𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ᵉ*ᵗᵐ

28 ┃ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧

━ ⭑─⭒━

━ ⭒─⭑━

"Then let the final trial... begin!"

The moment the words left the announcer's lips, Telemachus and Sthenelos began circling one another.

Their eyes locked, reading each other in silence. Sthenelos' lips curled into a smirk, the confidence in his stance unmistakable. His thick arms flexed, his broad chest rising and falling with steady, measured breaths.

He radiated certainty, the kind that came from years of fighting—real fighting, the kind that left bruises that never fully faded, the kind that made men like him sure they would win.

Telemachus, on the other hand, remained steady, his face unreadable. He offered no smirk, no taunt—just a firm, slow nod. His stance was relaxed, but his muscles were coiled, ready. He wasn't naive enough to think brute force would win this.

If he was going to take down a man like Sthenelos, he had to outthink him.

Sthenelos, watching him carefully, let out a rough chuckle. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and hoarse—gravelly with an edge of aggression, far different from the relaxed or refined tones of Callias or Andreia.

"Ithacans are thinkers, not warriors." His smirk widened as he rolled his shoulders back, cracking his knuckles. "You'd do better in a library than in this ring, pretty boy."

Telemachus didn't flinch, though the words ignited something deep within him. It was always the same, wasn't it? Ithaca's strength was always underestimated. Because they were clever. Because they relied on more than sheer muscle. Because they valued skill over reckless violence.

Let him think that.

Let him think Telemachus was just another prince, an Athena-blessed scholar with no real bite.

It would make his fall all the more satisfying.

Before Telemachus could even fully exhale, Sthenelos lunged.

It was like being hit by a charging bull.

The sheer force of the Brontean's body colliding with his sent Telemachus stumbling back, his feet skidding against the dirt. He barely had time to brace before a fist came swinging toward his ribs. Instinct took over—he twisted, narrowly avoiding the brunt of the hit, though he still felt the wind from it rush past his skin.

Sthenelos didn't slow. He pressed forward relentlessly, throwing heavy, deliberate strikes meant to batter and exhaust. Telemachus ducked, dodged, twisting his body just out of reach each time. His agility was his best weapon—he couldn't meet brute strength with brute strength, not against this kind of opponent.