╰┈➤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 moment you turned the corner—just barely out of sight—your bravado cracked. Fast. Hard.
Your breath stuttered, chest rising too quick. The anger, the adrenaline that had fueled you only seconds ago drained like a punctured flask. And in its place—
Panic.
Real panic.
Gods, what had you just learned?
Andreia—Andreia—plotting to take Penelope's place? To slither into Odysseus' bed, into the Queen's seat, into a crown she had no right to even glance at? It didn't make sense. It couldn't.
You clutched at your chest as you stumbled forward, mind spinning too fast to catch a single clear thought. How? How did it get this far? How come you didn't see it? How did anyone not see it? Had she really been playing everyone like this, right under their noses?
Your head spun. You nearly missed a step, palm dragging against the cool marble as if grounding yourself against the weight of it.
And gods—her audacity.
The way she said it, like it was nothing. Like she deserved it.
You shook your head hard, trying to steady your pulse. You couldn't afford to fall apart. Not now.
Telemachus.
The name pushed through your chest like a breath of air.
He would know what to do. He had to. If anyone could see through this—if anyone could help stop her—it was him. You almost cursed yourself for not thinking of him sooner.
You whispered, breathless under your breath, "Telemachus... I need to find you."
You didn't waste another second.
Pushing off the wall, you forced your legs forward, faster, your sandals slapping lightly against the stone as you hurried through the corridors, weaving past tapestries and flickering torches. Your heart knocked with each turn, hoping you wouldn't run into anyone else—not now, not before you could reach him.
The thought of his quarters was a tether. A beacon.
You needed him.
And for once—it wasn't because you were scared of gods or prophecy.
You were scared of what mortals were capable of.
As you walked, your mind couldn't help but circle back—again and again—to Andreia's words. The way she had sneered Telemachus' name like it was something weak. Small. Like he was nothing but a shadow of his father.
