╰┈➤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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
━ ⭒─⭑━
A month passed.
Quietly. Quickly.
And everything changed.
Your training with Diomedes became part of your routine—not that anyone could know. At least, not officially.
Callias and the others made sure of that.
He was the first to offer help, of course—loudly, dramatically, and with far more enthusiasm than you asked for. But then Asta caught on. Then Kieran. Then Lysandra. And before you knew it, they had a whole system in place.
A diversion here. A fake schedule there. Half-truths for the castle staff, timed walks to pull attention elsewhere. On the days you had bruises blooming under your sleeves, Asta would lend you a scarf. On the mornings you were late returning, Kieran would swear you'd been with the queen.
Sometimes, when they had nothing better to do, Callias and Asta would even come to watch—perched on the fence like smug little vultures, offering unhelpful commentary while you dodged a wooden blade to the ribs.
"Go left!" Asta would yell, snacking on an apple.
"That was her left," Callias would mutter, squinting. "I think."
Diomedes, to no one's surprise, was not amused by the peanut gallery.
He'd made you try everything—polearms, longswords, archery. You even trained with a shield for one frustrating week, nearly dislocating your shoulder in the process. But none of them felt right.
Too slow. Too heavy. Too not you.
Then came the daggers.
Smaller. Lighter. Close-range. They didn't rely on brute strength—just speed, balance, and precision. Diomedes didn't say much when he handed them to you, but his brow lifted slightly after your first practice bout.
You didn't win, of course. Not even close.
But you didn't drop them either.
You held your ground. You moved better. Sharper. Quicker.
Like they'd always been meant for your hands.
Since then, he hadn't taken them away.
You still trained every other day—early, always early. Before the soldiers hit the yard. Before the palace stirred. Diomedes made you run laps in full armor. Practice until your hands blistered. He said little. Corrected often. Praised rarely.
