╰┈➤𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ━━ ❝You've always been my little muse.❞
𝗜𝗡 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛- you're the object of many powerful men desires; from gods to warriors...they all want 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ 🇵🇴🇸🇹-ᴇᴘɪᴄ: ᴛᴍ!ᴀᴜ ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙
[𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤/𝐟𝐢𝐜...
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━ ⭒─⭑━
The walk through the halls of the palace felt longer than usual as you carried a water basin carefully in your hands while a fresh cloth hung over your arm.
The distant hum of the festival still echoed through the stone corridors, but it felt muffled here—removed. As if the rest of the world was still celebrating, and you had stepped into some liminal space where time moved slower.
Your thoughts were tangled, frayed at the edges.
Telemachus—his voice, the way he had looked at you when he offered his favor, the way your heart had betrayed you by answering before your mind could stop it.
And then her.
Andreia, standing poised and expectant, only for everything she anticipated to be pulled out from under her. And yet, instead of rage, instead of anything you might have expected, she had smiled. A calculated thing. A promise of something still to come.
You exhaled, shaking the thoughts from your head as you stopped in front of Telemachus' door.
For a moment, you simply stood there.
The flickering torchlight along the hall cast long shadows, making the wooden frame of his door seem taller, heavier. You hesitated—just briefly—before you finally raised your knuckles and knocked.
Light spilling from the windows along the hall caste long shadows, making the wooden frame of his door seem taller, heavier. You hesitated—just briefly—before you finally raised your knuckles and knocked.
A pause. Then, his voice—rough, hoarse from exhaustion, but unmistakably him.
"Come in."
Taking a steadying breath, you pushed the door open and stepped inside.
And there he was.
The scent of oil and earth still clung to the room, a lingering reminder of the battle he had fought. The golden light of an oil lamp flickered against the stone walls, its glow casting elongated shadows over the space.
Telemachus sat on the edge of his bed, his posture relaxed but still carrying the tautness of a body that hadn't yet let go of the fight. He was half-dressed, his torso bare save for the remnants of dirt and sweat smeared across his skin. Fresh bruises bloomed along his ribs, the deep purple and blue hues stark against the golden-brown of his complexion.
Your breath caught in your throat.
His chest rose and fell steadily, the faint sheen of oil from earlier still catching the dim light. The ridges of his abdomen flexed subtly as he moved, his broad shoulders rolling back slightly as he stretched out the soreness in his muscles. A loosely wrapped cloth was secured low at his waist, draped haphazardly over his hips in a way that felt far more distracting than it should have.
