╰┈➤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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━ ⭒─⭑━
The next morning broke cold and breathless.
Dawn had only just peeled itself across the cliffs, painting streaks of pink and dull gold over the stone walls of Ithaca.
The world was still quiet—no birdsong yet, no clatter from the kitchens, no bustle of servants or chatter from the suitors. Only the wind moved, brushing gently through the olive trees lining the edge of the upper yard.
And you were already sweating through your tunic.
Your arms ached from holding the blade. Not the wooden practice sword this time, but something slimmer—sharper. A dagger. Twin to another one Diomedes now held lazily in his right hand.
He hadn't spoken much at first. Just handed it to you and gestured you into the dirt again, as if today was no different.
But it was.
You could feel it in the air, in the way the blade sat heavier in your palm. Shorter, faster, easier to lose—but harder to be seen.
Diomedes circled slowly around you now, his own dagger glinting as he twirled it between thick fingers.
"Knives aren't swords," he said, voice low. "You don't swing them like you're leading an army. They're not for battles."
You adjusted your grip, brow furrowed. "Then what are they for?"
He paused just behind you, then stepped in—his hands brushing your sides, firm but not unkind, adjusting your elbows inward.
"They're for what happens after the battle," he said. "For when the fight's already gone quiet, and something's still breathing too close."
You swallowed thickly.
He didn't let the silence stretch long. He stepped back again, pacing slowly. "Hide it here," he instructed, tapping his chest. "Here." His hip. "Here." The base of your back.
You mirrored him, testing each draw, the dagger flipping awkwardly in your hand at first, grazing too high when you went for the shoulder strap.
"Sloppy," he said.
"I'm trying."
"Try less," he replied. "React more. Your size is a gift, little blade. You're small. You're fast. Most of the men you'll face swing like hammers. But hammers don't matter if they can't catch you."
You inhaled, steadying your stance.
Then he lunged.
You weren't ready—never were, not for his speed. But your feet moved before your thoughts could stop them, and you ducked beneath his first strike, the whistle of his blade slicing air just above your shoulder.
