╰┈➤𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ━━ ❝I envy those ignorant to the way Gods toy with us.❞
𝗜𝗡 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛- you're the object of many powerful men desires; from gods to warriors...they all want 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ ᴇᴘɪᴄ: ᴛᴍ!ᴀᴜ ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙
[𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤/𝐟�...
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━ ⭒─⭑━
The sunlight glinted sharply off the polished blades of swords as Telemachus lunged forward, the force of his strike meeting resistance with a resounding clang.
His opponent, a burly soldier nearly twice his size, grunted as he barely parried the blow, sweat dripping down his temple as he staggered back a step.
Telemachus pressed his advantage. His footwork was nimble, each step calculated as he maneuvered around his sparring partner.
His strikes were quick and precise, the edge of his training sword catching the soldier's wrist just enough to disarm him. The sword clattered to the ground, and Telemachus' blade was at his opponent's throat before the man could recover.
"Yield!" the soldier barked, panting heavily. His voice carried more respect than irritation, his lips twitching into a grin despite the loss.
Telemachus stepped back immediately, lowering his sword as he extended a hand to his partner. His breathing was steady, his posture relaxed as though the exertion had barely affected him. "Good match," he said, his tone even, though a hint of pride flickered in his eyes.
The soldier clasped his hand, letting Telemachus help him to his feet. He laughed breathlessly, wiping his brow with the back of his arm. "Good? That was brutal. You've got a knack for making a man feel old, my prince."
Telemachus chuckled softly, his grip firm but friendly. "I'd say it's time you found younger opponents," he replied, a teasing edge to his words as he gestured toward the training grounds.
The soldier rolled his shoulders, muttering something about needing a stiff drink before wandering off.
Telemachus watched him go before letting out a quiet sigh. His muscles ached pleasantly from the workout, but the tension in his shoulders refused to ease completely.
He stretched his arms over his head, the motion slow and deliberate as he felt the pull in his muscles, a satisfying ache spreading through his shoulders and back. His neck rolled to one side, then the other, each movement coaxing out a faint crack that echoed faintly in his ears.
The soreness in his arms and legs was a familiar companion—the kind of exhaustion that came with a well-fought spar, leaving his body heavy yet energized.
Sweat dripped steadily down his temple, trailing along his jaw before dropping onto the dirt below. His palm brushed over the back of his neck, finding it damp and slick as the heat of the midday sun clung stubbornly to him.
The training grounds buzzed with life around him—a chaotic symphony of metal on metal and barked commands. Soldiers clashed with wooden and steel swords, their grunts of effort punctuating the sharp clang of blades.
