╰┈➤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 ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙
📖A mythic slow-burn, spiralin...
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━ ⭒─⭑━
Your boots tapped lightly over the cobbled path, each step familiar now. It didn't take long to retrace your way back. Everything on the island was walking distance—tight and crooked, half-stacked atop itself like someone had built the town out of clay and too many dreams.
The streets curved more than they straightened, each one layered with flowerpots, drying laundry, and the smell of old lemon soap or frying oil depending on which bend you took.
You turned a corner near the old olive press—just past the rusted bell where some child had tied a ribbon to the clapper—and that's when you saw her.
Eione.
Standing in the middle of the street like she'd been waiting there all along.
You stopped. Full stop. No breath, no blink. Just... stopped.
The moon hung low behind her—thin, curled like a hook, but bright. It casted her in a soft glow, wrapping her white shawl in silver, turning her hair to seafoam light. She didn't look surprised. She didn't look lost. She just stood there, calm as tidewater, as if she belonged to this hour.
Your throat bobbed. "...Eione?"
She smiled at the sound of her name. Soft. Almost warm. "I heard you've been looking for me."
Your breath hitched. "I—" You stuttered, words falling out clumsily. "I mean—yes. Kind of. I wasn't sure—didn't know if you'd still be here."
She took a few slow steps forward, her sandals barely making a sound on the stone. "Then I suppose I ought to answer, don't you think?"
You blinked. Confused. "Answer?"
"It's only right," she said simply. "You asked. The sea heard. The stars watched. So I came."
You stared at her, heart tripping. "I... don't understand," you finally whispered. "What do you mean?"
Eione tilted her head, the moonlight flickering in her eyes. "I'm a devotee of Apollo," she said. "Blessed with vision. Some say seer, others say nuisance. I say I serve."
Your pulse skipped.
"You serve him," you repeated, slow. "You serve Apollo."
"I do," she nodded. "And you... are his favorite."
The word hit harder than expected. Not boastful. Not even complimentary. Just... factual. Weighted.
You opened your mouth, closed it again. Your fingers curled lightly at your sides. "That's—" You huffed out something between a laugh and a breath. "That's kind of a lot, isn't it?"
