k-nayee

[k-nayee]

The thing is, even if you were lucky and your parents taught you how to clean, they probably didn't teach you how to clean the stuff you clean stuff with, like brushes, mops, sponges, rags, and so on. Or how to clean your cleaning appliances, like a dish washer, clothes washing machine, and clothes dryer and its ducts (if you have a ducted dryer), or a carpet cleaner, vacuum, Or how to clean up clean messes, like spilled bleach or detergent.

My parents threw away all of these things (even the vacuum cleaners and the dryer) when they got too dirty to function, because no one even told them THAT they could be cleaned. Cost them thousands of dollars over the years.

All I'm saying is that cleaning is not intuitive, and not knowing how to clean is not a moral failing, but it is something you can learn.

I'm going to reblog this post with resources for learning how to clean things and how to clean cleaning things (I'm not at my desk at the moment). If you have any favorites, please feel free to add them in too!

[k-nayee]

FINALLY got around to dumping Spotify after their CEO continued to prove he's a fresh turd. (As if being a billionaire, not paying musicians, shoving AI garbage at us, and having an atrocious carbon footprint wasn't bad enough, he's now the chair of a AI-based weapons manufacturing company.)

I used TuneMyMusic ($24 annual fee you can cancel immediately, effectively paying only once) to transfer almost every single song from our Spotify account to Tidal. Tidal already has much better sound quality and they pay their artists much better. It migrated over 99% of our music, too, so there wasn't a huge loss.

[k-nayee]

Yeah so unfortunately, my friend was right. Muttering 'I'm gonna put on the greatest talent show this town has ever seen' darkly to myself is not only vastly funnier than saying I'm gonna kms, but is also somehow more concerning to anyone who might overhear it

[k-nayee]

on this day in 1953 shirley jackson sent this to an unhappy reader

[k-nayee]

🍽️

[k-nayee]

Stoopid stuff based on a meme I saw on Pinterest I wanted to draw!!

[k-nayee]

Is that why my school essay was flagged for ai last year at uni?! LMFAOOOOO the way i nearly threw up when she emailed me😭when i told my told her i used my Google docs to spellcheck she immediately told me “just use that document/essay and rewrite it in your own way/words”💀

"you can use ai to improve spelling and grammar"

[k-nayee]

HERE. IT. IS.

THE. ART.

[k-nayee]

CHAPTER 58. LET HER BE THE FIRE

A/n: AHHHHHHHH. I'm sorry yall i had to do it😭 just know it hurted me writing it—like i was tearing up and everything. and as much i love the comments about our lil pancake on wanting him to live, just know the way this story is set up? it was either now or when the 'odysseus choose himself or the crew' scene with zeus LMAOO💀 plus with what i have planned for mc in the later arcs, she wouldn't want to do any of it if he was around, as our girlie is loyal to the T💔 anyways! this is the last chapter installment for arc six! once again I am going back to the story-board and beginning to make the chapters for arc seven (after i finish dropping my Superman 2025 oneshots lol just got to, the mans fiooooone) so yeah! make sure to drink enough water, get enough sleep, and take care of yourselves! - knayee

❝There is no force more powerful than a woman determined to rise❞

Warrior M.List | Act Ⅵ

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˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

Everyone froze.

Heads whip toward the mouth of the cave. You stare alongside them in disbelief as the ground-shaking footsteps come closer, louder.

Eurylochus hissed beside you through clenched teeth. “There's more of them?”

“WHO HURTS YOU?” the voices thundered once more.

Panic hit like a wave. Soldiers began to scatter—their composure shattering. Some pressed against the walls, others ducked behind debris.

Penelope wasted no time. She yanked you down with her, shoving both of you into the herd.

“Hide amongst the sheep! Move!” she barked.

They obey her without hesitation; crawling through the dirt, they press themselves low, vanishing into the warm musty bellies of the animals.

Forcing yourself to breathe through the stench of sheep dung and wool, the grime of stone and blood still cling to your hands as you press flat beneath a thick-bellied ewe.

“WHO HURTS YOU?”

From your hidden view-point, just past the sheep’s legs and through the narrow slit of the cave’s entrance, two shapes loomed.

Larger than Polyphemus.

Their feet alone dwarfed his, and when they stepped forward, the floor shook beneath them. Even their forms—blurred by shadow but unmistakably terrible—blocked out the sunlight.

Just inches from you, Eurylochus stiffened. You saw him shoot a sideways glance toward Penelope. “Captain...”His voice was no longer that of a Commander but of a man on the edge. “Captain we should run.”

Penelope didn’t answer at first. She stares at those looming feet in calculating silence, her knuckles white from the grip she had on her blade. “Wait.”

“WHO HURTS YOU?”

The voices come again, louder this time...angrier. The noise of their movement shakes the dust loose from the cave ceiling causing a few pebbles to trickle down like teardrops.

“They’re getting closer.” Eurylochus’ voice returned, strained and broken now. “Captain please.”

He was begging. The man who had stood steady in a battlefield, who fought in hundreds of ambushes and never once faltered, was pleading. His eyes brimmed with something deeper than fear: helplessness.

But Penelope didn’t flinch. She leaned toward him and hissed, “Wait.”

From the darkness near the back of the cave Polyphemus cries out—no longer the feral beast of moments ago.

“NOBODY!” Voice broken and weeping, it was thick with snot and blind confusion as he continued to sob. “IT WAS NOBODY WHO HURT ME!”

The cave fell utterly still.

You held your breath, unsure if your lungs would remember how to function.

Outside the brothers hesitated. Then one of them spoke again, sounding deeply unimpressed as he grumbles:

"IF NOBODY HURTS YOU...THEN BE SILENT.”

It wasn’t sympathy—it was dismissal. They believed him....or rather they misunderstood.

Their gigantic feet pivoted on the earth with a ponderous grace, each footfall becoming softer until they were swallowed completely by the distance.

Polyphemus’ scream of protest chased after them.

“DON'T GO! PLEASE—DON'T GO!” he howled into a pitiful wail. “IT WAS NOBODY...NOBODY DID THIS TO ME!”

But it was too late.

They were gone.

Silence followed, deep and dreadful. Only the bleating of sheep and the labored breaths of wounded men filled the cave.

You felt something inside you shut down completely.

It was like a switch had been flipped—your mind folded in on itself, protecting the pieces of you that were too cracked to stay exposed.

You weren’t thinking anymore. You weren’t even panicking. You were numb. Cold.

Penelope saw it. She slipped an arm under your shoulder to gently coax you upright. “Come on,” she murmur.

Your body didn’t want to obey; every movement felt like dragging yourself through molasses. But her hand was warm, and her grip, though firm, didn’t rush you.

"Everyone," she called out just above a whisper, "Start moving with the sheep. Quietly. Keep your heads down."

You blink out of it and force your limbs to cooperate. Pressed against the cold stone as the mass of woolen bodies began to move, you begin to take in your surroundings: the low bleating of the sheep...the shadows of men crawling and staying low just as Penelope had ordered.

“NOBODY!” Now fully awake and blinded, Polyphemus began rampaging.

“NOBODY WHERE ARE YOU?!” His voice cracked with fury radiating in every direction. “COME BACK!”

There was almost something childlike in the way he cries. You still don’t speak. All you do is move and pray the beast doesn't stumble close enough to crush you beneath one misstep.

Polyphemus howled again as he pawed at the ground, hands sweeping left and right in search.

But there was no answer. Only the quiet of warriors who knew too well that sound was death.

After a long agonizing pause, the Cyclops staggered back.

You could hear the way his breathing changed, how his shoulders sagged just slightly, the fire in him simmering down into something colder. Something bitter.

He couldn’t find you. Which meant to him, you (and his enemies) must have escaped.

Polyphemus turned toward the mouth of the cave, feet dragging across the stone floor. "NOBODY!" He calls for you once more into the distance——but this time it was smaller, like even he didn’t believe he’d get a reply.

Penelope had timed it perfectly; his rage kept him from noticing the steady exit of his flock and the survivors hidden beneath them.

You could see him blindly checking each sheep as they passed—massive fingers gently trailing across their fluffy backs, searching for the wrong shape. But the soldiers stayed low, crawling under the bellies of the herbivores, gripping wool with white-knuckled hands as they moved silent as phantoms.

No one breathed loudly. No one spoke. Only the innocent and confused cries of the sheep was heard.

And so you passed undetected...

All except the ones that couldn’t be carried.

For they did not bring the dead. They could not. The bodies were left where they had fallen, draped across the broken ground like a shattered tapestry.

Polites was left where he'd fallen. There near the far wall, just out of reach from the secret tunnel—the one you had used to slip in before it all began.

You wanted to crawl...to go and take him with you. But you knew what would happen if you lifted him, if you made even one wrong move: Polyphemus would hear and the others would die.

There was no way. The only path was forward.

Outside the air was cooler. The sky above the trees was bright and cloudless, the sun shining down with the warm indifference of distant Gods.

Ithacan soldiers moved as one: bleak and scarred.

Each man carried what he could—some held satchels of salvaged jugs of wine, others carried waterskins, armfuls of expensive cloth, or wounded comrades. A few even guided the surviving sheep, gently tugging on cords or leading them by hand.

There was no talk...no songs. Just the rustle of footsteps and the occasional cough of someone too tired to suppress it.

The silence had became a procession—a funeral march without a body.

You were in the center, hand clenched around the haft of your axe, one of the only things you had left to hold onto.

Time became meaningless as the trek through the forest stretched on.

Branches snagged at your Lotus attire, thorns prickling against your exposed skin. But you didn’t flinch. You just kept walking.

Eventually the edge of the woods began to give way to sand and salty air. The sea stretched wide and silent as the ships waited at the water’s edge, sails lowered like weary wings.

You and Penelope remained at the tree line as soldiers began to board one by one, loading supplies and the wounded while simultaneously ushering the surviving sheep along the gangplanks.

The wind lashed against your face, sharp and cold. Your mind drifts—back toward the forest, to the invisible path winding back through it. Toward the body you’d left behind.

As the two of you neared the ships, ready to board and leave behind this cursed island, a shift in the wind stopped you cold. It carried with it something unnatural—like the scent of nectar and forgotten dreams.

A figure emerged from the shadows in between the line of trees.

The crown Lotus Eater.

His strawberry blond braid hangs loose across his shoulder like a banner caught in mourning, his bare feet holding the cadence and dignity of a King with every step he took closer.

Penelope reacted first.

In one motion her hand was on the hilt of her dagger, body turned just enough to shield you. Even with no words spoken, her posture screamed all she wanted to say: touch her and I end you.

"Wait," you press a hand to her shoulder, voice coming out dry but firm. "It’s okay."

She paused, eyes darting between you and the Lotus Eater before slowly lowering her guard, though her body remained alert.

Your movements were careful as you met him the rest of the way, as if anything too sudden would tear open the fragile reality you crafted.

Lysion said nothing as he watched you stop before him—his gaze wide and unmoving, as if drinking in the shape of your visage.

The leaf-wrapped garb you wore fluttered against your skin—tribal and worn, clinging to your body like memory itself. The ink designs once painted on your skin had faded, washed away in the blood and sweat of the escape; all except for the narrow ring of markings that curled like ivy around your left ring finger and trailed to your heart.

His calloused hands was large as they reached for yours, fingers curling around yours with impossible gentleness of someone holding stained glass. He drops something into your upturned palm without ceremony.

A coin.

The weight was familiar before you even looked. But when you did—when your gaze dropped and the sunlight glinted off its copper and silver surface—you felt your knees nearly buckle.

Thersandros... Eirene... Leandros... Nikostratos... Polites... Timon... Chloris... Kallianeira... Thaleia; the names lay etched into the worn edges of the metal.

Your breath hitched, throat tightening so suddenly it felt like drowning, the coin beginning to blur in your palm.

“Seems your Fruit-bound left something behind,” Lysion’s voice, warm and low, pulled you back to the surface. “We’ll take good care of him...of all them.”

That done it.

Those simple words shattered the thin barrier you'd been building up. Tears break free once more, sliding down your cheeks without permission.

Penelope appeared beside you again, silent as the tide. She gave Lysion a single nod—curt, respectful, full of meaning.

“Thank you,” she said quietly on your behalf.

The crowned Lotus Eater returned her nod and then turned, disappearing into the mist and trees. You and Penelope watched until he was gone.

Only then did you move.

The ship rocked gently as you climbed the ramp, the wind had picking up, stirring sails and hair alike.

You glided amongst the crew like a ghost, the coin still pressed into your palm leaving small crescent marks where it bit into your skin.

Around you silence reigned as soldiers counted heads; some muttered names under their breath, others stared across the water.

They knew....they didn’t have to ask. The wounded stares of your scouting group told the story already.

"MAMAAAA!" A wailing cry splits through the heavy tension.

You turned sharply.

The baby Prince was waddling toward you with outstretched arms, his cheeks wet and blotchy from fresh tears as he continued to release distressed high-pitched sobs.

“Astyanax...” you murmured hoarsely. Blindly handing your axe to someone as you lift him into your arms, you allow his tiny fists to grip your shoulders, his sobs growing ragged.

The sailor who’d been watching him stepped forward quickly, face pale with exhaustion. “He—he woke from his nap a little while ago,” he stammers. “Been asking for you. And for—”

“POH-LEE!” Astyanax shrieked again, this time even louder. “POH-LEE—!”

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t tell him what he wanted to hear.

So you lied.

“He...he's a little busy with a task right now sweet one.” You held the child tighter as you whispered into his hair.

But he didn’t understand. He repeated the name like a curse; for the one (other than you) who rocked him to sleep, who whispered silly lullabies during late-night watches.

Polites.

You could do nothing else but rock him, tears falling down your own face.

Worn-out soldiers lined the deck as the ships continue to pull away, oars dipping into water in perfect rhythm—some sitting with their heads bowed, others tending to wounds that would scar long after the skin healed.

For a breathless suspended moment...there was peace. But peace was not yet earned.

“NOBODY!”

A scream—raw and guttural—ripped across the sea.

“NOBODY WHERE ARE YOU?!”

The voice shook the very planks beneath your feet. You turned sharply, as did the others, each of you seeking the source despite knowing exactly who it was.

Polyphemus.

He had torn free of the treeline; his grotesque form stumbling toward the edge of the beach like a wounded beast in search of prey, clenched fists lifted to the heavens in impotent rage. His face twisted in agony, blood still running from the gaping socket of his ruined eye.

“NOBODY!” His voice cracked as he bellowed again.

Your grip around the baby Prince tightened, grounding yourself in the solid weight of his little body. Astyanax whimpered again, burying his tear-streaked face deeper into your neck, trying to hide from the sound.

Then the air changed.

It wasn't the wind. It wasn't the sea.

It was the pressure—like a storm was about to strike, but...sharper.

“Have you forgotten the lesson I taught you?”

Another voice rang through the air with unnatural clarity: calm and cold, a vibration in your chest before your ears could catch up.

A hush fell across the decks like a held breath as the ship lurched slightly—not from a wave, but from every body aboard stiffening at once.

You turned.

And she was there.

Athena.

The Goddess of Wisdom stood in the center of the deck, her form luminous and terrible in its stillness as she gripped her spear loosely in one hand, the other rested at her hip. The air around her hummed with divinity—like the universe held its breath in her presence.

She didn’t glance at the gawking crew. Didn’t need to.

Her eyes were on you.

Even Prince Astyanax nestled in your arms sensed something wrong...something off.

His crying slowed to hiccupping whimpers as he peeked at her over his shoulder before tucking himself tighter against your chest, burying his head beneath your chin.

The deck creaked beneath shifting knees as every soldier bowed, heads pressed low in fear and reverence. But not you.

And not Penelope.

The Queen of Ithaca moved to your side without hesitation, placing herself protectively between you and Athena’s gaze. Her shoulders were squared, face carved from steel.

She didn’t blink as the Goddess’ eyes narrowed.

“He’s still a threat until he’s dead,” Athena's voice was cool as ever as she stare through you. “Finish it.”

Penelope stepped forward, hand resting firmly on the handle of your axe. “No.”

Athena’s head tilting slightly as if amused. The corners of her mouth twitched—not into a smile but something far crueler.

“No?” she repeats.

Her tone wrapped around the word like poison ivy; a challenge and a dismissal in one breath. She turned, fully facing Penelope now with a raised brow.

Penelope did not flinch.

“You may be the patron of my husband,” she says coolly, “and you may have hoped to claim my former Second-in-Command in your favor...but I’m still a student of Ares. Your domain holds no power over me.”

She gestured sharply, sweeping her arm across the deck, toward the wounded, the grieving, the barely living.

“Look at them. Look at my men...my troops. What good would any more killing do?” Her voice cracked, just once before firming again. “We’ve lost too much already. I may be a weapon of brutality and war, but I do know the meaning of mercy. Maybe it’s time you learned it too.”

Her shoulders eased only slightly, a breath escaping—but the fury in her eyes burned as bright as ever.

“The best friend of my husband is dead,” she continued, lower now. “Someone he’s known since boyhood. And the one who took his life? He’s blind. Condemned to spend eternity stumbling through the dark, dependent on touch and sound and scent. That is punishment enough.”

Penelope’s voice sharpened with rage—the way you flinched at the mentioning of Polites not going unnoticed. “You want her to kill again?? For what? Vengeance? Glory? And here I thought that thirst belonged to Ares.”

That made Athena’s eyes blaze. “Watch your tongue mortal.”

But Penelope only smiled—cold and bitter. “Sure thing Goddess of Wisdom,” she said mockingly. “That’s the very least thing you’ll get from me.”

She advanced another step. “Because no matter how much blood ____ sheds for you, it’s never enough is it? No matter the sacrifices...no matter the scars. The expectation you’ve placed on her shoulders? It never lessens. It only grows.”

Athena turned to you then. Waiting...expecting you to speak up, to refute Penelope, to side with her divine will.

Your eyes stayed locked on the floor of the ship, the coin pressed deep into your palm as you held Astyanax close, his breath warming the hollow beneath your chin.

You were tired. A empty puppet cut from its strings.

So you said nothing.

Athena sneered as she looked back to Penelope, golden eyes flashing with something colder than rage.

“Once again you’ve held her back,” she said. “You stopped her from finishing the mission. Soon...soon you’ll see what that costs.”

Penelope stood firm.

“I don’t care what the cost is!” she snapped. “I’ll protect her. Because it seems you never do. You’ll always want more of her—more blood, more sacrifice, more of her soul until there’s nothing left. But not this time.”

Athena’s gaze burned for a heartbeat longer. Without another, she slammed the butt of her spear twice against the deck.

The sound shook through your bones.

And just like that—she was gone.

No one breathed.

The crew, frozen in their kneels, lifted their heads only after a long tentative silence. One by one the men rose to their feet with caution, eyes glued on the space where the Goddess once stood, expecting she might reappear.

But she didn't.

Even when gone she left the taste of metal in every mouth. And yet it wasn’t the Immortal's departure that made the ship tremble again.

It was Penelope.

Fists clenched at her sides, honey-brown eyes lit with molten rage.

“This...” she began to pace across the deck in furious strides, shoulders wound with tension too big for her frame. “This is what it means to be a warrior of the mind? Of wisdom?”

She practically spat out the last word as if it had turned to ash on her tongue. The wind caught her braid, whipping dark strands across her face. She pushed them back with a growl that was more animal than human.

And then her eyes locked back on the island.

On him.

He was still there.

Polyphemus, blind and raging, a God-born monstrosity, stood at the edge of the beach like some colossal statue.

Without the Goddess to focus her fury on, Penelope turned to the next best outlet for her fire.

“HEY CYCLOPS!”

The crew startled again, heads whipping toward her, then to the shoreline.

You followed their eyes in time to catch Polyphemus freezing mid-scream. Face contorted with humiliation, his head swiveled toward the sound of her voice.

“COWARDS!” he bellowed, the rawness in his voice carving into your skin like broken glass. “YOU HAVE STOLEN MY SIGHT AND LEFT ME TO ROT! I SHOULD HAVE SLAUGHTERED YOU ALL WHEN I HAD THE CHANCE!”

You flinched again as the image of Polites appeared unbiddenly. Every curse Polyphemus screamed felt like a dagger pressed deeper in your heart.

“Enough!” Penelope barked.

She didn’t just walk—she stormed to the edge of the ship, every step ringing like the beat of drums. Soldiers and sailors alike instinctively parted, disbelief plain on their faces.

No one dared stop her. Not even you.

And then she stood at the prow, her posture regal and terrifying, wind pulled at the red cloak she wore like it too bowed to her anger.

“It was I who done it!”

Her voice boomed, soaring across the waves like a war banner unfurling.

“Penelope—no!” You suddenly reach out, blood racing in your veins as you trembled with fear you hadn’t had time to process until now.

Penelope didn’t look at you. She simply lifted a hand, quick and sharp; a silent command that halted you mid-step as her eyes remained locked on the island.

On the distant beach the Cyclops roared again, mouth opened wide in his sightless rage. “WHO SPEAKS?! WHO DARES CLAIM THIS DEED?!”

“I do,” Penelope answered, louder this time. The wind grabbed it, amplified it, made it impossible to ignore. “And I dare!”

She took another step forward, until the tips of her feet kissed the very edge of the ship. Her chin lifted and her eyes blazed.

“I am the daughter of Icarius!” she declared, her voice imbued with a terrible and noble clarity. “Born of Sparta’s blood and fire. Now I am Queen of Ithaca, favored by Ares himself!”

The name hit like thunder. Even from where you stood, still clutching the Prince to your chest, you felt it in your bones.

You weren’t the only one who shivered—several crew members flinched, instinctively looking over their shoulders as if the God himself might appear.

Still, Penelope was not finished.

“It was I who struck your sight.... It was I who guided my crew to defy you.... I am the one who bested you Polyphemus!”

Her fingers curled around the railing, knuckles pale as if holding herself back from leaping into the ocean to face the Cyclops directly.

“I outwitted your monstrous strength,” she shouts. “I broke the cage you built!”

Polyphemus’ response was primal.

He howled as he slammed both fists into the earth, the beach shaking. The echo of it cracked trees at the forest edge sending flocks of birds scattering into the sky.

But Penelope stood tall and unflinching.

“Remember this Polyphemus!” she cried out, voice a rising crescendo over the churning waves. “The next time you dare challenge the will of Ithaca...”

She opened her arms as though to show him the horizon itself.

“Remember the fallen—the brave souls who paid with their lives.... Remember their sacrifice. Their courage.... Remember us.... Remember my name!”

Polyphemus reeled, snarling and flailing in blind confusion as he clawed uselessly at the empty air.

“YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS!” his voice cracked with vengeance. “YOU WILL PAY WITH YOUR LIFE!”

Penelope’s answer was not fear; her voice rose again—higher, louder, fiercer than the stormclouds gathering above them.

“Remember me Polyphemus!” she called. “For I am your darkest moment! Not just as a Queen, but as your reckoning. For I am...”

The air stilled, the wind itself seeming to wait.

“PENELOPE!”

[k-nayee]

CHAPTER 57. THE EYE OF GRIEF

❝Rage—sing the rage of Achilles...❞

Warrior M.List | Act Ⅵ

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˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

The ground shook as Polyphemus' foot crashed down, the force of it cracking the stone and sending dust and splinters flying.

He howled like waves crashing through a canyon and swept an arm across the cave, massive hand swatting blindly at the crew.

Soldiers scrambled in all directions— their coordination forgotten in the onslaught.

Some dove for cover, others drew their weapons with shaky hands, too panicked to shout, too frightened to form any kind of defense.

The only thing louder than the Cyclops’ bellows were the panicked screams of men unprepared for a giant's wrath.

Not Penelope though.

“Form up!” Her voice rang clear, slicing through the chaos like a Commander born of storm and steel. “Circle around! He’s strong but slow—we’re faster! Move! Move!”

You mirrored her cry with one of your own, ducking under a wild swing that shattered a torch bracket and sent sparks raining over your head, “Hit him from behind! Focus on his heels! Stay low, stay mobile!”

Your scouting party broke into smaller groups.

They dart between Polyphemus’ legs like wasps harrying a bear, blades glancing off his flesh like rain against stone. But it was enough to make him stumble.

Another group shouted, distracting him just long enough for two others to land shallow strikes along his calf. Not fatal—but enough to irritate him with pain and rage.

And then rhythm began.

Dodge... Slash... Fall back... Distract... Move... Breathe...

Penelope’s voice rose above the clash and confusion. “Six hundred lives at stake with only one life to take!” she shouted, rallying the troops. “Show me how badly you want to live!”

You felt the surge of momentum ripple through your men. They pressed in tighter, weaving between the blows, slipping through blind spots.

And for a heartbeat—it was working.

Polyphemus' eye was wild, too focused on the loudest threat to notice the quieter blades at his ankles. He turned again, trying to crush a soldier that had already rolled aside, his foot smashing into nothing but stone.

You allowed yourself to believe, for the barest instant, that you might survive thi—

Your foot caught a pebble.

Tripping over, you land hard on your side, breath punching from your lungs. The sounds around you dulled into a dizzy ringing, dust biting your throat as you tried to lift yourself.

‘Wow,’ your mind dryly whispers. ‘Death by pebble. Who would've thought...’

“____!”

You over to see Polites crouched beside you. Pulling you upright with more strength than you knew he had, you clutched at his arm.

“You alright?”

You nod. “I...I tripped. I—”

“It’s okay. You’re alright now.” His hand lingered on yours.

You stare at him.

His face was flushed with exertion, sweat catching on the edge of his chin, dirt smudged across his cheek. His chest rose and fell in sharp bursts.

If anything he looked like...home. Even here, in this place of blood and death, he looked like the kind of person you wanted to run toward, not away from.

And he must’ve seen it in your face. Because his eyes—those amber eyes—were locked on you like nothing else existed.

“I’m not sure if I said it right earlier,” he finally spoke, voice quiet amidst the chaos, “but I...I love you.”

Time slowed.

You blinked, stunned, trying to process the words through the blur of blood and battle.

“I always have,” he pressed on before you could say anything, hold tightening as if trying to tether himself to reality. “Since the first time I saw you I’ve loved you. Before Troy. Before the fleet. Before all of this.”

Polites gently cups your face as he leans in a little closer. “A-and I know I’m clumsy with words.” He laughs shakily. “But I mean it. It’s been the greatest honor being beside you. Fighting with you. Laughing with you. Knowing you.”

The Kefalonian soldier hesitates, lips twitching into a rueful smile. “I hope—Gods—I hope I get more years with you. I want more. I want—”

It happened so fast you couldn’t name the moment.

One second he was standing beside you, grip still warm where he’d caught your arm. The next his expression changed.

His pupils widened as his breath hitched before releasing hoarse, urgent scream. “____—MOVE!”

You didn’t get the chance to ask why.

His hands were on you again—but this time it was force, not comfort—as he shoved you with all the strength he had. You hit the ground shoulder-first, pain screaming down your spine as the air was stolen from your lungs.

Your mind was already twisting, panicked as you sit up and try to understand—

—and then you saw it.

Polites.

You watched in frozen disbelief as his body slammed against the cave wall like a ragdoll hurled by a tantruming God. The sound of it—crack, deep and final—was louder than any scream.

All you could do was stare. You blinked once. Twice. The image didn’t change. Your mind couldn’t wrap around it. Couldn’t accept it.

Then—like a soft ripple breaking a still lake, you heard it.

“...____...”

The voice was faint; a scrape of breath more than sound. But it was his.

And it shattered the freeze that held your limbs captive. “Polites! Gods—Polites—!”

You didn’t hear the scream left your lips, the rest of the cave falling away as you run. You stumble over the dead sheep, over dropped weapons and broken torch handles until you collapse to your knees beside him.

“Poli—Polites.” You choked on his name. “Y-you’re okay. You’re going to be okay.” Your voice cracked as your hands reached for him—desperate to gather, to hold, to save.

His body lay crumpled in a way that was all wrong—arms awkwardly sprawled, chest rising only in the faintest motion.

His glasses were shattered on the ground a few inches away; one lens missing entirely, the other cracked down the middle. You stared at them for a moment, mind trying to process that he wasn’t wearing them. That he always wore them. That he should be wearing them now.

You blinked rapidly, the gathering tears already clouding your vision.

Voices screamed behind you; soldiers calling warnings. Shouts bounce around that Polyphemus now had a club—a massive jagged hunk of wood he used to swat at your men like gnats and flies.

You didn't care. You couldn’t look away from him.

Trying to cradle him in shaking hands, you brush along the back of his head only pause when your hand comes in contact with something warm and wet.

You recoiled as if burned.

Blood.

The copper scent hit you then, like a wave breaking through all the chaos, and you nearly gagged. But the moment your touch had brushed him—

Polites eyelids twitched. You watch as slowly those warm amber eyes cracked open; dulled and half-lidded.

Your voice broke again as you scramble closer. “Hey. I’m here, it’s me. I’ve got you.”  You leaned in, your forehead pressing gently to his, “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be fine.”

“I—” he tries to speak, voice rasping like gravel.

“Stop talking,” you're blubbering through the sobs at this point. “We’re going to get you out of here. Penelope will help, she’s here—Eurylochus, the men, I’ll carry you if I have to—just hold on.”

He doesn't speak. Instead his hand found yours, his fingers—trembling—curled around them in a weak squeeze.

“B....beautiful,” Polites breathed. A faint smile—barely more than a twitch—tugged at the corner of his mouth. Just for you.

“No,” tears spilled freely now. “Don’t do that. Don’t smile like it’s the end.” You squeezed his hand tighter.

He didn’t return the pressure.

His eyes closed.

You froze.

The world didn’t stop this time. It roared back into motion, screaming and thrashing all around as you sat there blank...hollow.

Not again.

You had lost Patroclus. You watched him to walk into death, too afraid to argue against him chasing Hector. You had lost Achilles. You watched him fall, held his bloodied body as the war devoured you whole.

And now? Polites. Sweet, brilliant Polites. Gone.

Lowering him gently to the ground, your movements mechanical. Your face—once painted with panic and tears—now went still. A mask cracked wide open from the inside.

“ENOUGH!”

The ground shook.

Then again.

And again.

“YOU HAVE HURT ME ENOUGH!” Polyphemus roared, his voice echoing off the stone like thunder trapped in a cavern.

“SIX HUNDRED LIVES I’LL TAKE!” The Cyclops swung his club, smashing another group of soldiers into the wall. Blood splattered the rock as screams filled the air. “SIX HUNDRED LIVES I’LL BREAK!”

All around soldiers scattered—those still standing at least. Some cried out. Some barely ducked in time as his words bled with anguish, but none of it touched you.

“AND WHEN I KILL YOU THEN MY PAIN IS OVER!”

Even in his blood-riddled wrath Polyphemus’ swings arced around you. He was destroying your people—and still you sat, unmoving as you kneeled beside your fallen lover.

It was almost as if, in all his madness and grief, some part of him still clung to the illusion of your loyalty.

Knowing this should’ve bought relief—to be saved by the lie you created.

And yet it didn't.

Because you didn’t want to be spared. Not when Polites wasn’t.

“____!!”

Penelope’s voice cracked through your haze like a lash. You barely tilted your head towards the lethal disorder.

“Move Gods damn you! Get up!” Eurylochus barked, blood streaking his cheek, his sword arm trembling.

That seemed to have done it.

Slow paced and empty-eyed expression, you were lethargic as you got up to your feet, feeling as though your limbs were moving on their own.

“YOU TRIED TO TRICK ME...HARM ME!”

You looked up.

Polyphemus' massive form loomed above, cold calculating eye focused entirely on you.

“THOUGHT FLATTERY WOULD BLIND ME. THAT I WOULD NOT KNOW?”

He gestures to your attire, your hair, your face still damp with tears.

“I SEE YOUR CLOTHES. I KNOW OF THE LOTUS VILLAGE—OF THE RITES OF THE BONDED. THE INK DESIGNS YOU SHARE WITH THAT SOLDIER.” His smile turned sickly sweet, a mask of mockery and malice. “SO NOW YOUR BOND IS BROKEN.”

The words hit harder than the club ever could.

'He...knew?'

Your gut seized, heart convulsing with an array of emotions your mind scrambled to make sense of.

From the start he had known: that you were never his follower....that you had never belonged to him....that you were a soldier. Polites’ other half.

And yet he let it play out anyway. Allowed your lie to bloom, only to pluck it free in the moment it would hurt most.

“TO THE REST OF YOU?” Polyphemus looks past you toward the remaining Ithacans; a towering shadow looming over Penelope, Eurylochus, and the a cluster of still-living men. “YOU'RE DYING HERE AND NOW!”

He sneers down at you from the corner of his eye. “ESCAPE IS NOT ALLOWED!” The words hit like a chain locking around your ankles.

“YOU WON'T LIVE THROUGH THIS DAY—NOW DIE—DI-I-I—!”

The sudden faltering of his words was almost more violent than the roar itself.

You blankly watch as Polyphemus began to sway. His eye, once-blazing and full of fury, blinked once. Then again.

Great chest heaving as if trying to remember how to pull in air, the club slips from his fingers, hitting the ground with a shudder so great it nearly cracked the floor beside your feet.

Massive legs fold beneath him, his knees hitting the stone. Then his shoulder. Then, at last, his head.

The earth shook beneath the fall, stirring clouds of dust that billowed upward and stung the back of your throat.

"____!"

Eurylochus.

Like the pull of a current, it snapped you back into yourself, enough to lift your head.

“We...we have to move.” The words came out dry, hoarse. You blinked slowly, trying to force your eyes to refocus. “This isn’t over. The wine—he didn’t realize. I mixed it with Lotus fruit...but it won’t last forever.”

Penelope was already crossing to your side, steps precise even amid the destruction and slick stone. She didn’t ask if you were alright—there was no need.

Eurylochus frowned, his brow furrowed with something close to dread. “But what about...” His gaze flicked behind you—to the bodies, to Polites. His throat worked around the words. “What’ll we do with our fallen friends?”

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Penelope stepped forward, placing herself between the soldiers and the dead.

“We remember them,” she says simply. “We burn their names into our memory. We fight because they can’t. We survive because they didn’t.”

Her words weren’t loud, but they sparked something. Even the men who looked like they’d given up stirred.

The cave had become a monument of ruin: torn cloth...splintered shields...smashed wine jars spilling onto the stone like blood.

Polyphemus lies unconscious; chest rising and falling as the dead lay sprawled around him like discarded offerings, the soft bleating of the sheep echoing.

You weren’t standing near Polites anymore. At some point your feet had carried you away. Maybe your body had known you couldn’t bear to be near him right now. Maybe it had just moved to stay sane.

But your eyes...they never stopped returning to him. You couldn’t hold the sight for long, but you couldn’t look away either.

Penelope was already moving, crouching beside Polyphemus’ club to inspect its gnarled frame. “We can use the Cyclops’ own club. Turn it into a spear—a weapon big enough to finish this."

There was a sudden flash of resolve in the air, a grim energy that passed through the soldiers. “Let’s kill him!” A voice shouts out from the group.

“No.” Penelope quickly cuts in before anymore men get riled up. “We can’t. His body is blocking the entrance. If he dies, we’re trapped inside.”

Eurylochus frowns. "Then where do we hit him?"

“We stab him in the eye. It’s the only way.”

No one questioned her after that.

And you? You didn’t speak. Not yet.

Because you remembered the secret passage tucked behind the wall, the narrow tunnel you’d crept through in silence when you’d come here to deceive.

It was close. Close enough that if the Cyclops died and blocked the cave's entrance...there would still be a way out.

A part of you almost told them.

But then another part—dimly pulsing and ugly—wondered what it meant for Polyphemus if you let them remain ignorant: letting him bleed...letting him suffer.

So you say nothing.

Instead you join the others, accepting your axe back from Penelope's hold without a word, holding on to the weapon like an anchor.

You didn’t shout or command, you simply oversaw the work—standing where the blade met wood, correcting angles as the sharpened edge began to take shape.

Around you soldiers tended the wounded; bloodied men propped against stone walls, eyes closed or staring glassy into nothing as others stood guard should the Cyclops stir.

The torchlight flickered low as the now sharpened club readied, its jagged end gleaming wickedly in the torchlight.

It took nearly every able-bodied soldier to steady the thing, and even then, its sheer mass bent their backs and strained their legs.

Just as Penelope opened her mouth to issue the order to drive the point into the sleeping giant’s eye—

“I’ll man the back.”

Penelope held your gaze for a heartbeat longer than the others. She didn’t speak, didn’t smile. She only nodded once.

You moved into place at the end of the spear—where the weight of the entire weapon would press hardest. The men around you shifted, repositioning themselves to make room.

Most crowded closer to the spike-end, ready to guide the force of the blow. But it was you, with your feet planted in blood-soaked stone, who would push the hardest.

You risked a glance over your shoulder.

Polites hadn’t moved, his body lay half-shrouded in shadow. You could barely see his face but your mind supplied the image anyway: eyes glassy, lips parted in the slack of death.

Clenching your teeth, you turn back to face the task ahead. You had a job to finish.

Penelope raised her arm.

“Now!” she shouts.

Muscles strained, voices grunting in exertion as together, all of you charged forward, the humongous weapon bucking under your combined strength like a wild animal.

The sound of the sharpened club spearing into the Cyclops’s eye was sickening—a deep wet crunch of bone shattering, of wet flesh tearing.

Polyphemus awoke with a scream.

It was the kind of scream that collapsed Kingdoms, echoing off the cave walls in such shrill and guttural agony that every soldier instinctively flinched as the man-eating beast jerked violently.

“AGAIN!” You screamed too, voice torn from the deepest pit of your chest. “Again! Stab him again until he’s dead!”

Your words didn’t sound like your own. They came from somewhere darker, pulled raw from a void you hadn’t yet named.

For a second no one moved.

The club lay where it had fallen, blood pouring like a waterfall from the hollow of Polyphemus' eye as the soldiers froze.

One by one they stared at you—not in fear of the Cyclops, but in fear of what you had become in this moment.

Penelope surged forward. Her hand clamped around your wrist before you could lunge again.

“No,” she hissed. “We’ve done enough.”

Her words meant nothing to you; the gap in your soul left by Polites refused to be reasoned with.

You shook off her grip with a ragged breath and stumbled toward the club. Falling to your knees beside it, you grasp the thick hilt with both arms.

It was heavier than anything you’d lifted before. Your muscles screamed in protest as you heaved, dragging it a few inches from the ground. “I said again!”

The veins in your arms stood out. Your voice echoed with such violence that it barely felt like yours. And just as you were about to ram it forward again—

“WHO HURTS YOU?”

[k-nayee]

CHAPTER 56. NOBODY

A/n: okay forealsies I'm gonna update the last 2 chapters after i get off my morning shift at work! I want to upload them at the same time with no breaks in-between because its a doozie😵‍💫 so for now see ya in a few hours!!!!

❝Even kindness has its limits….especially when it’s uninvited.❞

Warrior M.List | Act Ⅵ

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˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

The rough stone loomed around as your fingers brushed along the wall, every step deeper bringing another degree of cold and a subtle shift in the smell—earthy, damp, touched with something mustier.

And then you heard it; faint and echoing like wind curling through reeds. 

You slowed as multiple voices drifted in the air alongside the unmistakably, irregular braying of sheep.

“Over here!” Penelope’s voice cuts through the natural hush like a blade through silk.

You risked a peek around the bend.

Dozens of lit torches were jammed into wall-cracks and crevices, the flames giving enough light for you to see the grand hollow space—one that dwarfed even the largest of Ithacan longboats

And it was filled to the brim.

Jugs of deep red wine glimmered in the glow, their glass holdings glistening with condensation as rolls of fine cloths and silks of every hue spilled like water across stone ledges. Golden chalices lay strewn across the floor, their bejeweled designs catching the firelight and throwing shards of color across the walls.

The wealth this place held alone could’ve paid for another decade of the war. Maybe more.

And the sheep? They were everywhere.

Fuzzy white bodies shifted like a living tide, their bleats overlapping in a low constant lull as they padding quietly across the floor, coats so thick you swore you could reach out and sink your fingers into the almost cloudlike wool.

You wrinkled your nose just as the smell hit: a foul wave of musk, unwashed hide, crushed grass, and manure so pungent it made your eyes sting.

‘Ugh...don’t smell as cute as they look. That’s for sure.’

Beyond the wandering herd the heart of your fleet gathered—Penelope stood, posture taut and eyes scanning; Eurylochus hovered nearby, a rare look of tentative approval on his face; and Polites...

Polites was grinning so wide it almost hurt to look at him.

“Look at all this food...a-and all these sheep!” he marveled, gesturing with both hands as he turned in slow circles. His voice carried, boyish and unfiltered, his grin bright even in the gloom. “I can’t believe it! This cave—it’s all just...here. For us to keep no less!”

Eurylochus gave a gruff nod. “Gotta hand it to you Cap'n,” he muttered, eyeing a soldier wrestling a sheep into submission. “Disregarding this morning's attack? This find is quite the treat. More than enough to feed the entire fleet.”

But Penelope’s smile didn’t come.

You could see the way she shifted on her heels, the discomfort creeping through her skin like a splinter she couldn’t name.

“I’m not sure. This looks...too perfect. Too good to be true.” She glanced around warily, body shifting as if trying to outmaneuver an unseen threat. “Why would the Lotus Eaters pass this up? Even if they don’t eat meat—they could’ve traded this. Stored it. Something.”

Eurylochus scoffed and waved a hand. “They’re addicts—you saw them. Fruit-worshiping, mind-fogged Lotus zombies who get high on their own supply. What would they want with a roast leg of lamb? Maybe they don’t eat anything but those Lotus fruit.”

He suddenly turns his attention to Polites, a smug glint flashing in his eyes. “Speaking of sweet things....you and our dear ____."

Polites blinked, the question stalling him mid-thought. “What about us?”

“You two together?”

Polites’ gaze dropped to his ink-marked left hand, fingers curling slightly as if cradling a secret. His thumb brushed over it the edge of his ring finger absentmindedly.

“I’d like to think so,” a fond and unguarded smile tugs at his lips. “I hope so.”

He glanced at Penelope then, tone more serious. “Don’t be too harsh on her when we get back. It was me—I told her to stay. I pushed her to rest. If you’re angry...let that be with me.”

There was a beat of silence. Then—

“You two are unbelievable,” Penelope said with a shake of her head, though there was no real bite in her voice. “A war-hardened woman and her knight in shining ink—how romantic.”

Eurylochus gave a theatrical groan. “If this turns into poetry and pining, I’m stabbing myself with a fish fork.”

“Wha—I—! I’m not—!” Polites flushed bright red before giving up and burying his face in his hands. “Why do I even talk.”

You watched from the shadows as their light-hearted laughter echoed, a smile creeping despite yourself. For a second it warmed you.

But it faded just as fast.

Because on the far side of the cave you saw it: a soldier kneeling over a freshly slain sheep, blood seeping into the dirt as another blade rose to repeat the act.

More followed. Not out of malice—just duty. But your gut twisted anyway, that sour curl of dread spiraling through your core.

'No. No no no....'

Your voice caught, words bubbling at the back of your throat.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself, bracing against the cave wall as you readied yourself to interrupt. Your pulse stuttered, throat tightening. "You’re going to get yelled at. They’ll be mad. But that doesn’t matter. You have to warn them."

‘I can do this.’

Just as you began to move—

"WHO ARE YOU?"

The voice hit like a landslide.

Every muscle locked in place as the words echoed—no exploded—through the chamber. It wasn’t just loud. It was elemental, like the storm-wracked sea had risen up and learned how to roar.

You carefully peek around the corner again only to immediately regret.

There—emerging from the shadows like a God carved from fury and stone—stood the Cyclops.

Polyphemus

He was huge. No—colossal.

The height of him defied reason—so tall his head brushed the ceiling, his shoulders rolling back as though even the walls themselves strained to hold him. It was like watching a titan wake.

Monstrous body cut from pure muscle; every inch of his ashen skin was layered in old scars—from the chest, arms, and forearms, to those massive calloused hands that looked as though they could snap a man in half without effort.

He wore no armor. Just a pelt slung over his left shoulder, the fur rough and matted with age and dried blood as the clothing hung low, brushing against a belt crafted of stitched leather and bone that cinched his waist like a war trophy.

His short and wild hair curled tight and knotted at the ends; the color of it the deepest black you’d ever seen while the edges of each strand seemed to shimmer the faintest tint of dark ocean blue. The shade of it matched the heavy unkempt beard that curled along his jaw, framing a chapped mouth currently curled into  a deep scowl that looked halfway between insulted and wounded.

But none of that—not the bulk, not the scars, not the sheer size of him—truly froze you.

No.

It was the eye.

Centered in his forehead like a cursed jewel, the iris gleamed with a hellish red light. It pulsed like molten metal, flecked with slashes of crimson and ochre that took in every movement in the cave with a slow intensity.

You barely noticed your body was shaking until you realized your teeth had clenched to keep them from chattering. Even from here you could feel his presence against your lungs.

Then—

Penelope moved.

Gods—of all people, she stepped forward with the grace of someone who didn’t feel the sheer weight of what stood before her. She raised a hand and offered a small diplomatic smile.

“Hey there! We’re just travelers,” she calls out, voice calm but pitched to carry. Her hand waves toward the others who hadn’t dared move. “We come in peace.”

The Cyclops didn’t answer right away. Instead he looked down at her like she was no more than an insect before adjusting his stance, gaze landing on the scattered bodies of sheep across the cave.

“YOU KILLED MY SHEEP....MY FAVORITE SHEEP.”

The way he said it—it wasn’t just angry. It was grieving.

“WHAT GIVES YOU THE RIGHT TO DEAL A PAIN SO DEEP?”

Each word came out like a wound tearing open, every vowel cracking with enough force to make your bones rattle.

“DON'T YOU KNOW THAT THE PAIN YOU SOW IS PAIN YOU REAP?”

Body jerking back from the edge of your hiding place like it wanted to flee, your knees lock in place as you braced against the wall, still trying to calm your breathing.

You knew you couldn’t wait. Not any longer.

‘Think think think—Gods what do I do? What do I do?’ Your thoughts raced, chaotic and sharp-edged. 'If I don't do something....he’s going to kill them. All of them.'

“TIME TO DRINK—YOUR BLOOD OVER WHERE YOU STAND.”

Eyes darting around the cave, they scan past the piles of rich fabrics, chalices, and sheep until they land on a jug of wine lying among the trove of spoils—tipped on its side but still sealed.

“YOUR LIFE NOW IS IN MY HAND.”

Casting one final glance toward your companions—Penelope standing strong, Polites frozen, Eurylochus watching with clenched fists—you turn and bolted.

No hesitation. No room for fear.

Your sandals slapped the ground as you slipped back through the secret passage carved between cave and earth; Polyphemus' booming voice followed as if he was chasing you down himself.

"BEFORE I'M DONE, YOU WILL LEARN THAT IT'S NOT SO FUN TO TAKE."

You stumbled into the air outside, wincing at the sudden onslaught of sunlight entering your view. Blinking it away, you quickly look to where to you had left them: the Lotus fruit.

Dropping to your knees, you claw at the dirt, snatching all three up in a rush, fingers clumsy with urgency.

"YOU CAME TO MY HOME TO STEAL, BUT NOW YOU'LL BECOME MY MEAL."

The skin of the fruit felt cool in your palm—almost bruised. Your whole body shook with the weight of what you were doing.

‘Please...Please Gods. Let this work.’

You didn’t have time to pray aloud. You spun and ran back toward the cave, clutching the fruit tight like they were relics.

"A TRADE YOU SEE?" Polyphemus' voice carried through the very mountain. "TAKE FROM YOU LIKE YOU TOOK FROM ME."

You pressed yourself flat against the wall to peer from your spot as the Cyclops continued to air his grievances. His fury had not lessened. If anything it had grown—roaring with the power of storms and breaking tides.

Penelope stood tall at the center of his attention, her silhouette stark against the glow of the torches, shoulders squared and head unbowed.

“There seems to be a misunderstanding,” she said calmy, though you could see the subtle strain in her jaw. “We never came here to steal. Nor to kill what was precious to you.”

Polyphemus said nothing, but the trembling of his body showed he heard her. That he was listening—at least enough.

This is it.

Every gaze—soldier, Queen, beast—was locked on the confrontation. And no one was looking at you.

Pulse beating wildly, you dropped low and crawled from your behind your hiding place. The rough stone scraped your knees as you moved, using a roaming sheep for cover, one hand brushing against its wool for stability.

Your eyes never left the jug.

After seconds of multiple agonizing heartbeats, you finally reach it. Your fingers wrapped around its ceramic neck and lift. It was heavier than you expected.

You worked quickly, uncorking it with a sharp pop. The sour-sweet scent of the wine hits you hard as you grab a piece of cloth from a nearby pile.

Eyes darting to the side, you see they are still distracted. Good.

Wrapping a Lotus fruit into the cloth, you pick up a sharp piece of rock and carve deep slices into the fruit’s tender skin. Juice immediately began to bleed out through the cotton—thick and iridescent under the flickering torchlight.

You squeezed.

The cloth strained in your palm as you twisted it over the mouth of the jug, allowing the juice to drip into the dark wine in fat glimmering droplets.

You repeated the process once more. Then again.

By the time you were done with the third fruit, your hands were slick with its juice, luminous even in the dimness. You couldn't even wipe it away if you wanted, the lines of your palms and fingertips stained deep.

Penelope's voice lifted just as you sealed the jug. “But now I see the damage we’ve caused to you and your flock,” she said gently. “Maybe you and I can make a deal?”

No one breathed.

You knew, in your gut, this was your moment. Before Penelope could speak again....before Polyphemus could shatter the earth with a final roar.

Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath.

In...

Out...

Opening them again, you rise slowly from behind the sheep, the jug of Lotus-laced wine pressed to your chest like a newborn God.

Each step you took was slow and deliberate—as if the very act of moving closer might offend him if not done with grace. Your knees wanted to quake. Your stomach curled like a dying flame.

But your face? You softened it.

Your expression melted into something sweet and open. The kind Princesses wear when meeting Princes and Kings for the first time. The kind that disarmed men and monsters alike.

You looked at the Cyclops as if he were something holy.

“O' Great Polyphemus!” you began, letting your voice rise just enough to carry, your tone a delicate mixture of awe and reverence.

You could feel the eyes on you: Penelope’s, taut with calculation... Polites’, laced with confusion.... Eurylochus, whose hand was halfway to his sword. All of them were watching, but none of them spoke.

Even the sheep had gone silent.

“Forgive my interruption” you continued, your words honey-sweet, eyes wide and shimmering with amazement, “but I couldn't resist the chance to gaze upon such greatness any longer. At last I find you—not in song or rumor, but in the flesh. In all your glory.”

The echo of your voice faded against the jagged walls.

Polyphemus—beast...executioner—paused mid-breath. His molten eye narrowed, the baleful red of it dimming slightly as if the fury that had roared through him moments before was now giving way to curiosity.

His massive head tilted as you approached, the thick cords of muscle along his neck shifting beneath ash-colored skin.

You did not flinch.

“I have been searching for you,” you nearly pleaded. Shoulders lowered into submission as you gently bend your neck to drop your gaze; your visage gave not one of warrior before battle, but as a Priestess before her God. “I have heard tales of your strength and power. The sea sings of you. The earth remembers your steps. No mortal could stand against such might. Not even...these.”

Dismissal laced your tone as you sweep a casual glance toward Penelope, Polites, Eurylochus and the crew. “They are beneath you.”

It was a lie you sharpened into truth.

And the effect was immediate.

A ripple of confusion skated through the ranks behind you. You could feel the soldiers exchanging tense and uncertain glances.

But no one dared interrupt. Not even Penelope.

You raised the jug higher to his view, letting the firelight catch the slick curve of its surface.

“As a token of my loyalty,” you hold the wine with both hands as if presenting a treasure to a King, “I bring you this—wine from distant lands. A vintage so rare it is said to restore the strength of the Titans themselves. One sip, and you shall possess the might to end all in your path. No need to dirty your hands with mortal blood. Let this drink be your vengeance.”

Behind you Penelope and the others hold their breath, confusion and fear rippling through their expressions, but you never release your focus from Polyphemus.

His lips curled back into a grin—a terrible cracked thing that split his face and revealed teeth as yellowed and jagged as broken tusks. His pride was swelling, thick and palpable in the air.

"YOUR WORDS," he thundered, the sound vibrating through your ribcage, “ARE AS RADIANT AS THE FACE THAT SPEAKS THEM.”

His bulk shifted forward, the ground shuddering under his movement. He leaned in so close you could see the gold-brown clots in his beard and the specks of half-dried blood on his chest.

"TELL ME STRANGER," His hot breath wrapped around you in a cloud of rot, meat, and sheep-musk. "WHAT IS YOUR NAME?"

Swallowing past the lump in your throat, you hold his gaze.

“I am nobody,” you answer smoothly. “Nobody...but a humble servant for thee.”

There was a pause, stretched thin as a bowstring. Then—

You saw Penelope’s expression shift from the corner of your eye.

A flicker of something passed between you—recognition, realization, the raw gleam of shared instinct. Her lips twitched just slightly.

Outrage suddenly pulls at the Ithacan Queen's face as her voice cracked across the cave like a whip. “How dare you betray us!”

You didn’t turn to face her. You didn’t have to. Her fury struck the ears of every man present like an order from the Gods themselves.

“We trusted you!” she continued, voice a crescendo of grief and rage. “We bled beside you! And now—this?! You would sell us for what? For safety? For flattery? For some beast’s favor?!”

Eurylochus quickly play along, stepping forward with an air of disbelief. “Tell me you haven’t chosen him over your own kin.”

The soldiers, startled at the turn of events, start following suit; some stumbling over themselves to join in, others half‑heartedly mimicking their Captain and Second-in-Command's anger.

“Traitor,” one muttered, glancing sidelong to be sure it was safe to say it.

“You’re mad,” hissed another, eyes darting between you and the looming Cyclops.

Even Polites managed to pull off a clenched-jawed look, lips pursed to keep his smile from appearing. “She always was too quiet to trust.”

They were not actors—their fury was jagged and uneven. But they committed. And somehow? It worked.

Because Polyphemus was delighted.

Puffed up with righteous fury and self-importance, the Cyclops grinned wider. “NOBODY YOU SAY?” he repeated. “AND A BETRAYER AT THAT?”

He laughed, a sound that shook dust from the ceiling. “TO GO SUCH LENGHTS...THEN NOBODY SHALL SERVE ME.” He extends an enormous hand. “COME CLOSER WITH THE WINE.”

You forced a smile, fighting down the shudder that crawls through your limbs as you take a step forward. The stench worsened the closer you neared.

Jug trembling faintly in your hold, you hand it over to his awaiting grasp. His fingers—large enough to crush a man’s head like a grape—wrapped around it with ease.

He brought it to his mouth and drank.

Each gulp was a thunderclap as you watched—counting heartbeats, watching his throat move, the slow stain of red on his lips.

Polyphemus' single eye fluttered, lashes dark and thick. “AHHH,” he sighs, letting out a satisfied growl. “STRONG. A FINE WINE INDEED.”

Your relief is short‑lived when his next words fall like a hammer. “PERHAPS I WILL KILL THEM SLOWLY,” he muses almost to himself. “JUST TO HEAR THEM SCREAM.”

You nearly gagged through your smile.

“BUT YOU.” He turned his attention back to you, voice dropping to a possessive rumble. “YOU WILL BE MY WINE-BEARER. I WILL GAZE UPON YOU FOR AS LONG AS I DRAW BREATH.”

You barely managed to nod, bile rising in your throat.

The smile he once had suddenly faded as his eye narrowed at you. “YOU THINK I DON'T KNOW OF YOUR TRICKS? WHY YOU AND YOUR CREW CAME TO MY ISLAND? MY CAVE?”

The temperature dropped.

Your mask cracked just slightly—an involuntary flicker of tension in your features, a breath caught too high in your throat.

“I...I don’t know what—” you tried.

Polyphemus was not fooled. Still, he smiled. “IT MATTERS NOT. YOU ARE A PRETTY THING—BEAUTIFUL SIGHT TO BEHOLD. YOU WILL STAY. AS FOR THE REST?”

He stepped forward—closer, poised like a thunderclap before the strike. “...THEY WILL BE DEAD.”

You choked. ���...What?”

The mountain of fury made flesh shifted his weight. His leg bent like a taut bow, enormous foot lifting just high enough for your eyes to catch the shadow it cast—vast, growing, lethal.

And he aimed it downward...straight at your crew.

Your stomach plummeted.

“WATCH OUT!”

[k-nayee]

CHAPTER 55. A TOKEN FOR THE BRAVE

A/n: if you start to recognize a few things from my Traveler's Wife to the Wind series👀 no you didn't. lol. but yeah! WttW was my first ever Epic fanfic, and I felt like I didn't really do it justice. soooooo I'm reprising it for Warrior! Yay!!!😆😆😆 which also means an extra arc/adventure/drama will be added in for our dear mc😈

❝Not every blessing comes with a warning. Some only reveal themselves at the end❞

Warrior M.List | Act Ⅵ

Previous | Next

˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

You stood at the helm of the ship, arms crossed tight against your chest as if the sheer force of will might keep the bitterness from spilling out.

The wind lashed at your face, salt clinging to the corners of your mouth, but none of it could cool the heat curling beneath your skin.

You were furious.

Not the kind that screamed or stomped or threw things. No—this was a simmering fury. The kind you hadn’t felt since you’d dragged Agamemnon's lagging body through the smoke-slick streets of Troy.

Your glare sliced the horizon in half as the sea stretched before you, blue and unbothered, slapping against the hull like it had jokes.

And just beyond that haze of morning mist? You could make out the faint silhouette of the mountain—the one where a batch of Ithacan soldiers including Penelope, Eurylochus, and Polites now trekked toward the hidden cave.

Without you.

All around the crew moved in careful rhythms: adjusting sails, checking knots, murmuring amongst themselves...pretending not to peek your way.

But they were watching. You caught their glances—quick flicks of eyes, some curious, some wary, some downright fascinated.

You knew why.

The outfit still clung to you like a second skin—tribal and painted with the remnants of the Lotus village’s influence.

You looked like something pulled from a mythic story. Not quite Ithacan. Not quite anything.

But you didn't care. Let them stare. Let them whisper.

You shifted your weight, grabbing for the rail so tight your knuckles ached. Part of you wanted to jump overboard and swim back to shore.

But you’d been given orders by Penelope herself: 'Stay on the ship....Rest...Recover.'

“Bullshit,” you muttered. Your gaze flicked toward the crates stacked near the lower deck as the ship creaked gently beneath you, rocking with your frustration.

A few feet away one of the younger soldiers dropped a coil of rope and scrambled to pick it up. He wasn’t even looking at you, but you scowled at him anyway.

Because why shouldn’t someone feel your anger?

Why shouldn’t the world stop for just a moment and acknowledge what you’d lost? The bag. The scrolls. The villagers. The guilt.

And the kicker of it all? That quiet stay behind from Penelope’s mouth still stung more than it should have.

You clenched your jaw.

You were supposed to be useful. Necessary. Dangerous.

But here you stand—marked in ink that was meant for softness, left behind like some delicate thing they needed to shield.

Your hands curled tighter on the railing.

You were not delicate.

And the next person who said otherwise? Gods help them.

“Well well well...look at you,” drawled from somewhere behind, masculine voice already laced with that familiar teasing tone. “Haven’t seen this much skin on you since—well, never.”

He leans on the railing beside you, giving you a once-over as his head tilts in appraisal. “And gotta say; not bad. Not bad at all.”

Your eyes snapped toward him unamused. “Don’t you have a wife at home Lycomedes?”

That earned a blink. You went on sharper now.

“A wife who, by all accounts, wouldn’t mind cutting that little friend of yours clean off once she hears you’re stepping out of line?”

He barks out a laugh, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Aye fair enough. You got me there. I’d rather not feel Callianeira’s wrath again.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Callianeira huh? She sounds like a menace.”

“She is,” Lycomedes grunts proudly. “A terrifyingly wonderful menace.”

“Still though,” he adds after a moment of quiet. “it’s nice to see you in a new kind of element. No matter how exotic it may seem.”

Your eye twitched. “Don’t be too surprised,” you reply flatly. “Back in my homeland—before I was forced into Sparta’s leash—much of the clothing wasn’t too far off from this.”

That made him fully glance over.

You lifted your arm slightly, letting the fading inks catch in the daylight. Swirls travel along your biceps and collarbone, smudged now but still beautiful.

“Loose fabric...less binding. Men and women dressed in more...breathable garb.” You gave a small shrug. “It wasn’t like this—so decorative—but...close enough.”

Lycomedes whistled low. “You don’t say. Remember anything else of it?”

“Only fragments.” Your voice grew quieter. “Laughter. Smoke. Dances around fire. My mother’s hands on my shoulders. But it’s fogged. Blurred with everything that came after.”

Your faint offered smile faded just as fast, wiped away by rising frustration. 

“Still...I should be there. I shouldn’t be here on this forsaken ship.”

Lycomedes was quiet.

“This is the second time I've been pulled back. ” Your voice broke briefly, then steadied. “I trained. I bled in Troy. I led. And now what? I'm pushed aside as if I’m some damn keepsake when any signs of danger arise?”

Your eyes flicked briefly toward the other end of the deck where the little Trojan Prince was sitting. He was currently with a couple of sailors, entertaining them with childlike babble and a palm full of scavenged pebbles. “And I know you all would take a limb for Astyanax if it came to that.”

Your gaze dropped to your hand.

There—trailing from your ring finger—the swirl of ink curved like a tether. You stared at it, heart pinching with an ache you couldn't name.

You turned back toward the coastline, watching as trees swayed in the distance. You could almost feel the mountain’s pulse calling to you.

“I can’t explain it,” you mutter quietly. “But I shouldn’t be here. I need to be out there.”

Lycomedes was silent for a moment. The wind hissed between the sails. Then, at last, he let out a soft sigh.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s true.”

You looked at him surprised.

He didn’t return the glance—just stared ahead at the sea. “Even when you weren’t there on the front lines for Troy's downfall, it was your plan that ended the war. We owe that to you. Whether you were holding a blade or not.”

The aging Ithacan soldier rolls his shoulder in a feint of casualness. “Captain gave me the task of watching over you. But…”

He shrugs. “If you just so happened to slip away while I was—I don't know, busy trying to untangle that blasted knot in the sails? Well....”

Your mouth slightly drops open. Eyes wide. 

He winks. “What a shame. I’ll have to tell her you’re very sneaky.”

“Lycomedes...”

He waves you off, a grin curling in his beard. “Ah! Get on out of here former Second-in-Command. If there’s one thing I trust more than a sharp sword, it’s a woman’s intuition. And yours has kept us alive this far hasn't it?”

You stared at him for a second longer, then nodded once.

With the stealth of experience, you moved from the helm, body slipping into a casual walk. Not hurried. Not drawing attention.

One or two sailors gave you nods of acknowledgement as you passed; you returned them without a word. Nearing the edge of the deck, you spot Astyanax again in the distance. Laughing and distracted.

Good. If he’d seen you, your escape would’ve ended before it began.

You slipped toward the side ladder and start making your way down to the small side boat bobbing in the waters below. 

“All right,” you muttered, untying its anchored hold to the main ship before reaching for the oars. “Let’s do this.”

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The jolt of the rowboat scrapping against the island’s edge was enough to snap you out of your thoughts; chilly morning air lick at your bare shoulders as you climbed out, sandals sinking into the soft sands.

Your hands twitched instinctively—searching for a weight that wasn’t there. The absence of your axe sent a bolt of unease across your chest.

You had given it to Penelope before she left with the rest of the scouting squad. And though the decision had been logical, even necessary, you couldn’t shake the ghost of its handle from your palm.

Still, you were here now: alone and weaponless.

The mountain loomed in the distance, thick canopy of trees hiding the cave somewhere beneath it. You could just make out the peak above the treetops—an ominous silhouette against the growing light.

You exhaled once, bracing yourself.

The shadows grew denser as you walked into the dense woods, swallowing you almost instantly, devouring most of the morning light.

Branches scratched at your arms as you pressed through. Minutes passed—maybe more.

At this point you were starting to feel lost, the winding trees becoming less like guides and more like a labyrinth.

Just as you were ready to curse aloud, the underbrush thinned, and your foot stepped out onto sunlit soil of a clearing.

You freeze as the relief that once bloomed in your chest wilted. You know where you are before your brain catches up.

The terrain is too familiar...too etched into your bones even though you’ve only just left it.

The Lotus village.

Your gut turns.

There were signs of the attack from earlier: blood still dark in the grass, crushed blossoms, woven baskets snapped underfoot. A child’s clay cup lay overturned near the ring of seating logs, forgotten.

You almost retreat—almost vanish into the trees again like a ghost with no name. That is until you realize he was already watching you.

The crowned Lotus Eater. Lysion.

Strawberry red hair tied back in a long ceremonial braid now, a new pattern—one you don’t recognize—sprawls like vine-script down the left side of his chest.

He stands to his full height from where he was kneeling near one of the injured Lotus elders.

In unison, as if bound by breath, the other surrounding Lotus Eaters stilled. Their glazed coated eyes followed his—heads turning in eerie synchronization towards your way.

A dozen heartbeats passed. Then two.

‘Welp...guess this is is it,’ you thought dryly, 'this is how I die'

You straightened your spine out of sheer reflex, preparing to bolt or fight—even without your axe.

Then again, these people had every reason to hate you. Your people had spilled their blood. And while you didn’t command the attack, you were still you—a face they’d known. A body they’d washed, dressed, welcomed.

Lysion stepped forward. His bare feet glided over the soil, almost too graceful for a man of his size. He stopped just a few feet from you.

He didn’t raise a weapon...he didn’t even shout. Nothing about him spoke of vengeance.

The blankness in his face melted—not into rage, but into something softer. Sadder.

“There is no blood for you,” he said, voice low and dusted with wind. “That is not our path.”

You blinked, not trusting your ears. “But...your people was hurt. Because of us.”

Lysion’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Pain came, yes...and loss. But no bloodshed. Not from us.”

You opened your mouth. Words failed.

He looked past you for a moment, then back. “There were eight who did not wake after your sunrise fire.” His voice didn’t quiver. But your heart did.

“Ethelios. Rhantis. Dymon. Aelion. Kleon. Thelia. Eirenaios. Myrrhine...and Melion.”

That last name hit like a rock to the chest.

Melion...

You never met him, not really. But the memory of Kalyphele flashes behind your eyes. Her watching Polites with wonder, the word Fruit-bound falling from her lips like it was holy.

As if summoned by your thoughts, you spotted her.

She wandered just beyond the circle of the gathering, face downcast, shoulders slumped. Her swollen and raw eyes were fixed on nothing as one of her hands hold near to her chest. The other reaches out every now and then, brushing the air like trying to catch something no one else could see.

You nearly crumpled.

“I—Gods I didn’t mean—” you began. But the apology faltered in your throat.

Why...weren’t they angry? Why weren’t they tearing you apart with their bare hands?

“You wonder why we do not strike,” Lysion speaks gently. “But grief is not soot to smear onto others. Your men did as they must. They protected....”

The crowned Lotus Eater turns, gesturing to the village behind him. “And though roots of our is struck, it does not halt the growth.” he murmurs. “This tree will heal as all does. It will thrive.”

You nod slowly. A part of you couldn't help but marvel at their resilience; it seems even in mourning they speak of peace.

“I...I need to get to the cave,” you finally say. “To the food. The others will be there.”

Lysion blinked once, then turned and beckoned.

Two young Lotus Eaters stepped forward from the crowd—one girl and one older man—both with markings across their arms and bare feet stained with sap. Silent, they waited to guide.

They come to your side with soft footsteps and begin walking. As you moved with them, you cast one last look at Kalyphele.

She did not glance back.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The path is quiet now.

Dappled sunlight filters through the trees above, slicing through the hush in golden ribbons. The forest—so alive during your flight—feels oddly softened. Dreamlike.

Each step felt heavier, not because of the terrain, but because of the weight of silence between you and the Lotus Eaters who guides you.

The way they sidestepped low branches or ducked beneath fallen limbs was too graceful to be practiced. It’s not walking, it’s more like...floating.

Lysion walked beside you.

His presence is hard to ignore—towering and composed, the wreath of white blossoms around his brow now slightly wilted from the morning’s heat. Yet somehow it doesn’t lessen him.

If anything it made him look gentler. Less...otherworldly.

And yet, something tugged at you.

A thought. One that’s been biting at the edges of your mind ever since you'd noticed your things were missing.

“So...” Your voice cracked slightly from disuse. You cleared your throat and tried again, more casual this time. “...about what happened to our things. The clothes. My satchel...”

You side-eyed him, hoping your tone passed for idle curiosity.

Lysion glanced at you gently, blinking once with that too-serene softness that always made your fingers fidget just slightly.

“It was fire-birth,” he said plainly.

“Fire...birth?”

He nods. “It is when the fabric of yesterday is buried in smoke to make way for skin-memory and root-mark.” He said this with the calm cadence of someone explaining a cooking recipe. “Burnings are for the before-time. When two choose one another...the flame sings their new breath.”

You blinked at him confused.

Lysion slowed, finally turning to look at you more directly. His expression was patient like a teacher helping a child connect words.

“It is the bond rite for Fruit-bound pairs,” he says gently. “It is the way of bond-growth—only then can the twine grow strong.”

It landed slowly, then all at once.

“Wait,” you stopped mid-step, a tremor in your throat, “you burned our things as some kind of ceremony?”

Lysion pause, his head titling thoughtfully. “Yes. The fire sang of new union between you and the one with sun-hunger in his chest.”

Polites.

“The—what?!” The words catch in your throat like dry bread as you nearly tripped over your own feet. Hand shooting out to brace yourself against a nearby trunk, Lysion caught you in time.

He held you like you weighed nothing; flat palm spanning your upper arm and shoulder blade entirely with a kind of reverence you hadn’t expected. The warmth of it makes your breath catch.

You felt rooted and vaguely terrified.

“I—” you sputtered, “wait what do you mean bonded? Are you saying...marriage? You think Polites and I are—?”

Lysion blinked slowly, expression completely unchanged. “Are you not already in storm-weave?”

You were speechless—absolutely and thoroughly speechless. You wanted to laugh...to cry...to scream out maybe.

But in the end you did none of those things.

Because the truth was, whatever that had taken shape between you and Polites feels delicate. But also complicated in a way that cannot be easily explained to people who love with flower crowns and shared fruit.

Though the time was short, Kalyphele had spoken enough about Lotus culture, about the meaning of such ceremonies. You knew the weight behind the fire, the ink, the clothing.

You knew to deny it now would be to dishonor it. And dishonoring it felt wrong to a culture that had already accepted so much pain without retaliation.

So you swallowed hard and forced your voice to steady. “Yes. We are...Fruit-bound.”

Lysion’s features softened instantly, a pleased hum vibrating in his throat like a lullaby. “Then the flames were good,” he says with finality. “They welcomed you.”

There was a lump in your throat that didn’t go away. 

“Thank you,” you managed quietly after a beat. “For the...bonding ceremony. It was very beautiful.”

The crowned Lotus Eater beams.

Trees began to thin out as you move onward. Moss painted the sides of boulders like green mist, and the air thinned slightly with elevation.

You don’t realize how long you’ve been walking until your calves ache and your breath comes shallow. No one speaks as you follow. Until finally, they stop.

And for a moment you think—this is it. The cave. The one Penelope had marked on the map, the one everyone had agreed to move toward after the reaching the Eastern shores of the isle.

But as your eyes scan the rock before you, realization sinks: this isn’t the entrance.

There's no wide-mouthed opening. No towering archway looming from the rock. Just a dense, unyielding stretch of stone.

You opened your mouth to question—but Lysion moved before you could get a word out.

He stepped forward and pushed aside a thick veil of hanging vines to reveal a narrow crack in the mountain’s side—jagged, dark, and breathing cold air from its hollow gut. 

“A hush-mouth path,” Lysion said, letting dense foliage fall back over the cleverly concealed hole. “Leads beneath where the livestock rest.”

“Umm...” Your eyes stayed on the crack, measuring its width with a creeping unease. “You sure this is safe? The entrance can't be that far off right?”

Lysion didn’t answer immediately.

“There is a watcher in the path of the entrance,” he said at last. “A giant....a flesh-cruncher. Eye of one. He watches the flock...guards the cave.”

You stared at him, hoping—praying—you’d heard him wrong. “A...Cyclops?” the word almost tasted too big in your mouth. “There’s a Cyclops in this cave?”

The shift was immediate.

Lysion’s face lost its softness as his eyes dimmed into something strange—something you had only seen once before when Polites first asked about the food.

“It is Polyphemus...”

At the name, the two Lotus Eaters behind echoed breathlessly as if reciting a haunting lullaby.

“Polyphemus...the scary big one.”

You almost reeled backward as the realization slams into your chest like a wave: the cave....the food...the cave isn’t abandoned.

This is his cave.

His.

Which meant Penelope, Eurylochus, and Polites—

'Oh Gods' You nearly double over, the nausea building in your throat as panic threatened to take hold. Your chest tightened. Your knees trembled.

'No!'

Gritting your teeth, you close your eyes and pull in a deep breath.

You’d faced monsters before. You’d survived them.

You would survive this.

With the panic and apprehension reeled back within, you turn back to the Lotus Eaters and looked at each of them, one by one, trying to find the right thing to say.

“Thank you,” you mutter softly, letting the words shape themselves with care. “For helping me me.”

Even then you felt that wasn't enough. Spoken thanks rarely are. Not here.

So you shifted.

You let your hands lift, fingers parting in the quiet sign Kalyphele had taught you the night before in the shallow pool waters; one palm to your chest, the other extended outward in offering—cupped as if meant to hold instead of impose it.

It was the gesture of heart-gift. Of soul-thanks.

Lysion’s eyes go soft as his head tilts, touched. The young Lotus woman nearby lets out a quiet pleased exhale as the Lotus man's hands clasp lightly at his front, bowing his head just an inch in revere.

You hesitate then beckon the crowned Lotus Eater closer. When he nears, you stare up at him and make a come hither motion with your hand. "Mind leaning down here for a moment?"

He blinked, uncertain for a moment, but obeyed with that same fluid grace his kind always seemed to carry.

Even when stooped low, towering frame folded carefully to meet your height, he’s still tall enough that you have to lift yourself onto the balls of your feet just to reach him.

Fingers brushing along his shoulder for balance, the sweet floral tang of Lotus fruit wafting off his skin cocoons as you place a kiss to his forehead.

For peace. For guidance. For not turning you away when he easily could have.

The crowned Lotus Eater's eyes widened a fraction, then fluttered closed as a giggle escaped him—uncharacteristically sweet and almost embarrassed.

His cheeks flush a deep scarlet, the red traveling quickly to the tips of his ears as he ducks his head; hands fluttering at his sides like he doesn't know where to place them anymore.

Behind him the other two lets out quiet giggles of their own. One covered her mouth with delicate fingers, the other smiling openly, his face turning pink like the fruit they cherished so deeply.

“Good luck,” Lysion murmurs at last, still half-reeling through his blush. “May the world welcome your footsteps.”

You smiled—or tried to. It came out small and tired, but honest all the same.

Turning back toward the crack in the mountain, you move toward it slowly, the chill from within leaking out in ghostly breaths, brushing against your skin.

You reach out, your hand already lifting to push the vines aside—

“____”

The sound of your name stops you cold. It’s not loud, not urgent, but it lances through the quiet with a strange tenderness.

You turn just enough to glance over your shoulder and catch sight of Lysion standing a few paces back; half-shrouded in mist and morning light.

But there was something different in his face now.

The usual serenity had faltered for a breath, a faint furrow creasing the center of his brow as if something pulled at the edge of his thoughts.

But then, like foam retreating back into the sea, his expression smoothed. The familiar Lotus calm flowed back over his features, gentle as tidewater.

He reach to his waist where a small woven pouch dangles from a vine-laced cord. You watch in silence as his long fingers untie the knot and dip inside to retrieve something round, nestled like a heartbeat in his palm.

A Lotus fruit.

He steps forward, holding it out toward you with both hands cupped, as if he were offering you something sacred.

“A gift,” he says quietly, voice low and almost melodic as it carries the rhythm of a prayer. “For seed-courage. For root-remembrance.”

You stare at the fruit in his hands. At the way the light plays across both.

Before you can respond, before your voice even finds shape, the other two Lotus Eaters stepped up beside him in perfect unison.

Their motions were mirrored as each of them dipped a hand into their own pouches—identical to Lysion’s—and drew forth a fruit of their own, offering it forward as their voices rose in soft harmony.

“Gift...gift...gift...”

You hesitate, glancing between their faces and the glowing fruit now being offered. You didn't need any fruit. You didn't need any more gifts.

And yet...

Arms lifting, you gathered the three fruits into your grasp.

Their skins were smooth, warm from the sun and the heat of the hands that had held them as you cradle them against your body, just beneath your collarbone where your pulse still beat fast and heavy.

You weren’t entirely sure what to do with them. Weren’t sure what they meant. But you accepted them anyway.

Because you understood enough now to know that refusing them would be a kind of wound. And because the look in Lysion’s eyes—the deep, quiet approval—told you that you were being seen.

Not just as a stranger, not even as an outsider, but as something like kin.

"Umm...thanks?" You give an unsure smile as you continue to hold on to the Lotus fruit. That causes the trio to smile. 

Not widely, not giddy—but softly. Almost as if you passed a test you didn’t know you were taking.

Without another word, they begin to drift away back into the brush, their bare footsteps nearly soundless against the moss. They vanished within moments.

The only evidence they ever stood there with you? The Lotus fruit that was still held in your arms.

You glance down at them—the three perfect oaths wrapped in skin and sweetness. You let yourself hold the moment a second longer.

Moving to the edge of the path, you kneel near the half-concealed secret passage, placing the fruit carefully at the base, nestling them together in a shallow impression in the dirt.

"Alright," A breath leaves as you rise to your feet, rolling your neck and shoulders to release any pent up tension. “Let’s do this.”

[k-nayee]

CHAPTER 54. ASHES AND INK

❝Even Gods weep for what their blessings destroy❞

Warrior M.List | Act Ⅵ

Previous | Next

˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

“____!”

Penelope’s voice pierces the woods again—closer now, laced with urgency.

You tense instinctively, turning to face the path just as she breaks through the trees. The moment her eyes land on you her whole body halts.

Her shoulders drop, breath releasing in quiet relief. There’s a flicker of something unreadable—panic maybe—but it melts quickly.

Especially when she sees what you’re wearing.

A slow unmistakable smirk begins tugging at her mouth. “Well,” she says, arms crossing as her eyes travel deliberately over you, “this is new.”

Heat prickles across your neck as you subtly try to adjust the foliage that suddenly feels far too bold. “It’s not—this isn’t—”

She plucks one of the decorative leaves from your top, twirling it between her fingers. “It looks nice on you.” she teases.

You clear your throat and stand straighter. “What are you doing here Penelope?”

The amusement falters from her face.  “We had a plan remember?” Her tone catches. “When sunrise comes—we’re supposed to burn this place to the ground.”

“What?! What time is it?!”

You turn your head fast to the sky—and now you see it. The faint glow beyond the treetops wasn’t moonlight.

It’s dawn.

“Shit shit shit,” you hiss under your breath. “Penelope those villagers gave us shelter! They took care of us.”

The Ithacan Queen raises a brow as her gaze drifts downward again to your attire. “Mmm-hmm I can see that.”

“I’m serious,” you snap. “They didn’t trap us or feed us anything strange. They let us rest. They're good people.”

Something in your tone must strike her because her lips press into a line. She doesn’t speak, not immediately.

But then—

A scream.

You both freeze, eyes locked.

There was no words needed to be said. Your legs are already moving.

Penelope matches your stride as the two of you bolt toward the greenery of the forest around; adrenaline tightening every nerve and numbing every lash a passing branch gives.

You burst into the clearing.

A group of Ithacan soldiers surge forward—spears drawn, swords flashing. At the front stands Eurylochus, his face hard-set as he barks orders, eyes wide with cold resolve.

Lotus Eaters whirl around them from the surprise attack; some of them still blinking sleep from their eyes while others crouched low in attempt to protect loved ones.

The Lotus men are the first to react. There’s no formation or no strategy—just bare instinct and desperation as they dive forward to defend.

Swarming in twos and threes, they duck under blades, using leafy shields and fruit carving tools to disarm rather than maim.

But they are not warriors.

You see a Lotus man get knocked flat, clutching his stomach, blood already seeping through his fingers. Another stumbles, a jagged cut along his thigh as he tries to drag another to safety.

“STOP!” You shout out. “STOP THIS! Stop—please—” It barely rises above the tumult, swallowed in the roar of violence.

Having enough you make a move.

You catch the nearest soldier’s arm mid‑lunge at a vulnerable Lotus woman, your fingers gripping the haft of his spear before simultaneously yanking hard and shoulder slamming into his side making his hold on the weapon loosen. Kicking him at the back of the knees to send him sprawling, you use the momentum to swing the spear backward and trip another soldier.

A soldier appears at your side and swings. Ducking low with a pivot on your heel, you jam your elbow into his gut causing him to double over. Another lunges assuming you're distracted, but you quickly intercept his arm, twisting it behind him until he drops the blade with a strangled cry.

Instead of your usual strikes of aiming to kill, you took a more non-lethal route: disarm, trip, redirect.

Your breath stutters in time with your heart. 

“Stand down!” you try again. “They’re not enemies!”

“____?!”

Through the melee your eyes lock with Eurylochus'. He's nearly frozen in place, brows furrowed as he stares at you like you’d grown wings. He takes in your Lotus attire, the markings on your skin, the feral light in your eyes. “What are you wearing?!”

“That’s not important,” you snap. “Stop the attack. Now.”

He hesitates. You tighten your grip on the spear shaft, unyielding. “This is my fault. We were supposed to leave.”

But before he can respond—

“What’s going on?!”

Polites.

He stumbles out from the decorated hut; hair disheveled with similar designs of ink painting his skin as well.  His amber eyes are wide as they scan the scenery in disbelief.

Though it doesn't last long, he's quick to move to your side with hands raised in peace, even going as far as unarming and man-handling an Ithacan soldier into calm.

You keep your focus on Eurylochus. “Pull back.”

The Second-in-Command slowly raises his sword-held hand toward the sky signaling respite.

It takes minutes—too long in fact. But eventually the soldiers begin to pull back.

Wounded Lotus Eaters recoil away in wary. Only when seeing they're no longer pursued, they begin to tend one another; an elder villager comforting a scared young boy, frantic whispers as a Lotus woman tries to stem the bleeding of another.

You meet Polites’ gaze as guilt churns in your belly.

This wasn't how it supposed to end.

Eurylochus steps forward, Penelope arriving beside him. He looks from you to the recovering villagers, voice terse and tired, but steady: “Ready?”

You didn’t answer right away.

A flash of white and brown feathers caught the morning light, vanishing just as quickly through the thick canopy. You followed it with your gaze.

'You are a warrior of the mind....You are mine.'

The echo of Athena’s words threaded through your ribs like a brand. And while the guilt clawed at you—sharp and fresh—you forced it down. Not now. Not here.

Straightening your spine, the hesitation burned away and was replaced with something colder. More controlled.

“Yes,” you firmly speak up. “East side of the island. There’s a cave with food and supplies stashed inside.”

He exhales and raises his chin. “Then let’s move. No more delays.” First to move, Penelope follows right after him with the small troop of Ithacan soldiers in tow.

Polites remains at your side as you take a final glance back. Some Lotus villagers move to help the wounded, others retreating back into the treetops in fear of another attack.

Turning away to the forest with purpose re‑anchoring in your chest, you push into the shadows, leaving dawn and ruin behind.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

You walk through the underbrush, finally on your way back to the ships—Penelope at your left, Eurylochus just ahead leading the half dozen soldiers, and Polites brushing at your right side.

The aftermath still pulsed in your veins. Every sniff of smoke and distant bird’s cry carried echoes of violence.

Eurylochus was the first to break the tension.

“You agreed,” he said, voice cutting through like a blade, “until sunrise. We waited till sunrise. And we come to find you two playing dress-up and having fun time with tribal villagers—while we have men starving.”

You stiffened at the weight of his words; blunt, crude, and barbed. But before you could form a defense, Polites stepped forward. “It was me.”

His normally warm tone was edged with something harsh. Unusual. Even jarring.

“I made the call. She wasn’t well and I wasn’t going to drag her through the forest when she was barely standing. If there’s fault it’s mine.”

The group blinked as one. Even Eurylochus looked surprised, glancing at Polites like he was someone unfamiliar.

“Not feeling well?” Eurylochus echoed, eyes now darting to you, suspicion—or concern—peeking through.

You say nothing. Didn’t want to. You simply look away, face hot with an emotion that wasn’t shame but wasn’t pride either.

Eurylochus didn’t push. “Fine,” he said after a beat. “If it was about health—yours or the crew’s—I’ll let it slide."

Beside you, Penelope was quiet. Her face was unreadable but there was no anger. Just something tired...something relieved.

The path continued beneath your feet.

A few minutes passed in that same hush before Penelope finally spoke. “I apologize for the lives we may have taken in the skirmish,” she said, voice low and even. “But I do not regret it.”

You didn’t hesitate. “It...it was for the greater good,” you said quickly, hoping it would sound more certain than it felt.

And you tried to believe. Gods you needed to believe.

Because deep down a tiny part of you whispered otherwise. The part that remembered how fast you and Polites had left.

Your fingers curled into your palm. 'But we had to leave. We had to...right?'

The forest opened slightly, trees thinning just enough for sunlight to filter through the mist like watery gold. It was quiet—just footsteps and thoughts.

Then curiosity took hold. You peek over at the leading Ithacan troops duo. “How did you find us anyway? The village wasn’t exactly in plain sight.”

Eurylochus glanced sideways, something amused curling at the corner of his mouth. “We heard a song.”

You turned your head. “...song?”

“Some of the villagers were humming it. Treat the world with open arms…with an open heart, something like that. Repetitive. Catchy.”

You frowned. “That’s...not a song.”

Polites made a small sound behind you, clearing his throat. “They probably got it from me,” he admits. “I might have been rambling...about kindness...when they took us to be cleansed.”

You turned to stare. “You were preaching while they were bathing us?”

“Bathing??” Eurylochus raised a brow. “Don’t tell me they actually hand-washed you two.”

You and Polites exchanged a glance but said nothing. That was all the confirmation needed.

Eurylochus gawked before barking out a loud and disbelieving laugh. “Gods above!” he wheezed, “Seasoned warriors such as yourselves—treated like babes of royalty!”

“Enough Eurylochus.” Penelope cuts in, trying to stifle her own smile. “I’m sure they needed a little pampering after all that’s happened.”

Then she looked at you—really looked—and that mischief returned.

“Especially her,” she teased, reaching out. Her fingers lightly trace one of the faded markings still curling along your collarbone. “All dressed up looking like temptation in flesh. A seductress from the jungle.”

You swatted her hand away, face burning even hotter. “Stop it! Do you know how long I’ve tried to make myself forget I’m wearing this ridiculous—!”

Polites clears his throat then. “Well...I think you look amazing.”

You pause the beginning of your rant, the anger melting the instant his eyes met yours. “....Thanks,” you murmur softly.

Though the moment doesn't last when the Kefalonian born suddenly stops cold. “Wait.”

You turn in time to see him frantically patting down his form. “M-my coin,” he whispered. “My family coin.”

Panic flickered in his features. His breathing quickened as he began to search the forest floor in distraught as if he expected it to rise from the leaves. “I could've sworn I had the pouch. The leather pouch—”

“Hey hey, Polites breathe.” you waste no time; stepping in front of him and grabbing him by the wrist.  “We’ll find it. When we double back for the food, we’ll grab it. I promise.”

He meets your gaze—eyes wide and anxious—before softening. “You always know what to say,” he mumbled with a crooked smile. “Thank you.”

Your heart tugged as you smiled back warmly. “That’s because I’m usually right.”

He laughed. Then looked at you with something gentler. Something closer.

From behind Penelope and Eurylochus shared a look. Neither spoke, but enough was said.

For a brief while the group moved in near silence—only the occasional crunch of leaves beneath your feet or the distant call of a bird breaking through the tension.

You let the rhythm of footsteps carry your thoughts—until they froze cold.

“Wait,” Your arm shoots out to halt the others, voice breaking through the quiet like a snapped twig. “Where’s my stuff?”

Penelope raised an eyebrow, then giving a gentle nudge to your elbow. “I mean...you have your axe right there.”

You shook your head hard, eyes darting down to your side. “No. No—not that. I mean my messenger bag.” Your voice was growing panicked.

The words hung in the air like a challenge. You could already feel the absence. That familiar weight missing from your shoulder, from your side.

A lifetime of gathered relics, old scrolls, little oddities, dried herbs, oils, and small keepsakes that had traveled with you since Sparta. Gone.

You turned to look at Polites hoping—irrationally—that maybe he had it. Maybe he picked it up. But the sheepish way his face fell said everything before his mouth did.

“Yeah...” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “We don’t have that, do we?”

You clenched your jaw and turned sharply on your heel. “You know what? Lets just go back instead of waiting until after we get the food. C'mon Polites."

The spectacled soldier barely had a chance to register your words as you already began your march back into the jungle. But before you could take another step, Eurylochus stepped in your way. “There’s no point.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What do you mean no point?”

He shifted, visibly uncomfortable now as his lips pressed into a line. For once the sharp-tongued and stoic warrior looked...reluctant.

“When we made the decision to attack the village,” he began carefully, “what pushed us over was...we saw the Lotus Eaters burning your clothes. Your bag.”

Your mouth opened slightly—but no sound came out. You could see the scene now in your mind, horrifying in its simplicity: a pile of cloth ignited. Inked scrolls curling black. The strap of your bag melting away to flames.

“We assumed the worst,” he continued. “You and Polites hadn’t returned. No contact. No signs. Figured you were either dead or...being prepped for sacrifice. I wasn’t about to sit back and risk it.”

You tried to breathe through the ache twisting in your gut. So that was it. A misunderstanding.

An act of war sparked by the sight of your belongings turned to ash.

“And...you don’t regret it?” you asked, your voice quieter now.

Eurylochus met your eyes. “No. Not for a moment. If killing a few meant getting you and Polites back safe? I’d do it all over again.”

There was no apology in his voice. But there was a strange kind of care buried in it—his version violence-riddled loyalty.

Not the gentle comforting kind. But the kind that would cut down hundreds to save two.

Even Polites said nothing. He simply nodded once with pursed lips like he understood.

Because he did. That’s who Eurylochus was.

You exhaled. A strange warmth washing over; part affection at his way of expression, part shame that it was at the expense of others.

And then you looked down at yourself.

The vines...the detailed patterns etched across your skin....the delicate gold accents glinting where light hit.

“Hold up!” You flung a hand dramatically to the leaf-woven outfit you were still half-draped in, voice rising. “So you’re saying me and Polites are stuck in this...this mess?!”

Penelope laughed at you as she took a step ahead. It wasn't the polite kind.

 “I suppose so,” she said, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she sends you a look over her shoulder. “Not to worry though—there should be a dress or two taken from the Trojan pillage. Something simple for you to wear when you stay back on the ship.”

The shift in your expression was immediate. Something about the phrasing itched at the back of your mind. “Wait a minute.” You straightened up. “...stay back?”

Penelope nodded, unfazed. “Yes.”

You stared at her.

She stared back.

“Polites said you weren't feeling well, no?” she added casually. “And for that to come from a simple trek through the jungle it clearly means your body still hasn't healed up enough. Which is a part I will take ownership of for pushing you too soon.”

You sputtered. “I—I mean—yes, but it wasn't that much of big deal Penelope—”

She cut you off before the protest could fully form. “No buts,” she said firmly. “You’ve done enough for us and I thank you for that. Who knows what might be out there when we reach the cave.”

Then softer, her voice curl warm like the morning tide. “Just to be safe.”

You frowned, looking off toward the woods again, as if you could still see the ash of your belongings floating in the distance.

A part of you wanted to scream, to prove you were fine. But another part knew better than argue against Penelope's authority, especially around listening soldiers.

“Fine,” you muttered, “Just to be safe I guess...”

Penelope didn’t gloat. She just gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze and moved on ahead.

Polites stepped beside you in pace. “Not that what I'll say,” he said, glancing sidelong at you, “but I think you'd pull off tribal royalty wonderfully.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue against him.

[k-nayee]

CHAPTER 53. WARRIOR OF THE MIND

❝To be chosen by a God is to become their mirror—or their weapon.❞

Warrior M.List | Act Ⅵ

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˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

The halls of the Trojan palace feels foreign under your bare feet, the smooth stone unnaturally cold.

Something’s off. You know this instinctively—like the way you know when a storm is coming even before the winds shift.

Turning a corner, you're faced with a long endless hallway. It stretches farther than it should, like the palace has grown somehow and twisted itself in your absence.

And yet you keep walking. You’re not sure why. You just do.

When you reach the end of the corridor, a grand doorway awaits, painted with laurels and symbols of the royal line. Your fingertips graze the frame before you push the door inward with barely a sound.

You pause on the threshold.

The nursery.

The little Prince’s room.

You hadn’t taken it in before—when you were racing through hallways trying to keep innocent blood off Penelope's hands, when your world was spinning and exhaustion was a scream you had to swallow whole.

But now you can truly see it: a carved crib sits in the room's center with soft linens half-draped along its edges... toys in woven baskets.... a child’s tunic hangs folded over a chair untouched...

You can almost hear the lullabies that once filled this space. Almost feel the warmth that used to live here before the earth was coated in blood.

Everything about the room is gentle, almost pure. And yet something in the room tugs at you—pulling like tidewater.

You're led to the balcony as if compelled.

The heavy curtains part soundlessly as you step through them, your hands reaching for the cool marble railing before your mind can argue. The moment your palms meet stone a lurching sensation fills your stomach.

The vertigo comes first.

Then the memory.

A jolt rushes down your spine, the phantom of gravity reclaiming your body from months ago causing you to grip the railing tighter.

Your breath catches as your gaze look out.

Troy stretches before you— or what remains of it.

The once-bright jewel of the Aegean lies in charred ruin. Towers collapsed. Temples gutted. Smoke clinging to the city's bones like ghosts refusing to leave.

There are no people here—no cries of children, no calls of merchants, no footsteps of guards. Just a skeleton.

A grave.

Nausea rises fast when you make the mistake of glancing down directly over the edge. And Gods the ground is so far. Farther than it should be.

It plunges like a mouth waiting to devour; impossible and endless.

You pull back, stumbling half a step as your balance wavers—

rustling.

You immediately stiffen at the sudden sound from behind. Dread filling your heart, you turn just in time to see a flash of white and brown feathers barreling toward you.

An owl. 

Too fast to duck or dodge, it crashes into you, a heavy weight against your chest as talons tangle with your vegetative garment.

—and you're over the edge.

Falling.

Again.

Wind howls in your ears as the balcony vanishes above. Your arms flail, reaching for something—anything—but there’s nothing to hold onto. No way to stop.

The scream never leaves your throat, the world blurring into a mess of white feathers, the sky, and the crack of the stone ground rapidly getting close—

You jerk up with a violent gasp, air rushing into your lungs like it’s the first breath you’ve ever taken. Disoriented and panicked, the nightmare clings to you, each image vivid and sharp-edged in your mind.

It takes several seconds to remember where you are; Lotus Village... the hut.... Polites.

Your body slowly calms as your senses return. You're not falling. You're safe.

Polites lies close behind you; legs tangled with yours, arm draped around your waist. Rhythm of his breathing deep and even, faint snores catch in his throat.

The warmth of him is real unlike the ghost-city in your dream.

Most of the ink painted on your bodies had smeared—streaked and faded from touch, sweat, and breathless movements made though the late hours.

All except for one.

A single line that starts around your ring finger, winding across the back of your hand and up your arm, all the way to your heart. Untouched and unmarred.

You stare at it for a moment, fingers twitching slightly.

The dream still doesn’t leave you. You can still feel the rush of falling, the emptiness of Troy, the owl’s wings. Your skin itches just thinking about it.

Your head suddenly snaps toward the doorway.

Flickering shadows crawl past the threshold where the hanging vines didn't fully cover. Something passed. Or someone.

You begin to carefully pry Polites’ arm from around your waist. But every time you do, his arm becomes even tighter, instinctively pulling you back to him.

Even in sleep he refused to let go.

You almost laughed. Almost. But there was no time for fondness.

Eventually (after several attempts) you finally manage to slip free. He curls in on himself as a sleepy hum of protest escapes him, one hand resting on the space where you lay moments before.

You dress quickly, tugging and adjusting the vine-woven garment to ensure decent coverage. Once sure, you pick up your axe from the corner and slip through the leafy drapes of the hut.

Outside was...quiet.

The clearing that had pulsed with strange communal life and dreamy murmurs now lay eerily still. Only the glowing pit of Lotus Fruit flickered faintly as scattered tools—knives carved from bone, baskets half-full of drying herbs—remained where they’d last been used.

But the people?

Gone.

You scan the treetops. It takes a moment but then you see them—huts camouflaged among the leaves like nests crammed into the crooks of ancient branches.

They were all above you asleep.

And here you are alone on the ground. A part of you felt unwelcomed. A trespasser in a place that had already tucked itself in and forgotten you existed.

You swallowed hard and took a step.

Then another.

The grass muffles your footfalls as you cut across the clearing. You don’t entirely know why you’re moving away from the comfort of the hut, from Polites’ sleeping form just beyond the veil of vines.

You try to name it—this strange pull inside your chest—but you can't. 

The air grew thicker the more you walked. You passed the glowing pit, the ring of log stumps, the disgarded tools lying like relics.

Then—

Something moves.

Freezing mid-step, your eyes sharpened as you moved into a fighting stance.

There, perched just beyond the ferns and shadow, you find it: an owl.

White and brown feathers catch the faint gold glow of the Lotus lanterns as the massive animal sat perfectly still on the gnarled branch. It stared at you without blinking, wide eyes catching every shift in your posture.

For a heartbeat neither of you moved.

Your grip on the axe tightened.

The owl did not flinch. Instead it tilted its head as if assessing you—the movement weirdly fluid like it wasn’t bound to bone.

Then it took flight.

There was no sound. Just the silent unfurling of wings and a burst of motion vanishing into the darkness beyond the tree line.

You slip from the edge of the village's clearing and into the dense forest without a thought. The owl flits between the trunks ahead, only glimpses of its pale wings visible through the dense branches.

You chase blindly; ducking beneath hanging vines, vaulting over fallen logs, skimming across patches of damp moss. At the times you'd loose sight of it, the bird would appear again, perched just ahead before flying onward.

Minutes of your running blur together until—

your foot snags on a root.

You pitch forward with a sharp gasp, crashing into the underbrush hard causing the breath to be knocked from your lungs.

“Shit—!” you scramble up on your hands and knees, twigs and dirt clinging to your skin.

Axe lying just out of reach, you snatch it back with a hissed breath, brushing off your scraped palms. But when you glance up the owl is nowhere to be found.

You rise slowly, brushing dirt from your legs as the silence pressed in like fog. The trees stood still and unyielding, unfamiliar as shadows stretched long between them.

Turning around a slow circle in attempt to orient yourself, you notice the path you’d taken was long gone. No light... no voices... no landmarks. Nothing.

And that’s when it hits you—you’re lost. Utterly, completely, Godsdamned lost.

A prickle of unease runs down your spine as you clenched your teeth, trying to shove down the spike of panic. You’d been in worse. You could get out. You just had to—

“Have you forgotten the lessons I taught you?”

You froze.

Axe gripped hard in one hand, your breath catch as your gaze sweeps the darkness, but there was nothing. No rustling. No movement.

Just the aftershock of the voice still humming in your ribs.

You didn’t need to see to know.

“Athena?” you called. It felt ridiculous coming out of your mouth—like saying her name alone might crack the forest in two.

No answer.

Just a long heavy silence. Long enough for the back of your neck to prickle and your mind to begin to doubt 'Maybe it's the exhaustio—'

The trees moved. Branches parted in calculated rhythm, bowing outward as though pulled back by invisible hands.

And out she stepped, motion so fluid it seemed like the woods themselves gave birth to her.

Athena

She stood tall—taller than any mortal woman should be—nearly nine feet of divine presence wrapped in war and wisdom. Each step she took glided with a weightless power that even the earth dared not resist.

Her white and gold himation sweeps like water behind her, woven with geometric threads that pulse softly under moonlight. Beneath it a wide red sleeved chiton clings to her frame, the hem trimmed in a deep green—a subtle but deliberate tribute to Ithaca.

Over it all she wore a bronze breastplate; elegant but unscarred (more ornamental than practical).

Her Corinthian helm fits snug around the crown of her head, the tall red plume fluttering slightly even with the lack of wind moving through the grove. From beneath the helm's edge her hair spilled out freely—long, dark as wine, and curling in thick waves that moved faintly like it lived of its own accord.

But it was her eyes that truly rooted you; unnaturally wide, round, and owlish.

There was no warmth in them, but neither was there cruelty. Only that same cold endless knowledge gleamed in their golden depths—the same shade you had seen in Ares and Apollo.

And she’s looking directly at you.

You almost took a step back.

Athena raised her chin, the haft of her spear held loosely in one hand as if it were nothing but an afterthought. Her face was a mask of calm calculation—the kind of calm that came just before a lightning strike.

“You’ve begun to forget,” she said, voice low but unyielding, each word landing like a strike of iron on stone. “You’ve let your heart speak louder than logic. Throwing your body into danger? Risking your life for a bundle of crying skin and bone?”

You bristled, heat licking at your chest.

“I raised a mind,” she continued. “Not a martyr.”

Your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. She was right and you knew it.

That reckless dive...that moment of abandon had nearly cost you everything. You’d acted not from strategy, but from care. A promise made from some misplaced softness.

Athena watched your expression shift, head tilting with that same unsettling owl-like grace. “You’re deviating. Changing from what I designed you to be. But that’s alright,” she said with a faint cruel smile. “I don’t mind reminding you of your purpose. That is after all my domain.”

Athena circled slightly, her gaze never leaving you.

“I am the Goddess of Wisdom,” she announces, her voice ringing out like a commandment. “And the Master of War. I guide great minds. Defend cities. Forge Heroes who lead nations into Golden Ages...craft order from chaos. My fingers are in every thread of civilization—weaving, pottery, strategy, invention. Civilization itself bows to me.”

She stopped in front of you again. One hand lifts as her voice smoothed, almost affectionate. “My purpose is singular: to create a warrior worthy of bearing my mark and legacy.”

She said it like it mattered more now than ever.

“For years I believed Odysseus would be my chosen,” she said with a flick of her wrist as if waving the memory away. “A clever Prince with a tongue of silver and a mind sharp as obsidian. But his ego reeked of arrogance without restraint. His path was useful but not...perfect.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“But then I found you. You, who never begged for favor. You, who walked in blood and kept your gaze forward. You, who knew when to speak and when to listen. When to wait...when to strike.”

Your shoulders unconsciously square beneath her gaze.

“I watched you quietly from the shadows. I did not intervene—I waited.” Athena suddenly paused, her eyes looking away for a split second as if embarrassed. 

“There was times I hesitated,” she admits. “Feared you might fall into Ares’ grip and let anger carve your legacy. That you would become a monster of blood instead of a strategist of mind.”

A breathless pause.

“But the boar changed that.” She smiled. “That was the moment I knew.”

She stepped forward, the edge of her spear catching the silver of moonlight as she tilted her head, owl-like curiosity glinting in her eyes. “Tell me mortal...why didn’t you kill it?”

You didn’t answer—you didn’t need to. Because she already knew.

“Penelope,” Athena said the name like a truth too long ignored. Her voice cutting with precision. “You let it live. For her.”

You clenched your jaw.

“You’ve hidden in her shadow for too long,” her tone mimicked one a firm chastisement of a mother scolding a wayward child. “Always watching her fire instead of becoming your own.”

You opened your mouth to protest—but Athena’s spoke before you could.

“And yet I stayed. I gave you signs. Dreams. Knowledge. You felt me didn’t you? You knew I was there. Watching. Guiding.” She stepped closer, voice lifting like a tide.

The oil lamp flickered low, casting shadows over papers and polished marble as the smell of old scrolls hung thick in the quiet air.

Outside Sparta slumbered—its stone-cold towers and rigorous order tucked behind dreams of conquest. But inside the library one servant was still awake.

You sat alone at the long central table, a parchment unfurled before you, forearm resting against the scratched wood. A half-eaten fig sat untouched on a cracked ceramic dish, long forgotten beside your notes as you leaned closer to the warm glow of the lantern.

You weren’t supposed to be here this late.

But then again, when had you ever obeyed the rules?

Your eyes scanned the scroll in front of you—newly arrived texts on siege tactics and battlefield maneuvering attributed to Generals long dead. The kind of scrolls that the instructors kept locked in the higher tiers of the archive. The kind they swore you wouldn’t “understand” until you were older. Wiser. Properly trained.

And yet they’d shown up.

This wasn’t the first time strange knowledge had found you. No record of these particular scrolls existed in the public index. No name was written on the tags. No librarian ever remembered placing them.

But you always found them. Or maybe...they found you.

As your eyes took in the intricate diagrams scrawled between lines of dense commentary—you paused, the hairs on the back of your neck prickling.

There it was again.

That shimmer in the air.

You didn’t hear it, not exactly. It was a feeling more than a sound. A presence that made the air feel denser.

Eyes narrowing as you slowly sat back in your chair, the wood creak slightly beneath you. You let the silence stretch a few beats longer than necessary before finally making a move.

“I know you’re watching me,” you say aloud, voice casual as ever. “So show yourself. Besides,” You smirk to yourself as your fingers laced together over the scrolls. “I can see you.”

For a moment nothing moved.

Then—

“How can you see through my spell?”

The voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It resembled wind cracking across dry leaves—smooth, feminine, and ancient.

Your mouth twitched into a grin before you could stop it with the smugness of a child who’d just stolen a dessert from the kitchens and gotten away with it.

“Hah!” you barked, pointing one ink-smudged finger at the shadows near the ceiling. “I was lying. And you fell for my bluff!” You let the laughter bubble up. “Ha! Hahaha! Got you~”

The voice didn’t respond right away.

But something did appear.

Not a woman. Not a specter.

An owl.

Not just any owl. It was massive—easily larger than the shoulders of a large seasoned athlete. White and brown feathers shifted and gleamed unnaturally as it dropped silently from the hidden ceiling rafts and landed gracefully atop the top rail of a nearby chair.

Molten golden eyes locked on yours. Its gaze wasn't glassy like other birds, not blank.

But Alive. Aware. Unnerving in its clarity.

“Well done,” the voice said again—this time from the bird. The beak didn't move, and yet the words were clearly hers. “Enlighten me then. What’s your name?”

You leaned forward, propping your chin on one hand, your expression amused but sharp as you eyed the creature. “You first,” you quipped, “and maybe I’ll do the same.”

A pause. The owl’s feathers rustled faintly, just enough for the lamplight to catch the bronze undertones in its wings as its golden eyes narrowed from intrigue.

“Nice try,” came the reply, her tone rich and edged in subtle humor. “But two can play this game.”

You clicked your tongue. “A talking owl shows up in Sparta’s sacred library and you want to play guessing games? I know I'm a kid but c'mon...”

The gleam in your eye sharper now. “There's no need to be modest anyways. I already know who you are.”

The owl blinked once. “Oh really?” the voice murmured. “Do tell.”

You grinned wider, tilting your head in light imitation of her movements. “Well let’s see: you’re definitely not Aphrodite—she’d be far more dramatic and the scrolls would be about seduction, not siege warfare. It’s not Demeter either—she’s busy overseeing the late harvest. Artemis? She wouldn’t be caught dead in a stone library when there’s game in the forest to chase. Persephone’s likely down in the Underworld beside a brooding Hades, and Hera’s probably glaring daggers beside Zeus as we speak.”

You sat up straighter, eyes locking with the owl’s.

“And Hestia? She wouldn’t leave her hearth for anything less than a civil war within the Heavens.”

You tapped your temple. “So that only leaves one Goddess who fits this moment. Only one who’d send scrolls of war and wisdom like breadcrumbs. The one with the sharpest mind Olympus has ever seen.”

You paused dramatically.

“You're Athena,” you declared, placing your hand over your chest. “The badass in the arena. Goddess of wit and war. Queen of strategies no one can match—divine or mortal.”

The owl was quiet.

Then—if a Goddess could preen—she did.

You noticed her feathers puffed slightly, a flicker of vanity blooming just around the base of her neck. The gold in her eyes warmed, not just with divine light, but satisfaction.

“You know of me,” Athena said at last.

“Hard not to,” you shrugged. “You and your War-God brother have a habit of hovering like ghosts whenever Penelope and I do anything halfway decent.”

You watched the owl closer, your curiosity breaking through.

“Though I gotta say...it’d be a bit nicer if I saw your real form. The feathers are cool, but come on. Give me the full image.”

“No,” Athena said immediately. Not unkind, but firm. Like a blade sheathed mid-swing. “Perhaps one day. When you’ve proven yourself.”

That pulled a soft huff from your chest. Your confidence flickered for just a moment—excitement dimming.

Your lips purse as you looked down briefly, mind flashing with a memory you didn’t mean to summon: the boar... the snare.... the spear that never struck.

“Honestly? I wasn't sure if...if you were still interested,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “After what happened with the boar and all.”

Athena’s head tilted—owl-like and precise.

“You are young,” she said, more thoughtful than mocking. “Unfinished. Shapeable. You still have time to become what I envision. That is...if you’re looking for a mentor.”

You didn’t speak at first. Because you didn’t trust your voice not to shake.

'Did she...did she just say mentor?!'

Athena. The Goddess of Wisdom and War. Of heroic endeavor and brilliant minds.

And she wanted you.

You tried—Gods you really tried—not to show how giddy you were. You even clenched your teeth behind your lips for a second to hide the involuntary upward twitch threatening to betray you.

'Be cool ____. Be cool.'

You leaned back in your chair, stretching your arms overhead with a half-lazy smirk. “Huh. Not bad,” you drawled, feigning disinterest. “I guess I don’t mind. Just remember,” you added with a teasing smile, “you’ll have to keep up.”

That made the Goddess do a double-take. “Keep...up?”

“Well yeah,” you said lightly, inspecting your fingernails as if discussing the weather. “You have seen how your brother’s been vying for my attention to become one of his students.”

You barely got the words out before Athena’s feathers visibly ruffled.

The air snapped tight with silence.

When she finally spoke again, her voice was clipped, colder than it had been before. “Ares,” she muttered, tone dipped in disdain.

You’d clearly hit a nerve.

The Goddess-owl clicked her beak once, then lifted her chin haughtily—owl-like poise momentarily forgotten as a very human irritation rippled through her tone.

“He’s nothing but a meathead,” she sniffed. “Driven by blood and adrenaline, swinging between glory and death like a drunkard with a sword. An absolute brute who mistakes noise for presence and slaughter for skill.”

You blinked.

She wasn’t done.

“I promise you,” Athena continued, her feathers slowly settling again as her voice regained composure, “once the haze of adolescence passes, you’ll tire of him. That brand of spectacle always fades.”

Your brows climbed; part at her scathing critique, the other at her weird confidence in your inevitable disillusionment. But to your credit, you nod. “Sure,” you said. “Why not?”

Then you grinned.

“And who knows?” a spark of mischief flash within your eyes. “Maybe we’ll even become friends.”

Athena didn’t respond.

You beamed wider. “Wait—no—best friends!”

Her eyes narrowed just a fraction.

“Think about it,” your words gather speed, enthusiasm bleeding past your practiced nonchalance. “Goddess and mortal. Divine strategy meets street wit. Wisdom and sarcasm. It’s revolutionary. A story for the ages!”

You pointed a finger upward as if sketching the epic into the air. “The chronicles of Athena and her Bestie ____!”

Still, she said nothing.

Finally, after a long pause, Athena huffs. Not an annoyed huff exactly. More like someone begrudgingly amused. The barest twitch of her feathers gave her away.

“We’ll see where it ends,” she replies dryly.

You lit up like a temple brazier. “See?! I'm not hearing a no!”

And before she could retract it, you slapped your hand on the table in triumph.

“I’ll take it!”

“I do not nurture weaklings. My protégés do not cower. They do not step aside.” Athena straightened fully, the light catching on her breastplate. “You caused the sacking of Troy. It was your mind that crafted the Horse. It was by your doing the Greeks were able to turn their loses over the years into a dagger and slit the throat of an empire.”

Her eyes burned brighter now. “You are no follower. You are not a second flame to someone else's torch. Even as a Spartan-born Queen, she does not stand above you.”

You almost couldn’t breathe, the emotion of it all washing over. “I am your warrior” you reply, quietly but unshaking. “A student of Athena.”

She inclined her head once. “I still intend to ensure you don’t fall behind,” her voice dropped to something fiercer. “Do not forget who you are. You are a warrior of a very special kind. After all it was I who saved your life when you leapt for that babe. When you should have died.”

You flinched at the coldness in her tone. “Ares did not spare you. But I intervened...I kept your thread from breaking. Even your transgressions—every rule you broke—I forgave and let pass.”

She stepped forward one last time—just enough for her shadow to brush the toes of your feet.

“Because you still have work to do. Greatness yet to forge. Victories to claim in my name.” Her eyes burned into yours, and they weren’t fire—but something colder. Older. “I am your teacher...your patron. Ares may have first branded you, but he did not shape you. You are not his.”

“You are a warrior of the mind. You are mine.”

The trees seemed to still around her.

Her voice drops to a low hum. “Do not disappoint me.”

A breath caught in your throat.

Not because of fear.

But because for the first time in years—maybe longer—you felt something click into place. As if the gears that had long been grinding in opposition had suddenly aligned.

You didn’t know if it was Fate. Or faith. Or delusion. But something in your bones whispered: Yes

You exhaled slowly and finally nodded. “I won’t.”

The moment the words passed your lips, the forest went deathly quiet. Not even the insects made a sound.

Suddenly, the air above your head flares to life—a sigil burning into the night sky.

Ares' mark.

The fiery red symbol pulsed above you like a wound in the dark, sharp-edged and familiar. You recognized the shape. The rage and hunger that had branded you before. Claimed you.

And then it flickered.

The crimson lines quivered, splintering like cracked lacquer as the flame changed—fiery violent red fading into a shadowed black. A new shad

e bloomed from its center, silver and blue hues spilling from its edges.

The sigil reshaped itself; becoming sleek, symmetrical, calculating. Becoming Athena's emblem.

Your heart thundered as you looked up at the newly changed symbol before turning your focus back on the Goddess. She was already watching you.

Her expression had changed.

Where once there had been tight-lipped disapproval, now there was stillness. And in that stillness was something rarer: pride. It was the kind that came not from victory, but from expectation finally met.

But the moment didn't last.

"____!!"

Your head snapped around at the sound.

'That voice...'

You turned toward it on instinct—feet already moving, heart already rising in your chest.

Penelope

Turning back toward where Athena had stood, as if needing one last look to anchor yourself, you pause once seeing the area was empty.

She was gone.

No rustling of branches. No shimmer of air or glint of bronze.

Only you and the space she once occupied.

[k-nayee]

Superman (2025) // The Boys (2019 - )

[k-nayee]

"I'm as human as anyone. I love, I get scared. I wake up every morning and despite not knowing what to do, I put one foot in front of the other and I try to make the best choices I can. I screw up all the time, but that is being human and that's my greatest strength."

- SUPERMAN (2025)

[k-nayee]

CHAPTER 52. PAINT ME HOW YOU SEE ME

A/n: LOL my bad yall! I got caught up in the Superman (2025) hype for a moment😭😭 just got it down bad for ya boi with his dimples ahdakjjdnvkm. I know yall been waiting for this one and i hope you like! remember to take care of yourselves!

❝Love is not blind. Love sees everything and still says yes❞

Warrior M.List | Act Ⅵ

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˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

The hut’s interior was just as beautiful as its outside. It was warm, the air tinged sweet with the scent of crushed petals.

Sliced and hollowed Lotus fruit strung from the ceiling like lanterns, their glow emitting a light muted gold, casting fleeting shadows across the curved walls.

But the moment of awe doesn’t last.

Because then you saw the beds. Or rather—a bed.

Just one.

You and Polites stop. Neither of you speak.

The bed was unlike anything you’d seen before: large, circular, and sunk slightly into the floor with woven reeds making up the base as layers of dense plush moss (that looked freshly gathered and still fragrant) was its padding.

And it was very clearly made for two.

The silence between you buzzed louder than any of the outside hums had been.

Polites clears his throat.

“I, uh...I can sleep on the floor,” he offers quickly, already beginning to shift his weight as if preparing to lie down wherever he lands. “I’ve done it a hundred times before—in ships, camps, battlefields. Not a problem. You’re the one who needs to rest.”

You gave him a flat look. “You seem to have forgotten that I fought in wars too. Slept on floors. Plenty of them.”

He winced slightly. 'Of course she had. What was I thinking?!'

“Right. Of course. Just—well I didn’t mean to—” 

Polites bit the inside of his cheek to shut himself up.

'You’re not fragile,' he wanted to say. 'I know that. I’ve seen it. I just—'

“And we both know sleeping on the floor sucks,” you finished, cutting off his floundering.

“True,” he admits softly. “Still...I don’t want to force you to share the bed. I mean we’re man and woman. Unmarried. And—”

“Oh Gods,” you groaned, reaching out and grabbing his wrist. “Unmarried or not, you are not sleeping on the floor while I get this luxurious moss pile.”

You tugged him gently toward the bed. “Besides,” you add jokingly, “we’ve literally killed for and bled beside each other. If that ain’t marriage, I don’t know what is.”

Polites darkens immediately. Berry-red from the tips of his ears down to the base of his neck. 'Marriage?'

He knew you didn’t mean it like that; but it still ignited something dangerous in his chest. Something warm, reckless, and full of wanting.

Upon nearing the bed your eyes catch your weapons laid neatly out on the edge of the bedding; cleaned and arranged.

You reach down and pick up your axe to give it a practiced flip. Placing it carefully against the wall within reaching distance, you settle on your side of the bed.

The moss beneath was a natural cushion that shaped to your weight. It was oddly comfortable. Annoyingly so.

If this is a trap the bastards really knew how to lull people into it.

You over to see Polites standing stiff as a statue, his mouth opening and closing as it twitched between a smile and uncertainty.

“Polites,” you murmur half-laughingly, “You’re not planning to fall asleep while standing are you?”

That snapped him out of it.

“Right—no, no of course not,” he fumbled, reaching for his scabbard and moving it aside with a little too much energy, almost knocking his knee into the side of the frame. “Just...taking a moment. You know. To...adjust. Get comfortable.”

He tries to play it cool and slide into the mossy bed. But his movements betrayed him.

He adjusts his posture then un-adjusts it. Crosses his legs before uncrossing them. Folding his hands in his lap, one lifts to rub the back of his neck bashfully, like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the moment.

You catch his eyes flicking around—first to the ceiling, then the far wall, then down to the blanket he is very much overthinking how to pull up.

It was adorable really.

The way he tries so hard to act natural around you.

You let the silence hang as the golden light bathed the space in a gentle and almost sleepy haze. And yet here was still a current of energy thrumming under your skin.

Polites, still fidgeting beside you, glanced down at the axe you’d laid carefully against the wall.

“You know,” he starts, eyes still not quite meeting yours, “that little maneuver you did with the axe earlier—before you set it down? That’s not a standard military training move is it?”

You raised a brow, pleasantly surprised. “You noticed that?”

“Hard not to,” he admits, a hint of admiration slipping into his tone. “It’s fast. Throws off the opponent’s stance.”

Curiosity weighing more than emotion, Polites was fully invested now. His gaze finally flicks toward you as the beginning of a question already began to form on his lips.

You preempt it.

“Penelope and I made that trick up years ago,” you say, settling more comfortably into the bedding. “Back when we were...well, let’s call it the servant-master-but-not-really-because-fuck-those-terms era.”

That earned a soft chuckle from him, and the sound of it made your chest loosen.

“We were young,” you continued warmly. “Managed to steal a bottle of wine. Gods it was foul. Burned all the way down, had this bitter kick—but we drank it anyway. First time for both of us. She’d only ever had the watered-down stuff they gave children, and I...” You hum fondly. “Well I wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near the kitchens unless needed.”

Polites mouth quirks. “Let me guess. You ended up wrestling with weapons drunk?”

You scoff. “Something like that. Decided to drink it during our secret night trainings. Wasn't really a problem until it was time to sneak back in. Was stumbling around, giggling like idiots. Ended up tripping over a bucket, spun to keep from falling, and somehow flung a broom handle in this wild arc—knocked the helmet off one of the guards. Luckily it was a few I knew so we got away without trouble.”

Polites laughed louder this time, the image too absurd to hold in.

“And that,” you added through his laughter, “was the basis for our move. Half-drunk, half-bullshit. But it worked. We refined it later. Still saved my ass in at least four skirmishes.”

The moment lingers between you, gentle from the tellings of half-remembered youth.

It was then, during your shifting movements, that Polites’ eyes land on your wrist. You feel it before he speaks; the familiar tug of the leather band brushing your skin.

“Speaking of you and Penelope...” he speaks quieter now, hesitate as if unsure whether he should ask, “I noticed those matching bands. The ones Odysseus gave you.”

You paused, glancing down as if you’d forgotten it was there. Your thumb brushes over the pattern like it’s sacred.

“This?” A small smile tugged at the edge of your mouth. “This is special.”

The feeling of the leather, the familiar wear and tear, always brought a strange comfort.

With mischievous playfulness, you elbow the soldier lightly. “And for you to say Odysseus gave it to us as if he made them? Tch. You poor fool.”

Polites blinked. “So...he didn’t make them?”

You turned toward him. “Wha—no! Did he tell you that? That he made these?!”

“Well…yeah?” he said, a little hesitant now. “Whenever he gets drunk he'd go into a whole bragging spill about how he made them for you and Penelope years ago. As a sign of devotion and bond or along those lines.”

Your expression turned flat. Offended. As if he’d just backhanded you with a hand covered in rings. “That man,” you muttered, voice low and deadly, “is rewriting history behind our backs.”

You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply through your nose while raising a single finger.

“That is a lie I will gladly unravel when I get back to Ithaca. Preferably with witnesses.” you say calmy despite the twitching of your eye.

Then, like a switch flipped, you clap your hands together and turn back to Polites, smile more strained. “Alright. Here’s the real, non-Odysseus-edited truth: Penelope made these herself. Long before he ever decided we were worth acknowledging.”

You let the truth spill out now, your voice steady but far away as though peeling back old parchment to reveal the ink beneath.

“You know the famous tale of Odysseus killing Athena’s boar?” you asked.

Polites nodded. “Yeah he told me about that. You were there right? Disguised as a boy. Some Nobody who saved his life?”

“Right. The same Nobody that had also set traps—and not just any traps,” you said proudly. “Good ones. Smart ones. Ones that even caught the Erymanthian boar itself.”

That made Polites pause. “No way?!” Awe washes over him as he leaned closer in disbelief. “You’re telling me your trap actually caught the boar? I thought Odysseus said they only brought close calls.”

You snort. “That man wouldn’t know humility if Athena spat it into his face. But yes I caught it. The same night when I’d already made up my mind to run away and disappear, it was snarling in my snare.”

“Wait. But if you caught it,” Polites' smile slowly fades the moment the thought hits him. “Why didn’t you kill it?”

And just like that, your momentum halts. The excitement that was heating within your veins cools.

You stare down at your hands—open-palmed in your lap, fingers twitching faintly like they want to fidget but don’t know how to.

“Because...” The weight of the memory presses down like wet wool over your shoulders. “Because that night, sitting by the fire, I realized what it would mean.”

You didn’t look at him as you spoke. Your eyes stayed on the patterns of your ink-stained palms, on the quiet movement of your breath.

“If I killed that boar I would've been named. Recognized as one of Athena’s chosen warriors. Have the right to break from Sparta’s chains, to walk away from all of it. I would’ve been free.”

You exhale a shaky breath.

“But with freedom? That also leaving Penelope.”

Your eyes flicker up to him. “I couldn’t leave her.” You don’t even try to soften it. “Call it paranoia, call it dedication—maybe it’s both. But I refused to leave her with him.”

You didn’t need to say his name. You didn’t have to. The moment your voice dipped and took on that sharp bitter edge, Polites knew.

Icarius.

“I was all she had,” you whisper. “And even if I didn’t have the strength to stop him—even if I still don’t—I had to be there. To stall him. To shield her however I could. Because if I vanished for some new life and title...he would’ve destroyed her.”

You shake your head. “She needed me more than I needed glory.”

Polites said nothing, but his eyes never left you, and in them you saw no pity—only respect and solidarity.

You let out a short humorless laugh in attempt to lighten the mood. “So yeah. That was my dilemma: went for a walk to clear my mind, found the Erymanthian boar caught clean in my trap with a spear in hand...only to let it go. My grand act of cowardice or love—whichever way you want to name it—was for her. For Penelope.”

You smiled then, a bit twisted at the corners. “And weirdly enough for Odysseus too.”

Polites blinked, thrown slightly. “For Odysseus?”

You nod. “He was...frustrating. And endlessly arrogant. But he grew on me after a while in that irritating, you’re mine to protect even when I hate you kind of way. Which is why I left my bracelet with him before disappearing. Maybe a small selfish part of me wanted to make sure he’d remember me.”

You flick your hand as if brushing the sentiment off. “Anyways! Years passed yada yada. Decided to let him keep it since he's a big softie n all despite the bravado.” you say dryly, trying to chase away the quiet. “And then...”

“The big day,” Polites finished.

You agree solemnly. “When we left for war.” Your voice had weakened at this point—melancholy tucked into the crevices. “That's when he gave it back.”

You lift your wrist, the braided leather catching the lowlight. “Pressed it into my palm and said it was a promise. A vow to return alive.”

Polites was quiet for a second, then abruptly began patting himself down in search causing you to look at him. “Uh....what are you doing?”

He flashes you a sheepish smile, still rummaging. “Hold on—one second—I swear I didn’t misplace it—ah! There.”

From his waist he pulls out a small faded pouch. He looks almost shy as he cradles it like a relic. “I brought this with me. Same reason you as your bracelet actually.”

Before you can voice any more confusion, he unties the knotted strings and tilts the pouch allowing something round to spill into his hand.

A single coin.

“This....” Polites holds the copper and silver metal between two fingers delicately like it was made of glass. “is my family’s coin.”

His tone took on a more wistful one, the glow of the nearby Lotus lantern reflecting off his glasses as his features softened completely.

“It’s tradition where I’m from at Kefalonia,” he went on, glancing at you as if to check if you were still listening. “when someone in our family leaves the island, we take a coin from the family’s vase. And so, when we return home, we drop it back.”

His amber colored eyes become distant as he rolled the coin between his fingers with a small smile. “Simple I know. But it’s supposed to be good luck...our own a way of saying, I’ll return. That no matter how far you go, there’s somewhere you belong. Something to come back to.”

It was as at this moment the armor of a soldier had fallen away, and all that remained was the man beneath.

Polites looked down at the coin in his hand again.

“I’ve done it for every voyage. Even Odysseus joined me once—stopped by after one of our journeys and helped me drop a coin in. He joked that I had more faith in getting home than he ever did.” Polites chuckled faintly. “But this coin? I've had since I was twenty-four, never got the chance to do another drop-off...”

You caught the way his smile lingered—but didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was a weight behind the words that you recognized it immediately.

A man who missed his people but wasn’t sure he’d see them again.

“So,” You leaned forward, hoping to nudge the mood somewhere brighter. “what’s your family like?”

That got him. His eyes flicked up in surprise, a little caught off guard by the question. But he didn’t hesitate for long.

He suddenly smiled—really smiled—for the first time in minutes.

“My father’s name is Thersandros. He’s a fisherman—well more like a boatmaster now. Big arms, wild beard, and a voice like crashing waves. Never needed to raise it twice. He gets mad easy, but he’s the first to help fix things when they break.”

You found yourself smiling too. The kind of smile that came easy when someone spoke of people they loved.

“And my mother Eirene,” he continued, “she keeps the family together and functioning. Peaceful...patient like a temple bell. But Gods help you if you try to lie to her—she’ll see through it before the words even leave your mouth.”

He chuckled. “She used to correct our mistakes before we made them. Scary stuff.”

“And your siblings?” you asked, intrigued.

“Oh Gods. Okay, here we go,” he said, moving slightly to face you more. “Leandros is the oldest—my first brother. Classic eldest child syndrome. Warrior. Seafarer. Has a scar on his shoulder from a boar and brags about it like it was from a hydra. Probably married by now. Hopefully to someone with patience.”

You snorted which encouraged him to keep going.

“Nikostratos—second brother. Quiet. Brilliant. Could calculate the tides better than the fishermen and write speeches for the elders. I wanted to be like him once. Still kinda do.”

He paused, eyes glinting with warmth.

“Timon’s the youngest of us boys. Big eyes, bigger dreams. Wanted to trap a siren when he was twelve. Thought singing louder would cancel her out.” He laughed. “Almost drowned.”

You let out a laugh too. “Was he alright?”

“Oh yeah. But soaked to the bone and grounded for a moon’s cycle.”

He looked down at the coin again.

“As for my sisters...” His voice got softer, more reverent. “Chloris is the herbalist—knows every plant on the island better than most temple healers. Kallianeira’s a fighter—used to wrestle the boys while hunting in the woods barefoot. Even broke her nose once and laughed about it. Probably snuck into the militia by now. And Thaleia...she was still little when I left. Probably has her own ideas of the world by now.”

There was so much affection in his voice it almost made you want to cry. “They sound wonderful.”

Polites smile widened at your words. “They are when you meet them,” he brokenly says after a beat of silence, barely above a whisper.

“And yes we're not perfect: my father can be a little hot-headed, and my brother Leandros never learned how to apologize. Nikostratos shuts down when he’s overwhelmed. Even my sisters argue like Athena and Ares trapped in a tent. But...they love. They forgive. We come back to each other. Always.”

You watch the way he becomes unfocused—how the image of his family lived so vividly behind his eyes he could probably smell the sea breeze off Kefalonia if he just sat still long enough.

“Of course they’re not perfect,” you finally say, “None of us are. That’s the whole point of being mortal; we mess up. We argue. We heal.”

You met his gaze head-on. “Plus, I don’t need to meet your family to know they’re wonderful,” you added gently. “You're all the proof I need to know.”

Polites eyes go wide. Wide in a way you’ve never seen before. As if those words landed deeper than you meant them to.

Careful not to break the spell, you reach over and take the coin from his palm. It’s cool to the touch and heavier than you expected.

But it wasn’t the metal that made your chest tighten—it was the engraved names etched along its sides. Tiny and carefully marked, each one hand-carved; Thersandros... Eirene... Leandros... Nikostratos... Polites... Timon.... Chloris... Kallianeira.... Thaleia.

You tenderly trace a thumb along its edge, worn down edges years of being carried. “You even carried them here,” you murmured, smiling faintly. “No wonder you’re still standing.”

Your fingers brushed against his as you gently pressed the coin back.

Polites didn’t move. Not at first.

It was like his brain was still buffering from the warmth of your touch and words as he continued to stare down at the coin like it had turned to gold.

Almost as if muscle memory was trying to save him from a full-on malfunction—he fumbled the coin back into the pouch, fingers trembling slightly as he retied the string with less grace than usual.

“....T-thank you,” he managed, voice crackling just a little.

He didn’t meet your eyes.

Didn’t dare to.

He’d been in wars, had faced monsters and Kings, Gods and sirens...and yet he couldn’t remember a single moment where breathing had felt harder than this one.

Then Polites realized: he couldn’t let this go unsaid.

He had to say something now. Not later. Not in another war camp or another ship deck or another silent night where things stayed buried between long glances and what ifs.

'Don’t be a coward' he told himself, internally grabbing the part of him that always hesitated, always second-guessed. 'Don’t let this pass.'

He inhaled deep—deeper than he meant to—and turned to you. The look on his face must have been...odd. Because you squinted and tilted your head slightly in concern.

“Polites? Are you...are you oka—?”

“I-I didn’t get the chance to say this earlier,” he blurts too fast. “I mean—what I wanted to say was you...you look really beautiful tonight.”

Your brain stalls. And so does his mouth.

“I mean—not that you don’t every night! Or every day! You do! You’re—uh always...you’ve always been—” His words trip over each other like startled deer. “I just meant that tonight—especially tonight, not just because of the thing with the outfit. N-not that you need the outfit to look good! Gods that’s not what I meant—”

You just stare at him stunned. Not because he’s speaking. But because of what he’s trying to say—and how terribly he’s failing to say it.

A small laugh bubbles up your throat. It’s not mocking. If anything it’s soft, like a breeze cracking through the tension in the hut.

It makes Polites pause mid-ramble as his eyes found yours again. There was something quiet and open in your gaze. Vulnerable in a way that made your voice gentler than usual as a smile appears, “...Thank you.”

But the smile doesn’t last.

Not fully.

Because the warmth of his compliment lingers awkwardly on your skin. What should feel lovely instead leaves you feeling...raw.

You looked down at your body—at the soft shimmer of ink across your arms.

The Lotus leaves draped over your body suddenly felt like they weren’t covering enough. Like they were framing every detail you’d rather not have seen.

You clear your throat.

“It’s kind of weird,” you speak more to the air than to him. “Wearing this I mean. It just feels...off. Every scar, every bruise that never faded. It’s like they want people to see all the things I’ve tried to hide,” You pause. The breath behind your next words curls bitter in your throat. “It doesn’t—”

“Don’t do that,” Polites cuts in. His voice is different. Not loud, but firm. Serious even.

You look at him startled.

He wasn’t smiling.

The usual endearing warmth he carried like a second layer was gone. And in its place was something cold and sharp-edged.

“Don’t ever say that about yourself again,” he mutter lowly. “You hear me?”

You didn’t respond.

“To talk about yourself as if any of it’s shameful.” His voice trembles from the effort it takes to hold the words steady. “You are beautiful. Everything about you is: your scars... your strength... your voice.... your hands. All of it. If only you could just see yourself the way I do...”

And that was it.

That was the breaking point.

Your breath catch as tears stung at the corners of your eyes, blurring the golden fruit-lights above as something inside you breaks.

“I never will.” You admit, the tremor catching hard in your throat. “I’ll never see myself the way you do. Because when I look at myself? I don’t see anything beautiful.”

The words coming faster now, pushed forward by years of insecurity you hadn’t let yourself feel.

“My skin is covered in scars,” you continued distantly and hollow. “Some shallow, some deep. My arms and thighs are thick from training—not from music or weaving.”

You pressed a hand against your chest as if it could keep from unraveling.

“I’ve climbed a mast in full armor with a sword on my back. Broke a man’s jaw by elbow without even flinching during drills. Do you know what people see when they look at me?”

Polites didn’t interrupt. He couldn’t. His throat had gone tight.

“They don’t see a woman,” You shook your head, a quiet, near-mocking laugh escaping you. “Not the kind Greece worships at least.”

You inhale sharply, fists clenching.

“And you know what scared me the most? What really sunk in?” Your eyes flicked to him. “When we first arrived here and Kayphele thought you were her Fruit-bound...I was terrified. Because if you’d just so happen to taken a glance at her and something had sparked—any little thing...it would’ve meant you’d never look at me again.”

Polites’ brow furrowed. “Kalyphele? Fruit-bound??” he mutters, baffled.

You don’t indulge. You’re too far gone now.

“I’m not Helen of Troy,” you snapped brittly. “I don’t have that kind of beauty. The kind that makes men lose their minds just by breathing in the same room. I’m not even Penelope—who’s got the face, the fire, and loyalty of a Goddess. I’m just...”

You curled into yourself a little more; arms wrapping tight around your drawn up knees.

Polites said nothing. Every sentence you say is a dagger he can’t stop.

His hand hovers to reach you—to pull you into his arms. But he stops just shy. Not because he doesn’t want to. Because he doesn’t know if you want to.

“The saddest part of it all?” you whisper. “There was a time where I almost believed I was beautiful.”

The confession fell into the air like a shard of glass.

“Warriors kneeled to me. Fighters. The best of them I caught their eyes—Achilles, Patroclus, Diomedes, even Odysseus. And for a moment I thought maybe...maybe it was real.”

You exhaled hard, shaking your head.

“But I never knew if they wanted me. Or if they just wanted the idea of me. The strength. The novelty. A challenge.” Your lips twitch downward. “And after the fall...after I fell from that balcony...”

Shame pooled in your stomach at this point.

“I figured whatever allure or mystery I once had—whatever little curiosity I inspired—was gone. Burned out, leaving the only thing Agamemnon said to remain. A beast.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

It was aching...charged. As if the very air didn’t know how to hold what you’d just said.

"You know..." Polites began to speak, his tone thoughtful but warm in a way one might speak to a skittish animal or a hurting child, "it’s funny how often we underestimate ourselves—mortal or divine."

You slowly turn your head to him. He hasn’t moved much; his hands rest in his lap, the pads of his thumbs brushing each other like he’s grounding himself.

He continues, “Even Aphrodite—the Goddess of love and beauty itself—once questioned if she was enough. Imagine that. The woman who makes men and Gods alike lose Kingdoms for a glance...and still she doubted.”

You glance up instinctively, drawn to the sound of his voice—only to find his gaze already on you.

His eyes—amber softened by something far older than admiration—holds you in a way that makes your chest tighten.

There’s something in them that’s impossible to name.

It’s not pity. It’s not simple affection either. No, it’s the same look Achilles used to give you.

Polites shifts slightly, drawing in a breath like he’s about to recite scripture. And in a way he does.

“When I look at you," his voice deepens as he continues, growing steadier with every word, "I see more than what you think is left of you. I see your intelligence—sharp, calculating, endlessly observant. I see your strength—not just the kind that roars, but the kind that carries. In how you tend to Astyanax like the last heartbeat of a world that once was...and somehow make it feel like hope again.”

His eyes drop and he gives a small, almost embarrassed smile. "Your smile when you’re concentrating...when you’re strategizing like you’re trying to outwit Fate itself. It’s...it’s all of that. Everything that makes you you. And Gods help me, it makes me angry sometimes. Angry that you can’t see any of it."

He stares down at his hands then, twisting them slightly in his lap as if wrestling with guilt.

"Angry that you think so little of yourself. And maybe...maybe part of that’s my fault. Maybe I should’ve spoken sooner. There were so many times I wanted to—could’ve said something. Should have. From the moment I first saw you holding Telemachus, cradling him like he was your own. I remember thinking, There it is. There’s my heart."

His gaze finds yours again, glassy now. Honest. Raw.

“You had it before I even knew what I was giving. That I’d already fallen in love with you.”

Your breath halts.

“In...love?” is all you manage, barely audible. You knew that he admired you—liked you perhaps. But not this. Not this depth.

Polites doesn’t flinch. He only smiles.

“I thought I wasn’t good enough. I sold myself short just like you do now. And by the time I worked up the nerve and courage to tell you...Achilles and Patroclus had already done what I should’ve. Spoken, acted, seen you. They stepped forward when I hesitated."

He shakes his head with a bittersweet smile playing at his lips. "And yet a part of me is glad. Because during those years—of fighting, of almost dying—it taught me something. That I shouldn’t wait anymore. That love should never be held back behind walls of fear."

He leans forward, and for once, there is no hesitation.

“You are everything that is divine wrapped in the flesh of a mortal. Any God or Goddess—man or woman or any soul between—would be lucky to receive even a sliver of your affection. Your love is a blessing. A fire. A home."

The words should have embarrassed him. You see the flicker of it in the way his shoulders curl inward, in the small sheepish tilt of his smile beneath your intense stare.

“And I know,” he adds quickly, “I know you might not feel the same. Not after what you’ve shared with Odysseus and Penelope, or the bond you had with Achilles and Patroclus—that epic, immortal kind of love. I understand if there’s no place left for me in that heart of yours but—"

You don’t let him finish his sentence.

There is no conscious decision, no calculation—just instinct. You close the distance between you so fast it steals the breath from both your lungs.

Your hands cup his face with a desperation that feels almost feral as your lips met his.

It’s a kiss that held all the force of everything left unsaid. Everything long buried. Everything you once thought dead.

His glasses bump your nose and his breath stutters as he’s kissing you back—just as hard, just as fiercely. There’s no grace in it...no caution.

Just heat. Just hunger.

But just as it began it breaks.

You pull back, gasping as if surfacing from beneath water. You don’t even get a full glimpse of his face—your eyes are still half-closed, lips parted—before he’s on you again.

Polites surges forward, the motion almost reckless for someone so careful.

One hand finding the nape of your neck, his fingers thread through your hair with practiced precision, the other wrapping tight around your waist, yanking you flush against his chest with a fire that surprises you.

The moss-softened sheets are disrupted beneath you both. They tangle, shift, slide. But you don’t care. The way he kisses you is consuming—like he’s been starved.

It takes a few minutes before oxygen (or lack thereof) forces you to tear away.

Your chest heaves, lips tingling with the kiss’ aftermath, your entire body thrumming like a struck chord.

Polites chases your mouth for a second longer, stopping only when you press a firm hand to his chest. He leans back slightly, pupils blown wide with want.

A deep flush spreads across his cheekbones; his glasses askew and fogged at the edges, his lips red and swollen from where your teeth might have grazed him.

He looks dazed, stunned—but happy. There’s a glint in his amber eyes like sunlight caught in honey.

You lean back just enough to tease, trying to bring levity to the thundering pulse in your ears. “You’ve...been holding that in for a while huh?”

His gaze darts to your lips, then to your eyes, and back again—like he’s not sure where to rest. He’s still panting, chest rising with each breath.

“Every single day,” he murmurs as if the truth had always been waiting on his tongue. 

Your smile twists into something sly, almost wicked, emboldened by the honesty in his voice.

“Well,” your lips graze his as you speak, “let’s not waste another second of it.”

He lets out a half-chuckle, shaking his head like he can’t believe this is real—but he doesn’t protest. His head dips, curls brushing your forehead as he kisses you once more.

The kiss is slower now—measured. The fever is still there, simmering under the surface, but it’s wrapped in something softer. Something more dangerous.

Devotion.

Your back finds the bed again, its softness welcoming your weight into its hold. He follows you down, hovering just above, hands braced on either side of your shoulders.

Polites' kisses trail from your lips to the curve of your jaw, lingering at your pulse as one of his hands slides carefully down the line of your waist, mapping the shape of you as if committing it to memory.

He pauses at your hip, thumb grazing the sensitive space there before moving further down to the slope of your thigh. And then, with the ease of someone long imagining this, he lifts one of your legs and wraps it around his waist.

Your breath catches, heart stammering in your chest.

Between kisses you fumble to undo the intricate weave of leaves and vines that make up the ceremonial wrap binding your chest. It's beautiful yes—but a nightmare to remove.

The vines began to snag and twist, your arms getting tangled in your haste causing you to let out a hiss of frustration.

“Fucking...damn it! These stupid vines—who even designed this?!” you growl, half to yourself but loud enough that Polites hears.

He pulls back just enough to see you struggling, blinking through his disheveled hair before laughing. It’s rich and warm, the kind of sound that cuts through tension.

You snap your head up flustered. “You think this is funny? This stupid outfit is a trap!”

There’s no anger in your voice. Only embarrassment—real and endearing.

“Maybe so.” Polites speaks up in-between soft laughs, “But if it’s a trap, it’s the most beautiful one I’ve ever fallen into.”

You glare; half flustered, half smitten. With your arms now freed from the cursed greenery, you give up and let the wrap stay on. “Forget it. It can stay. Not like I need to be completely undressed.”

Polites leans back down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I don’t mind being sorta dressed for our first time,” he says softly. “We’ve waited long enough. Besides, when we’re back in Ithaca...there’ll be time. So many times.”

That promise alone nearly undoes you.

You nod and he kisses you again. Nothing else matters—only the two of you, lost beneath the weight of long-kept feelings and new beginnings.