore.”

 

Odysseus sat up slowly, eyes wide, hands trembling.

 

Then he whispered—

 

“…We need to run more.”

 

Odysseus blinked.

 

His chest rose and fell like the tide in a storm, lungs burning, throat raw, and mud clinging to every inch of him. Lemenai lay spread-eagle in the grass beside him, still catching his breath like someone who had nearly been run over by a war chariot.

 

Then—

 

Odysseus slowly turned his head. His eyes widened.

 

“…Lemenai.”

 

“Mmh?”

 

“Lemenai.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“We left the others.”

 

Lemenai blinked up at the sky, completely still.

 

Then he sat bolt upright.

 

“OH SHIT.”

 

Odysseus grabbed two fistfuls of his own hair, mouth open in horrified realization.

 

“WE LEFT THEM WITH HER.”

 

“WE LEFT THEM WITH THE—THE LUNAR BITCH!”

 

“WE LEFT MALDOVIN!!”

 

Lemenai jumped to his feet, twigs falling off him. “Maldovin is gonna DIE. Uloan is gonna KILL me. Gialus is gonna HAUNT ME.”

 

Odysseus was already pacing back and forth like a madman, limping slightly from his bruised ankle, his hands flailing dramatically.

 

“I BET THEY THINK WE GOT MAULED BY A BEAR!”

 

“OR TURNED INTO FROGS!!” Lemenai added unhelpfully.

 

“THEY’RE GONNA FIND OUR EMPTY BOOTS AND HOLD A FUNERAL.”

 

They both paused.

 

Odysseus inhaled deeply through his nose. Then exhaled through his teeth like a kettle about to scream.

 

“…Okay,” he said. “Okay. We go back.”

 

Lemenai stared at him.

 

“Are you insane?”

 

“Yes,” Odysseus said instantly, eyes bloodshot. “Yes I am. But if we don’t, I’ll never hear the end of it. Mal will tackle me and Gia will throw me into a river.”

 

Lemenai groaned and slapped a hand over his face.

 

“…Do we have to bring the moon-demon with us?”

 

Odysseus looked him dead in the eyes.

 

“If we don’t, she brings herself.”

 

From the trees behind them—

 

“KALLIAS, YOU ABSOLUTE BITCH!”

 

“LEAVE ME BEHIND AGAIN AND I’LL BREAK YOUR SPINE!”

 

“WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU GO—?!”

 

All at once, the underbrush exploded.

 

Maldovin burst through first, soaked, panting, and completely feral, his braid half undone and sticks in his coat. He tackled Odysseus around the middle with all the force of a dying man grabbing salvation. “I hate you,” he wheezed, “I hate you so fucking much, never do that again.”

 

Right behind him, Gialus came stomping out of the trees like a sleep-deprived demon with war crimes under his belt. His red eyes glowed under his soaking bangs, and he screamed, "I WAS HALFWAY THROUGH A SPELL AND YOU—YOU DISAPPEARED! I THOUGHT YOU GOT EATEN!"

 

Uloan crashed through last, carrying a fucking tree branch like a club. “You,” he growled, pointing the branch directly at Odysseus like it was a spear. “You’re not allowed to make decisions anymore. No more decisions. I voted, we had a council, it’s done. You’re banned.”

 

Odysseus blinked, still on the ground under Maldovin’s weight.

 

“…You guys are okay.”

 

“DO WE LOOK OKAY?” Gialus shrieked.

 

“You abandoned us to a GODDESS,” Uloan snapped, eyes wild. “A MOON goddess. A crazy one.”

 

“She said I had nice hair,” Maldovin muttered darkly. “She tried to comb it with her nails.”

 

Lemenai snorted. “Bet she liked you.”

 

“Bet I liked getting away.”

 

Odysseus covered his face with both hands and mumbled through his palms, “Okay okay okay okay—I panicked.”

 

“You panicked?” Gialus screeched.

 

“I panicked!”

 

“You grabbed Lemenai and BOLTED LIKE A GAZELLE—”

 

“I panicked!!!”

 

Maldovin bonked his head lightly against Odysseus’ chest and mumbled, “If you ever leave me like that again, I’m setting your cloak on fire.”

 

“I just made you stir-fry—”

 

“AND YOU RAN AWAY MID-STIR.”

 

Odysseus groaned and let himself flop backward into the grass.

 

“I’m never living this down, am I?”

 

“Nope,” Lemenai chirped, flopping down beside him.

 

“Absolutely not,” Gialus said.

 

“Never,” Uloan grunted.

 

“…You deserve it,” Maldovin added flatly.

 

Odysseus groaned again.

 

Then muttered:

 

“Worth it.”

Chapter 33: ╰╮⚡✧﹕Olympus

Ganymede sat in the vast, echoing ballroom of Olympus—alone, save for the polished silver tray in his lap and the dozens of ornate chalices already filled with nectar-red wine. The chandeliers above him flickered unnaturally, casting long, elongated shadows that stretched like claws across the marble floor.

 

The wine shimmered. Not red, not exactly—more like diluted blood mixed with honey and oil. He blinked down at the glasses and tried not to think about the taste. He only poured. He didn’t drink.

 

He waited.

 

And then she entered.

 

The doors didn’t creak. They didn’t swing.

 

They split.

 

As if the golden wood had parted to let her through.

 

Athena.

 

She was first, of course.

 

Her body moved in perfect steps—each one too light to make a sound, like she floated just above the floor, never touching the world she thought beneath her. Her robes—grey and bloodless—rippled despite the still air. Her skin was too pale, corpse-pale, like something carved from cracked marble and painted only enough to seem almost alive.

 

But the worst were her eyes.

 

Ganymede had looked into the eyes of gods since he was taken. But hers?

 

They were grey—pale, foggy, distant, like thunderclouds behind thin ice. But not dead. No. Worse.

 

Sharp.

 

Like she was watching everything at once, including your future, and she didn’t like it.

 

Her curly hair was tucked behind her ears, too neatly, but the ends—he saw it—were stained dark. Streaks of red-brown, dried blood soaked into ginger strands. And her mouth—

 

Oh gods, her teeth—

 

She smiled at him.

 

It was all teeth.

 

Not human teeth. Not even close. Small, sharp, overlapping. Birdlike. Owl-like. Predatory.

 

And as her long, delicate fingers reached for a chalice, he saw them shimmer and shift for a second into talons.

 

“Ganymede,” she said softly, almost fond. “How diligent you are.”

 

He tried not to flinch. “Welcome, Lady Athena.”

 

Her head tilted a fraction too far to the side.

 

“I assume you’ve heard,” she said, voice tight, smile stretched unnaturally thin.

 

He didn’t answer. He knew better.

 

“A certain someone… has gotten lost.”

 

Her fingers tightened on the cup. The rim cracked.

 

“I gave him everything,” she whispered, more to herself. “Everything. All my favor. My gifts. And this is how he repays me?”

 

Ganymede didn’t breathe.

 

Athena's pale eyes slowly rolled toward him again. "Pour another. I will need... patience tonight."

 

And just behind her, thunder rumbled in the hallway.

 

The other gods were coming.

 

The air pressure changed.

 

No doors opened this time—just the sudden, overwhelming stench of salt and rotting seaweed, like something ancient and sunken had clawed its way from the ocean floor and dragged the weather with it.

 

The polished floor grew slick beneath Ganymede’s sandals. The temperature dropped. His breath fogged.

 

And then Poseidon entered.

 

If Athena looked like a corpse—

 

Poseidon looked like a drowned god.

 

His hair was long, black, tangled like kelp and dripping. Always dripping. Thick, briny water fell in slow, fat droplets from every strand, leaving trails down the marble. His skin—leathery, gray-blue—bulged subtly over thick muscles, like bloated flesh stretched too tight over something wrong. His robes clung to him, loose and soaked, stained with algae and dark smears that looked like oil—or something worse.

 

But it was his eyes.

 

Dead. Blue. Unseeing. Not in the way of blindness—but the ocean's kind of dead. The kind that stares up from deep water after the light's gone out. Unblinking. Cold.

 

Patient.

 

And his nails—long and jagged, barnacle-cracked and stained black under the cuticles—clicked softly against the rim of the goblet he took.

 

When he moved, the sound was like dragging chains through a flooded graveyard.

 

He didn’t speak at first.

 

Just stared.

 

Not at Ganymede.

 

At Athena.

 

Water dripped from his fingertips, soaking into the red carpet below. A puddle spread from where he stood.

 

"You’ve been busy," he said at last, voice like something gurgling through drowned lungs.

 

Athena didn’t answer.

 

Poseidon’s lips peeled back just slightly, revealing teeth like a fishhook.

 

“Where’s your favorite mortal gone?” he rasped, taking a long sip from the goblet. Wine trickled down his chin like blood. “Did he run?”

 

Athena’s talons twitched.

 

Ganymede’s hands trembled as he poured the next cup. He didn’t look at either of them. Not directly. Not unless he wanted those eyes in his dreams again.

 

One god down.

 

One unholy storm of obsession.

 

And now a second—

 

A deep sea monster in the skin of a man.

 

The rest hadn’t even arrived yet.

 

And Olympus was already hell.

 

The hearth went cold.

 

It wasn’t sudden. The heat just… left. Slipped out of the room like a dying breath, leaving only stillness behind—so absolute it made the chandeliers sway in protest.

 

And then Hestia entered.

 

She didn’t walk.

 

She glided, her feet never touching the floor, her legs folded beneath her like a temple priestess locked in eternal prayer. Her back was stiff—unnaturally so—like the joints had been fused into place, her spine a column of unmoving stone. A robe of soot-colored linen clung to her, untouched by wind, untouched by time.

 

Her hair, long and heavy, hung in a curtain over her face—so thick it looked more like draped ash than hair, hiding everything except her hands.

 

Those hands.

 

Her fingers were pressed firmly over her closed eyes—trembling just barely, just enough to show the effort it took not to see.
The skin of her hands was bone-pale, but the tips—burned black. Charred to the knuckles, cracked and brittle, still smoldering faintly like dying logs. They hissed quietly where they touched her skin, as if she were always moments from igniting.

 

When she reached the center of the room, she stopped.

 

The scent of smoke coiled softly through the air.

 

Then, her hands—slowly, reverently—lowered from her face.

 

And her eyes—

 

They weren’t eyes anymore.

 

Just glowing pits. Embers. Fading, flickering coals, sunken into a face that looked carved from cooling porcelain—fine cracks spiderwebbing around her cheeks and lips.

 

Lips that were split at the corners. Blackened. Singed.

 

As though she’d once tried to swallow a flame.

 

And had smiled through the agony.

 

She didn’t blink.

 

She didn’t breathe.

 

She only watched.

 

Silent. Terrible. Kind.

 

And then she turned.

 

And drifted—drifted—to where Poseidon stood, dripping seawater onto the floor like a tide that had forgotten to ebb.

 

Without a word, Hestia reached one blackened hand out—fingers twitching slightly as they hissed with dying heat—and gently, softly, patted the Lord of the Sea on the head.

 

Like a disobedient child.

 

Poseidon's brow twitched.

 

He didn’t stop her.

 

“Messy,” Hestia murmured, voice soft as falling ash. “All of you. So loud.”

 

She looked at Athena next.

 

And Athena—Athena—averted her gaze.

 

Only then did Hestia sit.

 

Still gliding, never walking, she sank into the space by the hearth, legs folding back under her as if they had never moved at all. She folded her hands in her lap, blackened fingers neatly interlaced.

 

And waited.

 

Unblinking. Silent.

 

Smoldering.

 

The doors creaked.

 

No, they didn’t creak—they shuddered, as though the very wood knew what approached.

 

Then they opened.

 

And the storm walked in.

 

First came Artemis.

 

Her feet were bare, blood-splattered, and silent. Each step she took made no sound, yet the marble beneath her seemed to wilt, as if recoiling from her presence. Her limbs were long and taut like a hunting beast’s, coiled with grace and quiet savagery. Her skin was corpse-pale, almost silvery, with bruised shadows blooming like ink across her collarbones and jaw. Her hair—once gold in some distant myth—was now white as bone and tangled with thorns, pieces of bark, and dried blood.

 

And her eyes.

 

They gleamed, cold and inhuman—one iris like a full moon, the other a wolf’s yellow glare, slit-pupiled and watching. Her mouth curled upward, too wide, as if her face was still getting used to the idea of smiling.

 

When she looked at Ganymede, her head tilted just slightly.

 

Like a predator considering whether to pounce.

 

Then she grabbed a wine glass from the tray, sniffed it once, and didn’t drink.

 

Behind her came Apollo.

 

No footsteps. No air disturbed.

 

He simply arrived.

 

Where Artemis was a quiet, stalking thing—Apollo was blinding.

 

His hair was white. Not the white of snow or age—but the pure, punishing white of sunlight in a burning sky. It flowed in a mane down his back and shoulders, trailing light that shimmered too brightly at the edges, like looking into an eclipse. His skin was bronzed gold, glistening like lacquered marble, but his smile—

 

That smile was wrong.

 

Too wide. Too sharp. Too sure of itself.

 

His eyes… gods, his eyes.

 

They were solid white.

 

No irises, no pupils—just searing blankness. But when he looked at you, something in the void twisted. Because in the center of each eye was a pulsing symbol, faint and flickering:

 

☀︎

 

The sun.

 

A glyph of divine fire, etched into the pupil-less void.

 

When he smiled at the room, his teeth gleamed like polished bone.

 

“Well,” he said, voice smooth and golden, oiled with vanity and sun-warmed pride. “This is a charming little wake.”

 

He looked at Athena, then Hestia. And then, for no reason at all, he leaned over Ganymede—who stiffened—and plucked a wine glass from his tray, twirling it between his fingers like a plaything.

 

“Missed me?” he purred.

 

No one answered.

 

Artemis said nothing. She crouched beside the hearth like a hound, long fingers splayed across the marble, grinning faintly at the fire. Her head twitched to one side—birdlike. Beastlike.

 

Apollo stood tall.

 

And watched them all.

 

The gods were gathering.

 

And none of them looked human anymore.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

To Hestia, the world was soft.

 

Not gentle—but soft, like old woven cloth, like warmth after long cold, like fingers petting through hair after a child’s bad dream.

 

And the gods?

 

They were children.

 

Even now, as they stalked and slithered into the ballroom cloaked in violence, blood, and divine madness—Hestia saw only babies.

 

Athena, pacing like a caged hawk with her talons clacking on the marble—her curls had always been messy. Hestia remembered brushing them back when Athena first emerged, blood-streaked and screaming, from her father’s skull. “You’re such a messy girl,” she’d cooed, cleaning the ichor from her cheeks.

 

Still messy.

 

Still hers.

 

Apollo—glowing and wild-eyed, all smug and sunburned pride—Hestia tilted her head fondly as he twirled the wineglass like it was a weapon.

 

Oh, showy little thing, she hummed, as if she hadn’t watched him incinerate an entire field once because someone said the word “cloudy.”

 

And Artemis—her strange, feral girl, who curled at the edge of the hearth like a wolf pup who hadn’t yet decided if it would bite or not. She’d always been like that. Even as a newborn, she refused to be swaddled. Fussed. Growled. She’d bitten Ares once, still toothless, and Hestia had laughed until she wept.

 

Sweet child.

 

Then there was Poseidon, sulking with his beard wet and his hands too big for the cup he cradled.

 

Always a splasher, she thought kindly. Never learned to dry his feet.

 

She didn’t notice the tension. Or rather, she noticed it the way a mother notices siblings bickering—loud, yes, but familiar. She had seen them all cry. Had held them when they didn’t yet have names. She had tucked them into the folds of the hearthfire before the earth had even cooled.

 

To her, they would never be gods.

 

Just babies.

 

Rowdy, squabbling babies who needed warm food and a stern look and someone to hum to them as they fell asleep.

 

She placed her blackened hands in her lap again, not minding the way the floor hissed when her fingertips touched the stone. She was always careful. Always still.

 

It was her place.

 

Her fire.

 

And these were her children.

 

Even if they had forgotten.

 

The ballroom doors creaked.

 

And Hera walked in.

 

A hush fell—not out of fear, nor awe—but a strange, quivering reverence. The kind given to storms just before they break.

 

She was beautiful.

 

Not in the sharp, cut-glass way of Athena. Not in the wild, untamed way of Artemis.

 

No—Hera looked soft. Exhausted, but soft. She wore a pale violet peplos, too long at the sleeves and just slightly wrinkled, as if she had dressed in the dark and hadn’t noticed. Her hair was swept up into a crown-like braid that was coming loose at the ends, and her face—

 

Her face bore the weight of every night she didn’t sleep.

 

Dark circles bruised her eyes like thumbprints. Her lips were dry. Her expression was polite, measured, like she was constantly keeping herself from cracking.

 

She looked like a mother who had been holding up the roof for too long.

 

But to Hestia?

 

To Hestia, Hera was perfect.

 

Ohhh, my precious baby, Hestia thought, her charred lips curling up in what was—on her eerie, ember-lit face—a strangely haunting smile.

 

She straightened. Her cracked spine didn’t protest. Her coal-pit eyes flicked immediately to Hera as if she'd been waiting for her this whole time.

 

Her little one was tired again.

 

Always so responsible. So serious. So brave.

 

Hestia did not see the stares the others gave Hera. The way they stepped lightly around her as though she were a viper in a basket of lace. She did not notice the tense silence Hera carried with her like a veil.

 

She only saw her sweet, fussy little sister.

 

The baby who used to tug on her robes asking if she could help stir the pot.

 

The toddler who used to carry dolls made of laurel twigs and name them after stars.

 

The girl who—despite everything—still tried so hard to hold her chin up.

 

Did you sleep, my star? Hestia wanted to ask.

 

Did the dreams come back?

 

She nearly reached for her. But she stayed still. Always still.

 

Instead, her burned fingers curled gently in her lap, and she beamed. Beamed like a sunrise made of ash and old coals.

 

Because Hera was here now.

 

And Hera, to Hestia, was still that delicate little girl who cried when bees died and got so flustered when her laurel dolls wouldn’t stand.

 

She was perfect.

 

So perfect.

 

Hera walked in silence.

 

Her footsteps barely made a sound against the gleaming marble, but to Hestia they struck like temple bells—each one ringing in a scream of SHE’S COMING, SHE’S COMING, SHE’S COMING–

 

The Queen of Olympus drifted past Athena with only a glance. Past Ganymede, who straightened instinctively. Past Poseidon, who stiffened and immediately looked away.

 

And then—

 

She turned.

 

And sat down right next to Hestia.

 

Right next to her.

 

RIGHT NEXT TO HER.

 

Hestia did not move.

 

She couldn’t. If she did, she’d explode into sparks and scream and grab Hera’s face and ask if she was eating enough and if she was drinking water and why her under-eye bruises were darker than the abyss and—

 

But instead…

 

She sat.

 

Her coal-lit eyes stared forward, unblinking. Her charred fingers folded tightly over each other in her lap. She remained the picture of composed, deathly stillness.

 

On the inside?

 

INTERNAL BONFIRE SHRIEKING.

 

She’s touching the floor I’m sitting on.

 

She picked me. She could’ve sat by anyone. She chose ME.

 

Her braid is falling apart, I could fix it, I could—

 

She’s so quiet. My poor little storm cloud baby. SHE’S SUFFERING.

 

Outwardly?

 

Not a twitch. Not a breath. Not a single glowing coal flared.

 

Just ash-pale skin, cracked lips, and empty, burning eyes staring politely ahead as if Hera sitting beside her didn’t make her soul combust with affection.

 

Hera said nothing.

 

Neither did Hestia.

 

They sat in silence.

 

One calm, cold goddess.

 

And one mentally kicking her legs and sobbing into her sleeves like a proud big sister.

 

　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Hera blinked slowly.

 

The golden light of Olympus stung her sleep-deprived eyes. Her head throbbed with a dull ache from too little rest and too much restraint. Her body ached from clenching her jaw through Zeus’ latest transgression—a water nymph, this time. Barely older than Ganymede.

 

Her hands twitched in her lap. She folded them tightly to keep from shaking.

 

She hadn’t slept. Not really. Just sat at the edge of the bed while Zeus dozed off beside her, his arm flung across some stranger’s hip. Her lips were still pressed in a thin line from the effort of not setting the mattress on fire.

 

And now she was here. At another divine gathering. At another meaningless banquet where everyone pretended things were fine.

 

She sat.

 

Next to Hestia.

 

Gods, she hoped she wasn’t bothering her.

 

Hestia was so still. So eerily poised. Her fingers were burned down to charcoal and curled in her lap like broken twigs. Her skin glowed like porcelain fired in a kiln. She looked like a statue left too long in the flame.

 

Maybe she wants me to move.

 

Hera peeked sideways. The Hearth Goddess hadn’t looked at her once. Hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t so much as breathed.

 

Gods, I am bothering her.

 

Hera pressed her fingers together tighter. Her nails dug into the skin of her palm. She kept her head bowed, dark circles heavy under her eyes like bruises.

 

She didn’t mean to be a burden.

 

She just… wanted to sit near someone who didn’t reek of wine and lust. Someone who wouldn’t speak to her like she was a jealous harpy or a wilting flower. Someone who—

 

Someone who was kind.

 

But maybe she was wrong.

 

Maybe Hestia didn’t want her here at all.

 

Hera exhaled softly.

 

Her spine curled inward like a bowstring uncoiled, tension melting into something heavier—more vulnerable. Her fingers trembled as they rose, slow and unsure, to her face. She pressed her palms into her eyes.

 

The pressure didn't help.

 

It just reminded her how deep the ache went—past her skull, past her jaw, all the way down to the hollow, exhausted pit inside her chest.

 

The room was full of gods and monsters. Everyone was watching each other. Waiting. Planning. Pretending.

 

But Hera?

 

She was done pretending today.

 

Without ceremony, she leaned forward and collapsed onto the long marble table, cheek smushed against cool white stone, arms cradling her head like a child who hadn’t slept in days.

 

She didn’t say a word.

 

She didn’t care how it looked. Let them whisper. Let them wonder why the Queen of the Gods couldn’t hold herself upright.

 

She just needed a moment.

 

Just one.

 

To rest.

 

To not feel like she was holding Olympus together with her bare, bleeding hands. To not feel like every step was a performance. To not feel alone while sitting in a room of immortals.

 

So she laid there.

 

Breathing quietly.

 

Her face hidden in her hands. Her dark hair spilling like ink over her wrists. Her body utterly still, except for the faintest trembling of her shoulders.

 

Hestia did not move.

 

But the dying coals in her eyes flared softly.

 

And she watched.

 

✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

From Ganymede’s eyes, the Queen of the Gods did not look tired.

 

She looked lethal.

 

Hera stepped into the hall like a stormcloud dripping in silk. Her presence made the air turn heavy, hard to breathe. Her skin—so pale it bordered on ghostlike—was stretched thin over sharp cheekbones and a clenched jaw, like something sick trying very hard to look human.

 

Her hair curled wildly around her shoulders, dark and unruly, as if combs had snapped trying to tame it. A long braid dangled down her spine—knotted, frayed, and half-undone—as if she’d yanked it together with shaking fingers in the middle of a breakdown and never fixed it again.

 

Beneath her heavy-lidded eyes, deep bruised circles clung like smudges of ash. Her lips were pressed in a line so tight they barely existed. She didn’t blink when she entered. She just stared, head low, eyes sharp, like a lioness hunting in silence.

 

There was no jewelry. No crown.

 

Only that expression.

 

Murderous. Exhausted. Holy.

 

And Ganymede—sweet, fluttering, mortal-born Ganymede—froze. His hands trembled around the silver pitcher. He dared not breathe as she walked past, the scent of crushed violets and old rage brushing against his skin like a warning.

 

She did not look at him.

 

But gods help him, he could feel her fury radiating in waves.

 

When she reached Hestia and sat without a word, her movements were too still. Too careful. The kind of careful one was before breaking something.

 

Even with her face buried in her hands, Ganymede swore she could strike lightning through the room with a single sob.

 

He didn’t move.

 

He just kept filling the glasses.

 

And pretended he hadn’t nearly pissed himself.

 

The moment the tension settled like dust in the air, the door exploded open with a rush of wind that rattled the wine glasses and slammed the chamber into silence.

 

Ganymede flinched so hard he nearly dropped the decanter.

 

Hermes entered like a storm given shape. His golden curls were damp with mist, clinging to his face like strands of sunlight soaked in cold rain. But it was his eyes—gods, his eyes—that locked Ganymede in place.

 

They were white.

 

Not pale. Not silver.

 

White.

 

A blank, endless white that held no pupil, no mercy, no direction. Staring into them felt like gazing into a blizzard—like falling into nothingness and knowing no one would catch you.

 

And then there were the wings.

 

Not two.

 

Not four.

 

SIX.

 

Six pairs of wings unfolded behind him like jagged, bladed halos—massive and twitching, slick with dew and twitching with subtle spasms like they were barely under control. Some were white. Some were black. One was mangled, twisted at a strange angle, bones peeking where feathers had torn away.

 

He didn’t walk.

 

He glided, toes barely touching the marble, his long cloak fluttering behind him like the shredded veil of a mourning bride.

 

His mouth was curled in an easy grin.

 

It was the smile that did it.

 

It was too wide. Too human on something that clearly wasn’t. Ganymede couldn’t tell if it was joy or the edge of madness.

 

“Sorry I’m late~!” Hermes sang, voice echoing far too loud in the vaulted chamber. It should’ve been musical. But it rang like the toll of a bell before a funeral.

 

Hera didn’t look up.

 

Hestia didn’t move.

 

And Ganymede…

 

Ganymede whispered a prayer under his breath, hands trembling as he poured more wine. He didn’t even realize he was trembling.

 

Hermes’ feet didn’t make a sound as he darted forward, his white eyes gleaming with some indecipherable joy—or mania—and his wings shuddering with excitement. His smile was sharp, twitching at the edges, and when he spotted Apollo near the far end of the table, he bolted.

 

Like a feral cat.

 

No—like something that wore the shape of a feral cat and didn’t understand how to be human.

 

“Apollooooooo~!” Hermes shrieked in a sing-song voice that bounced off the marble walls. The sound made Ganymede flinch so hard he spilled wine across the silver tray.

 

Apollo barely had time to turn before Hermes launched at him, limbs and wings outstretched in a blur of feathers and speed. The impact knocked the golden god a few inches back in his seat.

 

Hermes clung to him like a leech with too many limbs—arms locked around Apollo’s neck, legs wrapping around his waist, wings folding tightly behind his back like a cocoon. One of his talon-like nails tangled in Apollo’s golden hair. Another hand patted his cheek far too rapidly.

 

From across the room, Ganymede watched in wide-eyed horror.

 

Hermes' smile split his face too wide. His eyes—those endless white eyes—were locked on Apollo like a starving thing finding its favorite meal again.

 

And Apollo?

 

He patted Hermes on the head slowly, like one might handle a bomb with a heartbeat.

 

“Hey, Hermes,” Apollo murmured.

 

Hermes just purred. A low, bone-deep sound that rattled the tableware.

 

Ganymede visibly recoiled. The wine tray trembled in his hands.

 

Nobody else moved. No one said a word.

 

This was normal, apparently.

Hera didn’t lift her head right away.

 

Her fingers dragged down her face in one long, exhausted smear, as if she could peel off the fatigue like a mask. Her shoulders rose and fell with a slow, deliberate breath. From Ganymede’s perspective, her pale skin looked like melting wax, too translucent in places, stretched too tight in others. Her braid was unkempt, knotted, curling around her neck like a noose, and her eyes—when she opened them—were half-lidded and glinting with something dangerous beneath the exhaustion.

 

Then she cleared her throat.

 

It wasn’t loud. But it was final. Sharp, cutting through the soft murmurs and whispers like a knife dragged across silk.

 

Hermes froze mid-purr.

 

Apollo blinked and sat up straighter.

 

Even Athena’s twitching stopped, her talons flexing once before going still.

 

“Zeus,” Hera said, tone flat and brittle as winter frost, “is currently writhing in his chambers with a hangover the size of Crete and a missing sandal. He will not be attending.”

 

A long pause. Ganymede dared not move.

 

Hera's lips pressed into a tired, bloodless line. Then, almost lazily, she lifted her head and tilted it toward the rest of them.

 

“So I’ll be leading the banquet.”

 

No one objected.

 

Even Hestia, glowing faintly with ember eyes, gave a little internal scream but managed to nod with all the calm of a weathered monk. Ganymede swore he saw Apollo visibly tense under Hermes’ grasp. Athena’s head tilted too far to the side—unnatural, like a bird twisting its neck—and Ganymede could hear the faint creak of her joints as she turned to face Hera in silence.

 

No one challenged her.

 

No one even looked like they wanted to.

 

Hera leaned back with a sigh, resting her chin on her palm like a bored housewife running a kingdom of feral dogs. Her eyelids fluttered halfway closed again, and she waved a limp hand in Ganymede’s direction without even glancing at him.

 

“Wine, please.”

 

✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Odysseus was on all fours in the mud, his hair a dripping mess of curls plastered to his face, squinting with utter concentration at a fat, stupid-looking rabbit just a few feet away.

 

He’d taken off his boots somewhere back in the bushes (“for stealth,” he’d declared), and now his toes were caked in wet leaves, his tunic was snagged with thorns, and there was a streak of dirt across his cheek like warpaint applied by a blind toddler.

 

“Okay… okay…” he whispered, belly pressed to the forest floor like a very dumb predator. “Almost there…”

 

The rabbit twitched.

 

Odysseus froze.

 

The rabbit blinked, wiggled its nose.

 

He lunged.

 

It screamed.

 

He screamed back.

 

The rabbit bolted like a blur of white lightning—and Odysseus faceplanted spectacularly, sliding forward on a slope of moss and wet leaves with a yelp that ended in a muffled grunt as he hit a tree root. The forest echoed with the chaotic rustle of his limbs flailing wildly as he tumbled into a bush.

 

"—OW—fuck—DAMMIT—GET BACK HERE YOU LITTLE PIECE OF—"

 

From a few yards away, Maldovin watched him in dead silence, arms crossed, absolutely unmoved.

 

"...He's gonna try again," Gialus muttered from the side, crouched behind a tree. "He always tries again."

 

"I'm praying he gets impaled on a stick," Uloan added flatly.

 

"Don't be mean," Lemenai whispered. "He’s doing his best."

 

Odysseus emerged from the bushes covered in twigs, holding up a single leaf like it was the rabbit's severed ear.

 

“I almost had it.”

 

"You never had it," Gialus said.

 

"I'm serious! It hesitated! We made eye contact! There was—something there—"

 

“Kallias,” Maldovin interrupted, pinching the bridge of his nose, “you're barefoot, covered in moss, and bleeding from your elbow.”

 

“I’m resourceful!”

 

“You slid into a tree like a wet idiot.”

 

There was a pause.

 

“…Okay but next time—”

 

“No.” All four mercenaries said in unison.

 

Odysseus’ bruised pride refused to let him give up. One rabbit may have escaped, but he would not be outwitted twice by the animal kingdom.

 

Next plan: fish.

 

He stood by the edge of a shallow stream a short walk from their makeshift camp, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, squinting down into the moving water. His hair was still damp and stuck in uneven curls across his face. He looked like a man with nothing to lose—shirt rumpled, ankle still aching, and vengeance in his heart.

 

"You're not going to catch a fish like that," Uloan grunted from a fallen log nearby, sharpening his knife with the bored expression of someone witnessing the world's slowest disaster.

 

"Watch me," Odysseus muttered.

 

He stepped into the water slowly, wincing when the cold bit into his feet. He kept his hands low, ready. Waiting. Watching.

 

A fish darted by.

 

He lunged.

 

SPLASH.

 

Water exploded, soaking his pants up to the knees. The fish, of course, was long gone.

 

“Gods above—!” Odysseus slapped the water in frustration. “Little bastards are slippery!”

 

“No shit,” Gialus called, sitting in a tree with his chin in his palm. “They’re called fish.”

 

“I know what they’re called!” Odysseus hissed back.

 

Another flash of silver passed under his foot.

 

He froze. Hands trembling, body tense, he slowly reached into the water like a patient predator. This time, no sudden movements.

 

The fish circled.

 

Odysseus lowered his hand just behind it, using the current to mask his fingers.

 

A breath.

 

A twitch.

 

Now—!

 

He slapped both hands down—and came up with nothing but algae and shame.

 

“You’re gonna freeze your ass off before you eat anything,” Maldovin said, appearing beside Uloan, arms crossed again.

 

“I’m learning,” Odysseus muttered through clenched teeth.

 

“You’re starving,” Lemenai corrected, sitting cross-legged nearby with his chin on his fists.

 

Odysseus just rolled his eyes, shoulders sagging.

 

“…I miss the bakery.”

 

Gialus snorted. “Bet the fish there didn’t outsmart you.”

 

“I will strangle you with this wet sock,” Odysseus said, holding up one of his own for emphasis. It slapped pathetically in the air.

 

“Great,” Maldovin drawled, “we’re going to die in the forest because Kallias challenged a trout to a duel.”

 

“I almost had it,” Odysseus mumbled, for the fifth time that morning.

 

Lemenai, sitting on his haunches nearby, tilted his head at Odysseus' latest aquatic failure with the vaguely pitying expression of someone watching a goat try to climb a tree.

 

Then, as if deciding he had better things to do than witness another round of "man versus nature," he stood, dusted off his hands, and wandered toward a patch of muddy soil just beyond the stream.

 

"...What are you doing?" Gialus asked suspiciously, watching him like a cat watches a toddler with scissors.

 

Lemenai dropped to his knees, stuck his fingers into his satchel, and triumphantly pulled out three slightly wilted carrots and a handful of wrinkled seeds.

 

“Farming,” he replied with radiant pride.

 

Maldovin blinked slowly. “You’re planting carrots. In the wild. Next to a flooding stream. After a storm.”

 

Lemenai was already digging little furrows with his fingers. “They’ll grow better with love,” he said solemnly, shoving a seed into the mud and patting the dirt like it was a child.

 

“We’re fugitives,” Gialus said, voice flattening. “From gods and men. And your response is agriculture?”

 

Lemenai smiled. “Carrots don’t betray you.”

 

“Neither do fish,” Odysseus muttered from the stream, still dripping and glowering at a trout that had just passed by again, probably to mock him.

 

Maldovin covered his face with a hand. “We’re all going to starve to death.”

 

Lemenai looked up sweetly. “Not if the carrots grow.”

 

“They’re not magic carrots, Lemenai—!”

 

“Shhh,” Lemenai hushed him. “You’ll make them anxious.”

 

Odysseus finally gave up on the fish and limped over to sit beside Lemenai, watching the way he smoothed the soil with muddy hands and such gentle concentration that it felt vaguely sacrilegious to interrupt.

 

“…Can I name one?” Odysseus asked quietly, pointing to a spot in the mud.

 

Lemenai beamed. “Of course. That one’s yours.”

 

“I name him Strategos.”

 

Gialus groaned. “You named a root vegetable after a military title—?”

 

“Yes,” Odysseus said flatly. “Because he’s going to lead the others to victory.”

 

Maldovin sat down hard on a log beside them, looking up at the cloudy sky like he was begging some unseen force for patience.

 

Uloan, chewing jerky with a dead stare, muttered under his breath, “We are absolutely doomed.”

 

Chapter 34: ﹒🥀﹐Insanity﹕🔔﹒ıl

Poseidon sat slouched on one of the many ornate, uncomfortable thrones in the celestial hall, his trident leaning lazily against his shoulder. He picked at something in his teeth with a chipped bit of coral and exhaled through his nose. Across from him, Hera was talking.

 

Well. Talking was generous.

 

She was lecturing. Again.

 

“I’m just saying,” she huffed, arms crossed beneath her heavy golden robes, “if you actually enforced the laws of hospitality instead of turning mortals into puddles every time they step into your oceans, maybe you wouldn’t have half the mortal world begging Athena for rain instead.”

 

Poseidon rolled his eyes so hard he saw the back of his skull. “You sound exactly like Mother.”

 

“Take that back.”

 

“Not until you stop hovering like a seagull over my temple taxes.”

 

“I am the Queen of the Gods,” Hera said, fluffing her robes and glaring at him like she was debating smiting just a little. “I am entitled to ensure the realms are functioning properly.”

 

“You’re entitled to a vacation,” Poseidon muttered. “Go terrorize Hades for a change. He probably misses your nagging.”

 

Hera gasped like he'd insulted her firstborn. “I do not nag!”

 

“You do. You nag like a storm wind,” he grumbled. “You’ve been doing it since we were kids. Remember when you used to make me carry your goddamn peacock feathers up Mount Olympus because ‘they mustn’t touch the ground’?”

 

“They’re sacred!” Hera snapped.

 

“They’re feathers,” Poseidon snapped back. “And you pulled rank on me when I was five hundred.”

 

“Because you cheated in the chariot races!”

 

Poseidon jabbed a thumb toward his chest. “Because I was better. And don’t think I forgot you bribed the horses.”

 

“Because I knew you’d cheat!”

 

They were both yelling now. The room was vibrating. A minor wind god scuttled out of the hall sideways like a crab, muttering prayers to no one in particular.

 

And then Hera deflated, slumping onto the seat beside him, face buried in one hand. She looked… tired.

 

Poseidon blinked, tilting his head slightly. “...You good?”

 

She made a muffled noise through her fingers.

 

He nudged her shoulder with his own. “Hey. Hey. Quit being scary for two seconds. What’s wrong?”

 

“Everyone’s losing it,” Hera muttered. “Athena’s going feral, Hermes is running on sleep deprivation and fruit snacks, and Zeus is... Zeus.”

 

Poseidon exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”

 

They sat there for a moment. Quiet. The sea breeze stirred through the chamber, soft and low.

 

“…Wanna go flood a coastline together?” Poseidon offered eventually, voice dry.

 

Hera groaned as she rubbed her eyes again, her fingers trembling from sheer exhaustion. “Can’t. I have shit to do,” she muttered, pushing herself up with all the grace of a sleep-deprived mortal clinging to their ninth cup of bitter black coffee.

 

Poseidon barely turned his head, already unimpressed. “Uh huh.”

 

“I mean it,” she snapped without teeth. “Zeus left everything on my desk. Do you know how many treaties I have to—”

 

She took a single step forward.

 

And her knees buckled.

 

The gold around her waist clattered as she dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, crumpling onto the polished divine floor with a sharp exhale and a thud that echoed through the chamber like a warning bell.

 

Everything stopped.

 

Wine glasses stopped being poured. Immortal whispers ceased. Heads whipped in her direction with a predator’s awareness—every god in the hall locking eyes with the Queen of Olympus sprawled on the marble like a felled titan.

 

Then—chaos.

 

“HERA!” Hades was the first to move, his obsidian cloak trailing behind him like smoke, face carved from sudden panic as he crouched beside her. “Are you alright? What happened—did someone hex her?!”

 

“She’s lightheaded, you idiot!” Demeter hissed, already elbowing her way past a stunned Ganymede and practically slapping Hades' hand away to press her own cool fingers against Hera’s forehead. “Gods, she’s burning up. Have you even been feeding her?!”

 

“She’s not a pet, Demeter!” Hades barked, gripping Hera’s shoulder like she might disintegrate. “And you weren’t here either, so don’t go playing sanctimonious harvest-mother now—”

 

“I knew it! This is what happens when you lot treat your sister like an unpaid intern with no divine limits!” Demeter snapped back, glowing faintly green now, her voice shrill with fury and fear.

 

“She’s my sister too, you overgrown salad!”

 

“I’LL MAKE YOU A SALAD—”

 

“Everyone SHUT UP,” Hera wheezed from the floor, her voice hoarse but razor-edged, lifting one shaky hand. “I just got up too fast. Gods. I’m not dying.”

 

“Not yet,” Poseidon mumbled under his breath, kneeling beside her with a crooked smirk and offering a steadying arm. “But maybe you should sit down before the floor gets another taste.”

 

She groaned and leaned heavily into his side. “I hate all of you.”

 

Demeter sniffed. “You’re drinking broth and going to bed.”

 

“I will set your fields on fire.” Hera muttered, but her face was pale, and her breathing shallow.

 

“Still sounds like a yes to me,” Hades said dryly, glaring at Demeter like this was her fault somehow. “Ganymede, bring water. Or wine. Or—whatever she didn’t finish. Now.”

 

Ganymede blinked. “Y-yes sir!”

 

Behind them all, Hestia was vibrating with silent internal screaming.

 

Her babies were fighting.

 

 

Apollo dragged his hands down his face with all the dramatics of someone who’d already been through five divine crises before breakfast.

 

He stood slowly, his golden robes trailing behind him like a reluctant sunrise. “I swear to every constellation above and below, if I have to play medic for one more of you ancient toddlers—”

 

He crossed the floor in a few fluid steps, kneeling beside Hera and promptly ignoring everyone else.

 

Poseidon opened his mouth.

 

Apollo shushed him with a single raised finger.

 

Then turned to Hera, squinting at her like a disgruntled physician faced with a particularly stubborn patient. “How many hours of sleep have you had?”

 

“Don’t start.”

 

“How many.”

 

Hera glared. “I’m fine—”

 

“How. Many.”

 

“…Two.”

 

“In the last week.”

 

“…Still two.”

 

Apollo didn’t even flinch. He just nodded, tucked his curls behind one ear, and pressed two glowing fingers to her temple. “Alright. Diagnosis: you're a dumbass.”

 

Hera squawked indignantly.

 

“Scientific term,” he added sweetly. “Also: moderate dehydration, malnourished, extreme exhaustion, aura leaking stress in such high concentration it might give Zeus a stress rash just by proximity—”

 

“I said I was fine—!”

 

“You are not fine, you’re one step from passing out mid-smite,” Apollo snapped. “Effective immediately, Queen of Olympus or not, you are under divine-mandated bed rest.”

 

“Oh, fuck off.”

 

“No, really.” He pulled a scroll out of nowhere and stamped it. “Official. Look, has my signature and everything.”

 

“Give me that!”

 

“Nope!” Apollo held it over his head like she was a mortal toddler. “Not until you’re in bed, covered in at least three blankets, and fed something that didn’t come out of a meeting tray!”

 

From across the hall, Artemis watched with her arms folded and a look of pure, withering judgment.

 

She didn’t say anything.

 

She didn’t need to.

 

The energy coming off her said it all: You coddling idiot. You absolute mother hen. This is why no one takes us seriously.

 

Apollo turned, still holding Hera’s scroll high, and raised both eyebrows at her. “Don’t give me that face. I see that face.”

 

“I didn’t say anything,” Artemis replied flatly.

 

“You never have to. You judge louder than Hestia’s silence.”

 

“I could smite you.”

 

“I could sneeze and erase your bow.”

 

“You’re just mad I haven’t needed bed rest since the Titanomachy.”

 

“That’s because you drink moss and run on spite.”

 

Artemis shrugged. “It’s efficient.”

 

Behind them, Hera groaned and laid her head back on Poseidon’s shoulder. “I hate my family.”

 

Poseidon just chuckled and offered her a grape. “Love you too, Sister dearest.”

 

Hades didn’t even sigh.

 

He just stared at Hera for half a second—watching her eyes glaze with exhaustion, her braid half-undone and drooping like a sad vine—and then scooped her up bridal-style with all the ceremony of a disgruntled but dutiful middle manager.

 

“I can walk—!”

 

“You fell like a sack of bricks,” he said flatly. “You're getting chauffeured.”

 

“Don’t you dare take me back to Olympus. Zeus is there and I swear to every Underworld river—”

 

“Oh, I’m not taking you to Zeus,” Hades muttered.

 

He was already walking. Swiftly. Determinedly. Dark shadows licked at his ankles with every step as the floor beneath him rippled like wet ink, carrying him faster and faster out of the hall.

 

Apollo called behind him, “Make sure she drinks water!”

 

“I’M NOT A PLANT!”

 

“You’re drooping like one!”

 

And then they were gone—vanishing through a shadowed archway, Hera curled in Hades' arms like a furious little curse in silk.

 

They blinked back into the world just outside Olympus' golden gates.

 

A beat.

 

Hades looked up toward the royal palace, where lightning cracked softly in the distance.

 

Hera stared. “If you even think about—”

 

Hades turned on his heel.

 

Without. A. Word.

 

He pivoted so hard the shadows beneath him flared up in surprise, and poof, they were gone again in a swirl of darkness.

 

 

Next stop: Demeter’s palace.

 

They reappeared right inside the massive greenhouse-style bedroom with vines coiled up the walls and soft, woven sheets on a floral-drenched bed.

 

A small forest breeze rustled through the open windows.

 

Birds chirped peacefully in a tree.

 

And without ceremony, Hades tossed Hera onto the bed like a sack of grain.

 

“HEY—!”

 

She bounced once, let out a winded oof, and glared up at him from a pile of ivy-printed pillows.

 

Hades dusted his hands. “There. Fed, watered, repotted. Your caretaker will be here shortly.”

 

“I will scream.”

 

“And I will not hear it, because I will be gone.”

 

The moment she opened her mouth, Demeter walked in holding a clay cup of soup.

 

“Oh, look who finally decided to stop pretending she doesn’t need rest,” she said with the smuggest older-sister grin.

 

“I hate both of you,” Hera groaned, pulling a blanket up to her ears.

 

“Love you too,” Hades and Demeter said in perfect unison.

 

　　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Odysseus blinked.

 

Once.

 

Twice.

 

Then slowly looked down at his swaying feet.

 

“Oh,” he mumbled, utterly deadpan. “That’s new.”

 

He was dangling upside down by one ankle, caught in a crudely woven snare trap that had very rudely yoinked him off the ground mid-step. His arms hung like limp seaweed, the rest of him gently spinning as the rope creaked above.

 

“…I blame the rabbit,” he muttered, scowling at the dirt below. “This is its fault.”

 

A leaf drifted past his nose as he twisted.

 

From somewhere off in the woods, Lemenai’s voice echoed faintly:
“—Kall? Hey, where’d you go?—OH MY GODS.”

 

Crash. Scramble. And then—

 

“Oh my gods, what happened to you?!”

 

Odysseus grunted. “I was trying to catch a fish.”

 

“…This is a tree trap, Odysseus.”

 

“I got distracted.”

 

Lemenai burst out laughing, hands on his knees, wheezing. “You look like a caught goose!”

 

“I feel like one,” Odysseus muttered, arms crossing with what little dignity he had left while spinning a slow circle. “Are you going to help or just mock me until the blood rushes out of my ears?”

 

“Oh no, I’m definitely mocking you first. Then I’ll cut you down.”

 

“I hate you.”

 

“Love you too, fish-chaser.”

 

Lemenai wiped his eyes, still giggling as he reached for his dagger. “Stay still.”

 

“I literally cannot.”

 

“I know, that’s what makes this even better.”

 

Snap—

 

"Waitwaitwait—" Odysseus didn’t even get to finish the plea before the rope gave way, and gravity gleefully snatched him from midair.

 

THUMP.

 

He landed square on his ass with a graceless grunt and a wheeze like an old bellows.

 

“…I hate the forest,” he croaked, glaring up at the canopy like it personally betrayed him.

 

Lemenai nearly dropped the knife from how hard he was laughing, doubled over, hands on his knees again. "Oh gods, your face—"

 

"You're cruel," Odysseus grumbled, rubbing his tailbone with a grimace. "You're actually evil."

 

"You're the one who walked into a giant obvious rope trap!" Lemenai wheezed. "I should've left you there and just built a shrine."

 

Odysseus glared, still on the ground. "Next time, I’m baiting you and walking off with the fish."

 

"Joke's on you—I like snares."

 

"That's the most disturbing thing you've said all day." He shoved himself upright, dusted leaves and his pride off. “Don’t tell the others.”

 

“Oh, everyone’s hearing about this.”

 

“Lemenai—!”

 

“Hey guys!” Lemenai shouted toward the trees. “KALLIAS GOT CAUGHT LIKE A FAT DUCK!”

 

“LE-ME-NAI!!”

 

From behind a thicket, a voice deadpanned, "Is that why he was screaming?"

 

Gialus emerged, completely deadpan, hoisting an entire boar over one shoulder like it was a mildly inconvenient sack of laundry. Blood still dripped from its tusks, and Gialus looked completely unfazed—well, aside from the mud splattered up to his thighs and the faint tear on the edge of his shirt.

 

He stared flatly at Odysseus, who was still rubbing his ass and looking vaguely betrayed by the earth.

 

"I brought dinner," Gialus said, voice as dry as kindling. Then, slowly, he raised a brow. "What did you contribute?"

 

Odysseus opened his mouth, lifted a single finger... and then scowled.

 

“Trauma.”

 

Lemenai was wheezing again.

 

"Of course you did," Gialus muttered, turning and walking back toward camp with the boar swinging lazily from his shoulder. “You really are cursed.”

 

“I’m not cursed,” Odysseus called after him. “I’m just… gravity-prone!”

 

Lemenai lost it again. “You’re earth’s chew toy, Kali.”

 

Odysseus sat there on the mossy forest floor, rubbing the dirt out of his tunic with a useless hand, pouting like a kicked puppy. His lower lip stuck out, and he mumbled incoherently under his breath.

 

Something about boars and betrayal and people not appreciating the fine art of dangling.

 

"Stupid Gialus with his stupid dead boar," he grumbled, squinting at a bug crawling across a leaf. "Thinks he's so impressive. I caught a rabbit once. Almost. Kind of."

 

But then the grumbling died off.

 

His eyes glazed slightly, shoulders slumping just a little.

 

He wasn’t really seeing the forest anymore.

 

He was thinking of small hands in his, dirt-smudged and warm—Telemachus as a baby, tugging at his sleeve and listening about why the stars had names.

 

He was thinking of laughter over a half-finished meal, of Penelope’s sharp wit and gentler smiles, of how she used to flick his forehead when he got too clever for his own good.

 

He missed her voice. Gods, he missed the rhythm of it. The way she could say his name like it was both a warning and a prayer.

 

He missed the weight of his wife leaning against him, too tired to walk but too proud to ask to be carried.

 

He hadn’t realized how quiet the world was until he’d left them behind.

 

"…Ithaca," he whispered, voice barely a thread.

 

Lemenai tilted his head from where he was fussing with some carrot seeds nearby, but didn’t interrupt.

 

Odysseus just stared at his hands.

 

They’d held ropes, swords, shields. Carried comrades. Buried them.

 

But right now, all he could think about was how long it had been since they’d held them.

 

Maldovin crouched nearby, setting down a few sticks he’d gathered for firewood. His dark brows furrowed slightly as he watched Odysseus just... sit there. Quiet. Too quiet for someone who was usually rambling or scheming or whining about rabbit traps.

 

The silence stretched, and it felt too heavy.

 

So he broke it.

 

“Ithaca,” he repeated softly, like tasting the word. “That’s where you’re from?”

 

Odysseus blinked, slowly turning his head. He looked at Maldovin like he’d just been pulled out of a dream he hadn’t wanted to leave. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then his lips curled, not quite a smile—more like something worn and sad and fond all at once.

 

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “That’s home.”

 

He didn’t elaborate at first. Just stared past Maldovin into the woods like he could see it if he tried hard enough. And then—

 

“It’s not big. Not rich. You’d probably hate it,” he added, glancing at Maldovin with a dry little twitch of his mouth. “It’s stubborn. Full of cliffs and goats and wind that howls like it’s got something to say.”

 

Maldovin said nothing, just listened.

 

“But… it’s warm,” Odysseus continued, voice dipping softer. “The kind of warm that sticks in your bones. There’s olive trees everywhere. The sky’s so damn blue it almost hurts to look at it. And the sea—gods, the sea—it wraps around the island like it’s guarding it. Like it’s keeping it safe.”

 

He swallowed hard.

 

“My son was born there. Telemachus.” He flexed his fingers slightly, like he could still feel that tiny weight in his arms. “And Penelope. She’s… she’s the kind of woman who could make kings feel like beggars. I never deserved her.”

 

He didn’t say “I miss them.” He didn’t need to.

 

Maldovin nodded slowly, gaze softening as he watched him. And after a moment, he leaned forward and nudged Odysseus' shoulder with his own.

 

“You’re going to get back there,” Maldovin said firmly. “We’ll make sure of it.”

 

Odysseus blinked.

 

Lemenai was halfway up a tree, hanging upside down by his legs like a very hopeful bat, his fingers still stained with carrot dirt. His bright eyes sparkled with something between sincerity and absolute chaos as he called out:

 

“Can I come?”

 

Odysseus stared up at him. “To Ithaca?”

 

“Yeah!” Lemenai grinned, his hair dangling toward the forest floor. “I’ve never seen the ocean before. And you said there’s cliffs. And goats. And howling wind. That sounds awesome.”

 

Maldovin groaned softly and buried his face in his hands. “Oh gods.”

 

Odysseus squinted. “What exactly do you think Ithaca is?”

 

Lemenai blinked. “A magical goat kingdom in the sea.”

 

“…That’s not even close.”

 

“I still wanna go!” he chirped, flipping upright and landing in a crouch beside them with a thump. “I can help with the goats. Or the cliffs. Or—wait, do you have bandits? I’m good at stabbing!”

 

“You’re not good at stabbing,” Uloan muttered from the side, skinning the boar with practiced ease. “You cry every time you chip your blade.”

 

“It’s sentimental crying,” Lemenai huffed. “Not weakness!”

 

Odysseus shook his head, baffled and deeply amused. “If—if—we ever get back to Ithaca alive and in one piece, and if the gods aren’t hunting us like wild dogs, and if Penelope doesn’t murder me on sight… sure. You can come.”

 

Lemenai gasped and grabbed Maldovin’s hand. “Maldovin, I’m going to be a citizen.”

 

“Ithaca doesn’t work like that—” Odysseus started.

 

“I’m going to be Lemenai of Ithaca,” Lemenai announced grandly, puffing up like a very muddy, carrot-hoarding noble.

 

Odysseus looked at Maldovin, who looked back at him, deadpan.

 

“Welcome to your future,” Maldovin said, dry as sand. “Goat herders and this idiot in your garden.”

 

Odysseus groaned and flopped backward onto the grass. 

 

✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

The olive trees rustled with a playful breeze as golden sunlight spilled across the Ithacan hills, warm and bright.

 

Ctimene crouched low, peering behind a vine-draped pillar with narrowed eyes and a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.

 

“Telemaaaachus,” she sang sweetly, drawing out the last syllables like a cat toying with a mouse. “You little gremlin. If I find you, you’re getting tickled until you cry.”

 

Silence.

 

She straightened, brushing olive leaves from her braid as she tiptoed past the old stone bench, scanning the courtyard. “You’re not that small, you know. Your toes stick out when you hide behind the amphorae.”

 

No response. Not even a giggle.

 

Ctimene placed a hand on her hip, pretending to sigh dramatically. “If you don’t come out soon, I’m going to tell everyone in the palace that the mighty Prince Telemachus got stuck in a cabinet again.”

 

There was a very faint snrk behind her.

 

Ctimene whirled around and pounced into a thicket of potted rosemary and laurel—“HAH!”—but only found a startled cat.

 

“Drat,” she hissed, narrowing her eyes. “You’re getting too good at this.”

 

Then she paused.

 

The garden was quiet. Still. Peaceful in a way that almost felt like the lull before something chaotic. And despite her warm smile, there was a flicker of concern behind her eyes.

 

He wasn’t under the stone table. Not behind the column. Not under the hedge where he liked to pretend he was a soldier on patrol.

 

Ctimene frowned, then cupped her hands around her mouth. “Alright, sweetpea, game over! Auntie gives up. You win. You’re a hide-and-seek champion forever and ever!”

 

Still nothing.

 

A chill tickled her spine.

 

She dropped the teasing tone instantly, voice firm and clear as she strode through the courtyard. “Telemachus. Come out now.”

 

She didn’t like the silence.

 

“Telemachus?” she said again, lower this time. “It’s not funny anymore.”

 

A soft rustle came from the fig grove.

 

Her heart unclenched—just a bit—and she darted toward the trees, calling more gently, “There you are, you little—!”

 

But it wasn’t Telemachus.

 

Just the wind. And a ribbon caught on a branch. His ribbon.

 

Ctimene’s blood ran cold.

 

“TELEMACHUS!”

 

Ctimene’s voice cracked, raw and sharp, as she sprinted through the garden, her sandals forgotten somewhere behind her. Her braid whipped behind her like a banner as she shoved branches aside, darting between trees with wild eyes.

 

“TELEMACHUS!”

 

She scrambled up the hill near the olive press, heart hammering in her ears, mouth dry. Her lungs burned, her voice hoarse as she screamed again—
“WHERE ARE YOU?!”

 

She nearly tripped over a root as she turned toward the fig grove again. Tears stung her eyes. Her hands were trembling now. That ribbon—gods, that ribbon—it had been tied in his hair that morning—

 

“TELEMACHUS!”

 

And then—

 

“Hi, Auntie!”

 

Her legs almost gave out.

 

There he was.

 

Sitting perfectly upright on a mossy log, bathed in a patch of sunlight, holding a handful of dandelions. His little sandals kicked the air cheerfully as he smiled up at her, bright and oblivious.

 

“You were taking forever,” he pouted, lips pushed forward. “I’ve been waiting here for sooo long!”

 

Ctimene froze, staring. Her throat worked uselessly for a second—then she launched forward and scooped him into her arms with a sob so fierce it rattled her chest.

 

“Wha—? Auntie?! You’re squeezing too tight—!”

 

“Don’t ever do that again,” she choked, pressing his head against her shoulder, clutching him like he might vanish if she blinked. “You—gods, I thought—I thought you were gone.”

 

“I was hiding,” he mumbled, blinking. “Like we said. Hide and seek.”

 

“Not that well, you demon,” she whispered, voice cracking into laughter and tears all at once. “I thought you’d been taken by wolves or—or gods forbid, a suitor.”

 

Telemachus blinked. “What’s a suitor?”

 

She groaned. “Never mind.”

 

He leaned back in her arms, smiling wide. “I won, huh?”

 

Ctimene stared at him, then gave a shaky smile through the wetness in her lashes.

 

“Yeah,” she whispered, voice thick. “You won.”

 

Ctimene let out a long, long breath as she held Telemachus at arm’s length and squinted at him like he was a particularly stubborn stain she just couldn’t scrub off the marble floor.

 

Then—smack!

 

A big kiss on his forehead.

 

He blinked, startled, as she grabbed his face and kissed him again, harder this time.

 

“AUNTIEEE—!”

 

“You—” she scolded, jabbing a finger against his sternum with every word, “—do not get to disappear in the middle of a game. You do not wander off deeper into the grove without telling me. You do not sit there like a happy little gnat with dandelions while I’m about to summon the entire guard because I thought you were stolen by a sea monster!”

 

Telemachus wilted slightly under the barrage, his little shoulders scrunching in that telltale way.

 

“But I didn’t go far…”

 

“You left a ribbon behind!” she snapped. “Do you know what that means to someone who loves you? That’s basically a blood trail!”

 

He paused. Blinked. Thought for a second.

 

“…Would you be less mad if I gave you a dandelion crown?”

 

Ctimene stared at him.

 

“…A little,” she muttered.

 

He smiled. That blinding smile he got from his father. “Then I’ll make you one! And—and then maybe we can talk about—uh—puppies?”

 

Her eyes narrowed. “Puppies?”

 

“Y’know. Little ones. Fuzzy. I’ll feed them and train them and let them sleep in my bed—”

 

“You’re nine. You still spill olive oil on your tunics and cry when you drop figs.”

 

“One time!”

 

She threw her head back and groaned to the gods.

 

“No puppies,” she said firmly, grabbing his hand. “Not until you prove you can keep yourself alive in a game of hide and seek without giving me a heart attack.”

 

Telemachus pouted dramatically, stomping alongside her. “You’re the meanest auntie in all of Ithaca.”

 

Ctimene grinned. “And don’t you forget it.”

 

She ruffled his curls and pulled him into a half-hug, muttering, “Little monster,” before adding, softer this time, “I’m glad you’re safe.”

 

Telemachus trudged along beside her for a few more steps, dragging his feet in the dirt with maximum drama. His bottom lip jutted out in a pout so exaggerated it could’ve been carved on a tragic mask.

 

Then, in a very small voice:

 

“…Auntie.”

 

Ctimene arched an eyebrow without looking down. “What?”

 

Silence.

 

And then—his fingers tugged at the edge of her sleeve.

 

“…Can I have uppies?”

 

She stopped walking.

 

Turned slowly.

 

Stared at him.

 

The nine-year-old looked up at her with the wide, pleading eyes of someone who knew exactly where her weak spots were. He even sniffled a little, for effect. "My feet hurt. I ran so far… and my legs are tired…”

 

“Telemachus,” she said flatly, arms crossed. “You ran in a circle. Around a fig tree. Twice.”

 

He blinked. “That’s still a lot of running.”

 

“You’re nine.”

 

“My legs are short!”

 

She stared. He pouted.

 

“…Please?” he added, lip wobbling, hands up like a baby bird.

 

Ctimene groaned so loudly it echoed.

 

“You’re going to be the death of me,” she grumbled—and then bent down, scooped him up, and hoisted him onto her hip.

 

He beamed. Wrapped his arms around her neck. Nuzzled into her shoulder like a sleepy kitten.

 

“You’re the best aunt ever.”

 

“I was,” she said, voice muffled against his curls, “until ten minutes ago.”

 

He giggled.

 

She rolled her eyes and started walking again, bouncing him gently.

 

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

 

“I know.”

 

　✭　　↷　　⁺ 　♩　　∿

 

Polites was not sitting.

 

Polites was pacing.

 

Violently.

 

Like a caged beast on the edge of slaughter.

 

His hands were in his hair, which stuck out at odd angles from how many times he’d yanked at it. His eyes were bloodshot, sleepless, rimmed red and wild like he hadn’t blinked in hours.

 

The tent flap whipped open and shut as he marched in and out, each time barking something nonsensical at the poor aide trying to calm him.

 

“–AND THEN HE CUT THE GODS-DAMNED VINE.”

 

He shouted, at no one in particular.

 

“To trap us. To trap me. ME. I HEALED THAT BASTARD WITH MY OWN HANDS, AND HE CUT THE VINE.”

 

The aide cleared their throat weakly. “Sir, would you like some water—?”

 

“WATER WON’T FIX BETRAYAL!”

 

He threw the pitcher. It shattered. The aide bolted.

 

Eurylochus, sitting against a nearby rock with his arms crossed and his face in his hands, muttered tiredly, “This is your fault. You cried too loud. He got scared and ran.”

 

Diomedes, sprawled in the grass staring dead-eyed into the stormy sky, hissed, “I told you we should’ve tackled him and bound his legs—”

 

“BOUND HIM?!” Polites turned on them like a madman. “He made STIR-FRY for other men, Diomedes. He fed them with his own hands. Do you know how long it took him to cook for me?!”

 

Eurylochus deadpanned, “He poisoned you, remember?”

 

“ROMANTICALLY.”

 

Polites kicked a barrel over.

 

Then went silent.

 

His eye twitched. He took a deep, shuddering breath.

 

“I’m going to find him. I will find him.”

 

“Polites—”

 

“I’m going to skin those mercenaries like onions. I’ll wear their bones as jewelry.”

 

He turned on his heel and stormed off into the woods, still muttering about stir-fry, betrayal, and “ungrateful little commoner bastards.”

 

Eurylochus sighed and stood.

 

“…We should probably follow him before he dies.”

 

Diomedes didn’t move.

 

“…Give him an hour,” he said. “If he hasn’t been eaten by wolves, we’ll drag him back.”

 

Thunder rumbled.

 

Polites screamed something in the distance about someone named “Maldovin.”

 

It did not sound polite.

 

Eurylochus slumped down to the grass like his spine had given out.

 

He buried his face in his hands.

 

“I can’t do this anymore,” he mumbled, voice muffled against his palms. “I can’t. I cannot. I will not.”

 

Diomedes raised a brow without looking at him. “He’s your family.”

 

“He’s my curse.”

 

Eurylochus dragged his hands down his face with the slow agony of a man enduring divine punishment. “Do you know what it’s like having Odysseus as your brother-in-law? Every family gathering turns into a war meeting. Every dinner? A trap. Every gift? Probably cursed. You can’t have a conversation without five layers of riddles and some mythological reference you were never taught.”

 

He looked up at the sky with dead eyes.

 

“He faked madness to avoid war. He pretended to be a baker. He cut the vine. He made stir-fry for strangers and never even made one for me.”

 

Diomedes finally rolled onto his side with a grunt. “At least he didn’t pretend to be a dead cow to seduce you.”

 

There was a long pause.

 

“…What.”

 

“Don’t worry about it.”

 

Eurylochus exhaled so hard it sounded like his soul leaving his body.

 

“I swear to every god in Olympus, when we find him I’m going to marry Ctimene again just so I can divorce her and legally remove myself from this madness.”

 

Diomedes sat up slowly.

 

“You’re already married to her.”

 

“I know. And that means I am eternally shackled to the ghost of that deranged Ithacan bastard until the sun burns out and Hades finally takes pity on me.”

 

He curled up on the ground and whimpered, “I miss my goat.”

 

Diomedes blinked. “You don’t have a goat.”

 

“I would if I wasn’t busy chasing the human embodiment of a dramatic fever dream through the woods.”

 

Off in the distance, Polites shrieked Odysseus’ name like a banshee again.

 

Eurylochus quietly laid face-first into the grass.

 

“I hate my life.”

 

Diomedes didn’t move at first.

 

He just lay there, staring up at the clouds.

 

Listening to Polites scream in the distance.

 

Hearing Eurylochus groan like he was ready to commit arson.

 

And in his silence… something crept in.

 

Something that made his lips twitch.

 

His eye gave the faintest little tick.

 

“I should have done it when I had the chance.”

 

He mumbled it so quietly that Eurylochus didn’t even notice.

 

Just a whisper under his breath.

 

“Chopped his legs off. Just the knees. Nothing fancy.”

 

He sat up slowly. Blank expression. Pale, too calm.

 

“I wouldn’t have even needed a sharp blade,” he said, almost fondly. “Could’ve used a rock. A clean smash. Two hits, maybe three. Then he wouldn’t run. He’d have no need to run.”

 

Eurylochus was still sulking into the grass.

 

Diomedes stared at the horizon, but his gaze didn’t see it.

 

“They’d heal. Eventually. I’d help. Carry him. Hold him. Bind them up just right. Wrap his bandages every morning and tuck him in every night.” He tilted his head. “He wouldn’t leave me again. He’d need me. Finally. He’d finally need me.”

 

His fingers twitched.

 

“I could be gentle. I can be gentle.”

 

Eurylochus finally looked up. “…what?”

 

Diomedes blinked.

 

Paused.

 

Then smiled faintly, with all the warmth of a viper sunbathing.

 

“Oh. Nothing.”

 

Eurylochus squinted. “…I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

 

“Good.”

 

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that and you’re going to pretend you didn’t say it.”

 

Diomedes stretched his back with a soft pop.

 

“I would’ve used a rock,” he muttered again, dreamy now.

 

Eurylochus sat up.

 

“I’m filing for a divorce and a restraining order.”

 

Diomedes smiled wider. “Too late. We’re all in this marriage.”

 

And off in the distance?

 

Polites was still screaming.

 

Odysseus’ name echoing through the trees like the ghost of a man wronged.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Runaway Fics