Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was evening, the first time I recalled willingly separating from his side. It was a choice I rarely made, convinced we’d be joined at the hip until Chiron set us on different tasks, a futile attempt to get Achilles accustomed to such an absence. 

This night, I had not been commanded to leave him, nor persuaded to, but a choice all on my own, compelled by something I had not yet noticed. 

The reaction from him came quickly, despite being surrounded in the dining hall, “You are not suddenly ill?” 

He would always reason there would have to be a fault in place for my absence, always a logic he couldn’t place. 

My smile came to reassure him, “No, I am not; sit and eat, I will be back before you leave for rest.” 

Unconvinced, as surely there had to be a reason, he pressed further, “Who has called you? What do they want?” 

I thought his questions were silly at the time, because who would call me away from his side except our mentor, and surely I would have told him so if that were the case. 

“No one has called me. I am going to the garden,” I told him. There, a place he may find me if he so chooses. 

But he was still not satisfied. 

“Alone?” And his voice rings a little more, a little unsure in a way hidden by all else who did not know where it sat in his tone. 

“Am I to have an escort?” I teased. 

“You could have company,” he retorted, always sharp when I attempted to prod his softer spots. 

“I always have company,” I reply just as quickly. “You’ll forgive me for a moment’s break of it before I simply wither from too much time in the sun.” 

The sun, a metaphor so often overused, but so precisely what he was. 

No, I would deeply care to wither from him before ever parting, but still, I did not yet know why I felt like going by myself. And yet I must have. 

He clicks his tongue as if greatly offended, if only the way a child could be. He still was in some eyes, as we had only crested sixteen not three months before now. But though he is a man, there are parts always a boy to me, the parts I find especially important to preserve. 

“Away with you,” he says, and even as he says it, he can’t take his eyes away from me. 

“Away I go,” I reply, chortling from his facade. 

I take steps and so do his eyes, and I swear if I had not asked to be alone, he would have flown from that table to not break sight of me. 

Achilles, ever tied to my attention, I did not miss the way he waited to be called after, as if I would change my mind, and likewise, he did not miss the way I looked back for him like I wish I could. 

~I~

The night was moonless, the sea black as oil. I could hear it breathing far below the cliffs, a slow and patient pull, as if the world itself was waiting for something.

I had risen from the feast without knowing why, my feet finding the path that wound through the olive trees and down toward the headland. The air tasted of iron and rosemary.

She was waiting where the land met the sky — a woman with three shadows and a torch in each hand. None of the flames burned the same; one was white, one gold, one the deep bruised violet of stormlight. Her eyes were the same colors, shifting with each glance.

"Patroclus."

She spoke my name as if she had been using it for centuries, though I could no longer tell if my actions were my own, or if I had slipped into some dream.

I could not kneel, though I thought I should. There was no compulsion in her presence, no crushing weight as I had imagined a goddess’ power to be, because that must be what she is: divinity. Only the sense that she had been behind every closed door I had ever passed, and now one had swung open.

"Do you know me?"

I swallowed, feeling as if I had walked through a spider’s web and it clung to my face. "Hecate."

Her smile was thin, unreadable. "Yes. Goddess of what is between — of what is whispered, what is hidden, what waits at the threshold. And you… you are a child of thresholds yourself."

I said nothing, though my mind piled high with thoughts.

"You stand between titles, between homes. You are neither wholly prince nor wholly exile. You walk in the light of another, and so you are invisible to the world. It is a rare gift — to be overlooked."

She stepped closer, and her shadows bent toward me as if they had their own hunger.

"I have chosen you, Patroclus, because you do not crave to be seen. You can carry secrets without scattering them like seed. You could speak to the dead without flinching. You could walk in dreams without drowning. And when you open a door, you could know what must be invited in… and what must be left outside."

Her hand rose, torchlight spilling over her fingers. "If you take me into you, you will see as I see. You will hear as I hear. And you will be mine."

I thought of the way she said mine — not as possession, but as protection.

"What will you ask of me?" I asked, trepidation sinking into my tone without my meaning to.

She tilted her head, as if amused. "Only that when I whisper, you will listen. And when I show you a path, you will walk it — whether it leads through sunlit fields… or down into the dark."

The torches flared once, and the sea roared in the distance. I felt the heat of her hands on my temples before I could truly decide, the cold of her three shadows curling into my bones.

When I woke in my bed at dawn, my mouth tasted of salt, and I faintly wondered if Achilles had been left waiting, or if I had ever left his side at all, but merely dreamed it. 

The olive trees outside leaned toward the window, though there was no wind.

~I~

Achilles had always been quick to notice small changes — the unevenness in a runner’s gait, the faint hitch in a warrior’s breath before a strike. He could read a body the way others read lines of poetry.

So it was not surprising that he sniffed out the change in me like a dog trained to hunt.

It was in the way his gaze lingered when he thought I wasn’t looking, the faint crease between his brows as though he was puzzling over something just beyond reach. I could feel him circling it, his mind moving with that same restless precision he had in a race — measuring, tracking, closing in.

And yet, I was harder to catch than a wild hare.

Some part of me — perhaps the part that was hers now — knew Hecate had draped her influence over me like a half-drawn curtain. Not enough to make me vanish entirely, but enough to soften my edges, to make me slip from the grasp of even his keen perception. I suspected it would take a greater divine hand than his to tear it away.

But that did not mean I was invisible to him. Not entirely. Especially not to the boy I had sworn my life to.

He would notice small things: how my eyes sometimes fixed on a door as if listening for something beyond it, how I woke from dreams with words on my tongue that I never spoke aloud, how I hesitated before stepping into a room as though measuring the space.

And I… I was careful.

I did not avoid him — that would have been louder than any truth — but I shaped my presence the way a cautious hunter shapes his shadow. I laughed when I should, walked when he walked, let the rhythm of our days carry me along. I answered his questions with the easy truth when I could, and with half-truths when I couldn’t.

Because I did not yet know how much to tell him.

The choice — that hadn’t truly been a choice — sat between us like a hidden blade. I worried he would see it for what it was and flinch from it, from me. That what I had accepted, or been made to accept, would wedge itself between us, sharp and cold.

So I watched him watching me. And I thought of doors — the ones I had opened, the ones I would have to keep shut.

It was late, the air heavy with the smell of rain on stone. We had spent the afternoon sparring, but Achilles had been distracted, missing openings he never missed. Now, as I unwrapped the bindings from my hands, I felt his gaze again — sharper this time, not circling but closing in.

“What’s different about you?”

It was not a question so much as a demand.

My first instinct was to say nothing. To shrug, to deflect, to let the silence do the work. But then her voice came — not a whisper, not quite sound at all, but the sense of words forming in the marrow of my bones.

He is a hunter. Hunters chase what runs. Do not run.

I kept my eyes on the leather in my hands, peeling it away strip by strip. “Different?” I asked, letting the word carry a mild, harmless curiosity.

“You’re thinking about things you don’t tell me.” His tone was not accusatory, not yet. “I can see it. It’s in your face. It’s… sharper. Like you’re somewhere else when you look at me.”

Do not deny the truth entirely, Hecate murmured inside me. Only shape it. Too much lie will taste wrong to him.

I set the bindings aside and met his eyes. “I’ve had… dreams lately.” The word felt safe enough. “Strange ones. They stay with me.”

He frowned. “What kind of dreams?”

Her voice again, calm as moonlight: Give him a door that does not open too far.

“Of doors,” I said, and the truth of it made my skin prickle. “Of voices I don’t know. Of places I’ve never been.” I held his gaze, steady. “They don’t mean anything.”

Achilles studied me, his eyes bright, assessing. I could feel him weighing my heartbeat, the tension in my shoulders, the way I breathed.

“You’ve been… different since the night by you went to the garden,” he said at last.

The mention struck me like cold water. He had noticed more than I’d thought.

This is the moment, Hecate’s voice wound through my thoughts. You choose whether he steps closer to you… or away.

I breathed once, slowly. “Maybe,” I admitted. “The air felt strange that night. Heavy. It’s nothing I can explain.”

He held my gaze for a long time. Then his expression softened, though his suspicion did not vanish. “If something’s wrong, you’ll tell me.”

It was not a question.

“I will,” I said, and knew it was only a half-truth.

Hecate’s voice was silent now, leaving only my own thoughts, taut and restless.

Achilles left with the same restless energy he had brought, his bare feet quick against the stone. I stayed sitting on the bench, my hands still resting on the discarded bindings. The air in the training yard felt heavier once he was gone, although I couldn't have said why.

I thought I was alone until the torches guttered.

Her presence came first as a shift in the shadows, as if the walls had leaned closer to hear. Then the sound of bare feet, the faint hiss of cloth moving against itself. She stepped into the edge of the torchlight, her face shadowed, her three shadows trailing her like silent hounds.

“You did not run,” Hecate said, her voice neither warm nor cold.

I swallowed. “You told me not to.”

One corner of her mouth curved. “I told you what would happen if you did. There is a difference.”

I waited for the rebuke, the correction, but none came. She moved closer, her torches casting strange colors against the pale dust of the yard.

“You gave him truth enough to keep him, and not enough to lose me. That is the knife’s edge I require of you.”

Her eyes — all three colors at once — searched mine. “But tell me, Patroclus… did you do it because you believe in me? Or because you fear what I will take if you don’t?”

The question weighed heavily on my chest. I thought of Achilles’s frown, the suspicion in his gaze. I thought of the night on the headland, the feel of her shadows curling into me.

“I did it,” I said slowly, “because I want both.”

The smile deepened, but it was not a kind one. “Good. Those who want only one thing are easy to unmake.”

She turned, walking toward the far gate. Her shadows followed, stretching impossibly long across the ground. Just before she passed into the dark, she glanced back.

“Remember, vessel — a hunter may track his prey for years. What matters is not whether he follows you… but where you lead him.”

And then she was gone, leaving only the faint scent of rosemary and smoke, and the uneasy knowledge that she had not been testing whether I could lie to Achilles. She had been testing whether I could lie to myself.

~I~

It began with a rumor — a fisherman’s wife speaking of a cave along the coast where the tide never touched the sand, where voices could be heard at night, though no one stood inside.

Achilles heard it from one of the older boys during practice, and I saw the glint in his eyes as he repeated it to me. “They say it’s a place of prophecy,” he said, almost offhand, but his mouth curled like a man already planning the journey. “We could go tomorrow. See if it’s true.”

The moment the words left his lips, the shadows inside me stirred.

The cave is mine. Hecate’s voice came sharp and certain, like the edge of flint. Its mouth is a door to what sleeps beneath the earth. If he steps inside, I will see him. I will weigh him. I may not give him back unchanged.

A cold prickled at the base of my neck. Achilles was watching me, already reading my silence as hesitation.

“It’s dangerous,” I said.

He laughed, light as a thrown stone skipping across water. “We’ve done dangerous before.”

This is not your choice alone, Hecate murmured. But you will shape it. Lead him toward the door, and I will take his measure. Lead him away, and he will remain as he is — for now.

I imagined Achilles stepping into that cave, his bare feet leaving prints in untouched sand, the sound of voices curling around him like smoke. I imagined him walking out with something different in his eyes — not the golden, bright certainty I knew, but something deeper, darker, and not entirely his own.

“You’ve been… restless lately,” he said, tilting his head. “You could use a change of scenery.”

He was half-teasing, but I knew the truth of it.

The tide whispered in my ears, though we stood far from the shore.

Choose, Hecate said. Every choice you make now shapes the paths you will not see until it is too late.

I forced a smile. “All right,” I said, the words tasting of salt. “Tomorrow.”

Her satisfaction hummed through me, soft as a cat’s purr. And though Achilles grinned at the promise of our next adventure, I could not shake the feeling that I had just set us both walking toward a door that would never fully close behind us.

The next afternoon, the cave mouth yawned before us, black and damp, its edges traced by a pale crust of salt. The tide lay far out, yet the air was thick with the scent of deep water, older than the sea outside.

Achilles ducked inside first, the torch in his hand flaring against the stone. I followed, the shadows sliding over my skin in a way that felt like recognition.

The floor was smooth, untouched by tide or time. Far within, the walls curved into a narrow throat, where the light seemed to bend and sway as if we walked underwater. That was when I heard them — voices layered like reeds in a current, speaking no language I knew but one I understood all the same.

Bring him forward, Hecate’s voice threaded through them, soft as a hand guiding mine. Let him see what sleeps beneath. Let him touch it, and he will never mistake his path again.

I looked at Achilles, his eyes bright with the thrill of the unknown. He tilted the torch toward the deeper dark. “It’s this way.”

Her words pressed against me, warm and certain. But I thought of her other lessons — of doors that should remain shut, of hunters and the prey they chose not to chase. Every choice you make now shapes the paths you will not see until it is too late.

I set my hand on Achilles’s shoulder. “The voices are probably strongest here. If we go farther, they may… see us?”

He grinned. “And?”

“And,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “we don’t know if we can walk back out the same.”

The grin faltered, just slightly. I turned the torch into my hand so the flame caught the walls, lighting the narrow space we stood in. “We’ve found it,” I said. “We don’t need to feed it.”

I saw the calculation in his eyes — the part of him that loved risk weighing the part that loved me. And then, with a shrug, he turned back toward the wider cave.

We walked out together, the sound of the voices fading until only the sea’s distant breathing remained.

Outside, the sun was breaking over the water, the light sharp and gold. Achilles tossed the torch into the surf and laughed, the sound easy again. “Maybe next time,” he said.

When he walked ahead, I lingered in the shadow of the cliff.

“You disobeyed me,” Hecate said, her voice a shimmer in the air.

My throat tightened. “I kept him safe.”

“You kept him from me.” A pause, long enough to let my heartbeat rise. Then: “Good.”

The word startled me more than anger would have.

“This was the point all along,” she said. “To see if you could hear my call and still choose your own path. You are not a chain for me to drag. You are a hand on a door. You must know when to open it… and when to leave it closed.”

Her presence faded like smoke on the tide, leaving only the sound of Achilles’s voice calling my name down the beach.

I went to him, the sunlight bright and blinding after the cave’s darkness, and said nothing of what had passed.

We returned to the training yard as the tide drew back, the air smelling of wet stone and seaweed. Achilles stretched, rubbing the back of his neck, still bright-eyed with the excitement of discovery.

I lingered nearby, quiet, watching him shift, ready to call out a correction if he misstepped. But the cave had left its mark in a way he did not know — the voices we had passed had tried to twist his certainty, to lure him toward what lay beneath.

And he hadn’t felt a thing.

You guided him well, Hecate whispered, soft as wind through olive leaves. He does not know the paths you closed, yet he walks forward whole.

I felt a warmth curl in my chest, relief more potent than any victory in sparring. Achilles laughed, and I realized he had just stumbled across a narrow ridge along the cliffs on the way back — the same ridge that could have slipped beneath him and sent him tumbling to the rocks below. He never hesitated, never faltered.

I had moved slightly ahead, placing my hand on the faintly slick stone, sensing the exact spots where the footing would fail, and subtly shifted my weight to guide him past danger without his noticing.

“Patroclus,” he said, glancing back, eyes bright. “Did you see that? Almost didn’t make it.”

“I saw it,” I said, letting my hand brush his as he passed. “It’s easy to miss here.”

His grin was wide, fearless. “Easy to miss, but not for you, eh?”

I smiled faintly. “Not for me.”

Hecate’s voice drifted again, faint and approving: This is the work of a vessel who chooses. Not mine, not his, but yours. You learn the balance, and he walks safely.

I felt the weight of her words settle deep inside me, a quiet power, tempered by restraint. Achilles never knew how close he had come to unseen influence. He never would. And yet, I carried the knowledge like a hidden lantern, guiding him through the dark without dimming the brilliance he brought into the world.

For the first time, I understood that this was the truest form of her gift — not visions or whispers or power over death, but the quiet ability to protect someone I loved, even from forces neither of us could see.

~I~

Time stretched strangely in those months, as if the days between sunrise and sunset bent to my will without my meaning them to. I learned to tell when Hecate wished to speak — it wasn’t always her voice at first, but the weight of the air, the pause between heartbeats, the way my shadow fell a little longer than it should have.

Achilles noticed none of it.

To him, we were simply moving through the seasons — training in the morning until the salt dried white on our skin, hunting in the hills, swimming in the shallows where the water lay bright as polished bronze. He laughed more easily than I did, often at my expense, always without malice.

Sometimes Hecate’s voice came like a stone dropped into still water:
Do not let him turn here.
This path leads where the ground drinks too deeply.
Step between him and the merchant; his tongue carries barbs unseen.

I never asked her why — I didn’t need to. I had begun to understand that much of her power was not in altering fate outright, but in nudging the smallest threads before they tangled.

The first time I acted before she spoke, I felt a flicker of surprise from her — almost… pride. Achilles had been speaking to a stranger on the docks, a fisherman whose eyes were just slightly wrong, like they were focused on something behind Achilles rather than the man himself. I stepped between them under the pretense of asking about the day’s catch, breaking the line of sight.

When Achilles turned to me later, halfway through one of his too-vivid stories, I caught the faintest arch to Hecate’s words: You saw for yourself.

Each act of protection had to be invisible. If I pressed too hard, Achilles would push back, and the bright trust between us would strain. So I learned the art of becoming part of the background, of shifting danger out of his way like a stone rolled gently aside.

Sometimes it was small — ensuring he ate before his temper frayed, guiding his hand from a blade’s edge when he was distracted, catching the flicker of shadow across his face that meant his dreams were turning sour and waking him before it could take hold. Other times, it was as sharp as the edge of a spear — turning him from an argument that would have called down the wrong ears, steering him away from a feast where poison had been poured for someone of his beauty.

The more I acted, the less I could tell where my choice ended and her influence began. Yet she never took the choice from me.

One night, as we camped by the coast, Achilles fell asleep with his head resting lightly against my arm, the embers casting long shadows around us.

Do you know yet? she asked.

Know what? I murmured in my mind.

That this was always the point. Not to shield him from every shadow, but to teach you how to see them — and how to keep his light from dimming when you do.

I watched him sleep, the rhythm of his breath untroubled, and felt the truth settle in me.

I was her vessel. But I was also his shield, in ways no one else would ever understand.

~I~

Achilles had been watching me for days now, not with the open curiosity of his usual observation, but with the sharp, unsparing look of a hound set to track. The weight of it pressed between my shoulders, a constant reminder that he was measuring something about me and finding it wanting.

When I rose before dawn to walk the shore, I could feel his gaze on my back. When I lingered too long at the practice field, his voice would come—light, careless, but always there—asking what kept me. Even when he smiled, I could see the calculation behind it.

It was not that he suspected nothing. It was that he suspected the wrong thing.

I knew what he thought: that some god had coiled its will through mine, a marionette string drawn tight. That my words, my choices, were not my own. And the worst of it was, in a way, he was right—Hecate had her hand in me. I could feel her voice at the edges of my thoughts, low and certain, a lantern guiding me through corridors I had never walked. But she never once moved my feet for me.

Do not mistake guidance for command, she whispered now, her words soft, steady, unyielding. He will not understand the difference unless you teach him.

But teaching him meant telling him. And telling him meant unmasking the thing I had been guarding from him since the first moment her shadow touched me. I had not wanted him to see me as altered—other. I had feared it would be a crack between us that even love could not bridge.

Yet to leave his suspicion unchallenged would be worse. He would think me trapped. Powerless. Unconsenting. And that—more than the truth—would wound him.

I found him on the beach at dusk, the sky bruised with color. His eyes were sharp, searching, ready to fight for me against whatever god he thought had taken me.

I took a breath. “It’s not like you think,” I said.

Achilles’ eyes sharpen, not with suspicion of me, but with that fierce, unflinching anger he reserves for anything that dares to touch what’s his.

“Is that you speaking, or… it?” The last word comes out like a curse, soft but sharp-edged.

It strikes deeper than it should. I feel it like a lash across the face, sudden and hot. My breath shortens, and I can’t meet his eyes—because he’s asking if I’m still here at all. If what he’s hearing is really me.

My shoulders draw in, as if I can make myself smaller, softer, harmless. I know he isn’t angry with me. I know it. But gods, it still hurts. I’d braced for this—months of bracing—but preparation does nothing when the blow lands in the exact place you feared it would.

His expression changes the moment he sees me fold. He steps forward, hand half-reaching before he seems to catch himself. “Patroclus—no. I didn’t mean—” He swallows hard, the fight gone from his tone. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s fair,” I say, though my voice is rougher than I mean it to be. “After all this time… it’s fair you’d think it.” I try to smile, but it wavers. “That doesn’t make it land any softer.”

Silence pools between us, the air heavy with unspoken things. I feel Hecate there, quiet and listening, like the stillness before a gate swings open.

“I am a vessel,” I said at last.

His brow furrowed, but he didn’t interrupt.

“For Hecate,” I went on, tasting the name like bitter wine. “It’s not what you think. She’s not a hand on my back forcing me forward. It’s more like—” I paused, searching for something that would fit. “Like walking through a city you’ve never been to before. And someone—just passing by—warns you where the streets run unsafely at night. Tells you what to watch for. Only, in my case, I’m not just told about the dangers. I’m given the task of passing the warning along. To steer you away from the worst of them.”

I swallowed, eyes fixed on him. “That’s all it’s ever been, Achilles. Not control. Not chains. Just… guidance I can take or leave. But I’ve taken it, because—” My throat caught. “Because it’s always been about you. Keeping you safe from what would have found you otherwise.”

His gaze didn’t waver. But something in it shifted—less suspicion, more searching, like he was looking for the seams where my truth might split apart. I let him look.

Achilles’ eyes stayed on mine for so long it was as if he could read the pulse behind them. I didn’t look away. If he was going to see me—truly see me—then let it be now, with nothing between us but the truth.

When he finally moved, it was small: a slow breath through his nose, the faintest tilt of his head. “You chose this,” he said, not as a question but as something newly understood.

“I…did.” Only because I never pushed it away once it was handed to me.

The words settled between us like a stone sinking into still water. The ripples felt different—no longer the suspicion that I’d been steered from within, but the weight of knowing I had steered myself.

His gaze softened, but it wasn’t relief, not entirely. It was something heavier, threaded with guilt. “And all this time I’ve thought…” He cut himself off, jaw tightening.

“That you were losing me to someone else,” I finished for him. “Or that my will wasn’t my own.”

His hand lifted, then hesitated midair as though he wasn’t sure if touching me would hurt. “I’ve heard too much of gods who take without asking. I thought—” He shook his head. “I thought I’d have to fight to get you back.”

“You never lost me.” I stepped closer, closing the space he couldn’t. “Hecate never claimed me. She only pointed to the fires ahead so I could keep you from walking into them.”

He let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, though it carried the ache of something unspooling inside him. His hand finally found my shoulder, warm and steady.

“You’d carry the warning for me,” he said quietly, “even if it burned your own hands.”

I smiled faintly. “It already has.”

He didn’t speak again—not right away—but the look he gave me was one I knew well: the silent promise that if the flames ever reached too high, he’d walk straight into them to pull me out.

~I~

It was weeks later, long after the edge had worn off that night’s confession, when Achilles’ habit began to show itself.

We were in the training yard, sunlight pooling on the stone. I’d chosen the western wall as our mark—good light, steady footing, the breeze at our backs.

“Why this wall?” he asked as we set up.

“No reason,” I said.

His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Hecate?”

“Me.”

The question became a rhythm after that, slipping into places where it almost didn’t belong.

Choosing a shortcut through the market.

Hecate?

No, me.

Picking a slower pace on the road when I could see he was tiring.

Hecate?

Still me.

Sometimes, I’d catch him watching my hands or my eyes, as though the slightest flicker might give me away. It wasn’t suspicion anymore—it was a study. He was learning me the way one learns the shape of a coastline: tides, currents, safe harbors.

One evening, after I paused mid-step to let a group of children pass before us, he asked again.

“Hecate?”

This time I laughed. “Do you want her to be walking beside us?”

His eyes softened, but there was something intent beneath them. “I want to know when it’s you I’m seeing.”

I reached for his wrist, holding it loosely. “It’s always me. Sometimes with her voice in my ear, sometimes without. But you’ll know the difference.”

He seemed to test that in his mind, tilting his head like he was measuring the truth of it. Then he nodded once.

“I will.”

And I knew he meant it—not as hope, but as an eventual certainty he was willing to work toward, one question at a time.

It happened on a morning thick with fog, the kind that softened the edges of the world until even the sea seemed unsure of where it ended. We were walking the cliff path toward the cove when I stopped short.

Achilles’ gaze flicked to me. “What is it?”

I glanced at the jagged rocks below, invisible under the mist, then ahead to where the path narrowed into a blind curve. “We’ll take the upper track today,” I said.

He studied me a moment, the way he always did now. “Hecate?”

I hesitated—not for long, but long enough for his mouth to twitch like he’d caught me. “Yes,” I admitted.

His brow furrowed, not in disapproval but in the way a soldier listens to an order they don’t yet understand. “What did she say?”

“That the rain last night loosened the cliff edge,” I said quietly. “We’d have walked into it without knowing.”

He looked at the curve ahead again, mist curling along its edges, and I could see the thought settle: he’d never have known until it was too late.

When we reached the upper path and glanced back, the fog shifted just enough to reveal the fresh break in the earth where the trail had fallen away.

Achilles let out a slow breath, then looked at me—not with suspicion, not with wariness, but with something like respect. “Then tell her,” he said, “that she has my thanks.”

And though I nodded, I knew I wouldn’t. Hecate hadn’t asked for thanks. She had only told me where the danger was and trusted I would move us away from it.

~I~

It was near sunset when we reached the harbor, the sky scattered with gulls and streaks of rose-colored light. The fishing boats were coming in, hulls bumping against the dock as the crews tied them off.

I’d stopped beside a stall selling olives, weighing the merits of the dark, wrinkled kind over the smooth green ones. Achilles lingered just behind me, hands tucked into his belt.

When I finally made my choice and handed over a coin, he leaned close. “Hecate?”

I blinked at him. “For olives?”

His mouth curved. “You seemed very decisive. I thought perhaps a goddess whispered in your ear about which was safest.”

I gave him a flat look, and his grin widened, unrepentant.

“No,” I said. “That was entirely me. I’ve lived long enough to know the green ones are better here.”

He hummed like he was filing the information away, though I knew he wasn’t thinking about olives at all. “So that’s one for you, none for her,” he murmured.

“That’s not how this works.”

“It is for me.” He fell into step beside me, clearly enjoying himself.

It was then I realized this was no accident—he’d been guessing wrong on purpose, slipping his questions in where they didn’t belong, waiting for me to correct him. Some part of him wanted to learn the difference by feel, by trial and error, until he could tell without asking.

I should have been irritated. Instead, I found myself half-smiling at the ground, realizing I didn’t mind being known that way.

The street then narrowed without warning, the press of the market spilling into the alley ahead. A cart tipped on its side blocked half the way, a goat straining against its tether, a boy crying as his basket of figs rolled into the dust.

I didn’t think—there wasn’t time to. My hand shot out to catch the goat’s rope before it could tangle around someone’s legs. A breath later, I was ducking under the cart’s axle to help lift it clear of the path.

That one—those two—were Hecate’s nudges, unmistakable in their precision, in the way the path to act simply appeared in front of me.

The third decision came an instant later—snatching the boy’s scattered figs before they could be trampled and handing the basket back. That was mine. Entirely mine.

When I straightened, Achilles was already beside me, looking as if he’d seen each choice laid out in the air like the moves of a game. He didn’t ask which had been hers and which had been mine. He didn’t need to.

Instead, he just nodded once—like someone ticking off a score in his head—and turned us toward the wider street.

It was unsettling, the way he’d clocked every moment separately, without hesitation. I’d grown up with that sharpness, with the ease he had in reading me. But I wondered, suddenly, if to anyone else it might have felt unnatural—like standing under the sun and finding it watching you back.

~I~

It came to me while we were walking along the shore, the tide low and the sand still wet enough to hold our footprints. Achilles had his head bent toward me, talking about the sail repairs, not really expecting me to do anything except listen.

That made it the perfect time.

I let the conversation carry on for a few steps, then—without warning—asked, in the back of my mind, for Hecate’s hand. Not for necessity. Just for something small, harmless. A stone in the right place on the beach. A turn of my head at the right time.

Her answer was quiet, a little amused. A half-tilt of my chin to spot the glint of a shell half-buried in sand. My fingers closed on it before my mind fully caught up.

The rest—the way I tucked it into Achilles’ palm mid-sentence—that was entirely mine. No divine nudge at all. Just me.

His words slowed. He looked at the shell, then at me, a faint narrowing to his eyes like he was lining up two threads in his head and trying to decide where they crossed.

“You asked for that one,” he said, not a question.

I raised a brow. “Which one?”

“The shell,” he said, tone measured. “But not giving it to me. That was you.”

He didn’t sound surprised—just satisfied.

I stared at him for a beat too long. “Do you always know?”

The corner of his mouth pulled faintly upward. “You think you’re the only one who can tell when someone else is steering the wind?”

I didn’t answer. But part of me filed the moment away for later, already wondering how far I could push before he missed a step.

I made him drop the shell into the sand at my feet, laughing incredulously. The sound surprised even me, sharp and unguarded, echoing over the waves.

Achilles raised an eyebrow, watching me with the faintest smirk. “Why are you testing me on this?”

I turned to him, grin still lingering, shaking my head slightly. “The moment you can tell—without hesitation, without missing a detail—when it’s my choice and when it’s Hecate’s, in the most absurd, orderly, detailed way possible…” I waved a hand vaguely toward the tide, “I’ll stop testing you.”

His gaze sharpened, curiosity flickering like fire across the blue. “Why does it have to be to that point?”

I opened my mouth, thinking I had an answer, some clever-sounding justification. Then I realized—I didn’t know. Not really. Not why I kept pushing him so.

I blinked at him, the smile fading slightly. “…I suppose… it just seemed wise.”

Achilles’ smirk softened, and he shook his head, though not in disapproval. “Wise,” he echoed, like he was filing that away, too.

I shrugged, half-smiling, half-exasperated with myself. And that was enough for now—the sun was low, the waves brushing at the shore, and for the first time, I felt certain that even without knowing why, I was glad to push him.

~I~

A year had passed, and the games between us had become as natural as breathing. Achilles no longer asked every time, though sometimes he did, a teasing glint in his eyes. And I—well, I continued to push, because I could, because it was a way to measure his attention and patience, and because I wanted to see him see me.

On the cliffs above the cove, the wind sharp with salt and brine, I let a gull swoop close to the edge, nudging it with a glance so it veered away from the landing nest below. Hecate’s whisper had guided me, subtle and soft, a ghost in my thoughts. The next, I shifted my step slightly, deliberately, to see if Achilles noticed—but this last one, the final tilt of my weight to avoid a loose stone, was mine alone.

He followed each move like a shadow tracing the sun. Without a word, he stepped around the stone before it could slip beneath me. I almost laughed aloud at the precision.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said quietly, but not harshly. “And I still don’t know if I’m seeing you… or her.”

I shrugged, letting a faint smile play across my lips. “Maybe both. Or maybe you just haven’t learned the difference yet.”

He laughed softly, low and easy, but there was a weight behind it—a careful, measured attention I had learned to rely on. I realized that over the course of this year, he had started to anticipate, notice patterns, and even when he guessed wrong, he did so deliberately, turning it into a way to understand me better.

Sometimes, I caught myself wondering if anyone else could ever see him like this—how he parsed every movement, every hesitation, every flicker of thought. But it didn’t matter. It was ours. A private rhythm, a silent language that neither god nor mortal could intrude upon.

And though the year had passed, and though Hecate still whispered in the spaces between, I found myself smiling more readily, confident that even her nudges could not change the bond Achilles and I had quietly, carefully built—one instinct, one glance, one small test at a time.

~I~

It started small, almost imperceptible. Achilles would glance at me mid-training, his gaze sliding along my movements, not in suspicion, but in quiet calculation. I’d feel the subtle tension in the air, the way his attention leaned into mine, as if he were always just a fraction behind or ahead, anticipating the path I would take.

Sometimes it was a toss of a spear, a step during footwork, or the way I chose which route to take through the grove. He’d pause just slightly longer than necessary, testing the movement, reading the space between Hecate’s nudges and mine. And more often than not, he’d get it right—call out my intent before I even fully decided it myself.

One afternoon, we walked along the cliffs after a swim, the salt drying on our skin and the wind teasing our hair. I veered toward a loose rock, instinct telling me to skirt it. He caught the hesitation in my shoulder, smiling faintly. “That one’s you, isn’t it?”

I laughed, a little surprised he’d noticed. “Yes. Mine.”

“And that one?” he asked, nodding at a shift in my stance, a slight tilt I had barely registered myself.

I froze. That one had been Hecate’s nudge. “Hers,” I admitted.

He grinned, not mockingly, but with the pride of someone seeing the world more clearly because of patience. “I’m learning,” he said simply.

Over time, these small observations became a rhythm, almost a private language. He would watch, and I would allow him to, letting him see when I moved on my own and when Hecate’s influence brushed against me. It wasn’t a test anymore—it was trust, quiet and unspoken, a way of sharing both my will and the divine guidance I carried without ever having to speak it aloud.

Even in conversation, the pattern persisted. A question about our plans, a choice of path, a preference for rest or food—he’d tilt his head, half-smile, and I’d know he was parsing the cues as carefully as he had in battle or danger. And I let him.

It became something I cherished, a way to measure our closeness, the subtle intimacy of someone truly seeing you, not just your actions, but the source behind them. And in that, I realized: Hecate had given me guidance—but Achilles had taught me how to let another hold it with me, quietly, without fear.

~I~

We were moving through the olive grove at midday, sunlight dappled across the ground, when I felt it—a nudge from Hecate I hadn’t anticipated. A small, subtle pull, guiding me to divert my steps around a broken branch that might have tripped me, but with an added twist: she wanted me to reach the higher path along the ridge, one I rarely took, my footing unfamiliar and uncertain.

I froze for a heartbeat, processing the shift in the ground beneath my instincts. Before I could even plan my step, Achilles was there. His hand brushed against my elbow, steadying me. His eyes flicked to the ridge, assessing the path I hadn’t even consciously seen.

“Careful,” he murmured, not as a command but as a reassurance, and guided me around the loose stones I had yet to register.

I blinked at him, startled, suddenly aware that he had anticipated the move before I could fully recognize the nudge. My lips parted, a faint laugh escaping. “You’re learning to anticipate the moves of a goddess,” I said, incredulous, my chest still tight from the sudden adrenaline.

He only gave a small, knowing smile, tugging me along the safer route. “Maybe,” he said softly. “Or maybe I’m just learning you.”

And in that instant, I realized that our rhythm had shifted entirely. Hecate’s influence no longer felt like a weight I bore alone; with Achilles, it had become something shared, a silent partnership where even divine guidance couldn’t surprise us without him noticing.

I let my hand linger against his for a moment longer than needed, the thrill of the moment tempered by the quiet satisfaction of trust—of someone who could move with you through the world, even when the gods themselves tried to steer your path.

It was then that I grew bolder.

I once paused at the edge of the grove, shadows stretching long in the late afternoon sun. For a moment, I closed my eyes and breathed, feeling Hecate’s subtle presence at the edges of thought.

“I need one,” I murmured, quiet enough that even the wind might not catch it. “A nudge… one I can’t solve instantly on my own. Something that makes me think.”

Her voice brushed against the edges of my mind, calm, measured. A wise exercise. But not a trap.

I nodded, trusting the weight behind her words. Not too dangerous.

The first pull came in a heartbeat: a slight shift in the slope of the hill ahead, the ground near the roots unstable. My instincts told me to step carefully, but Hecate’s guidance suggested a path along a narrower ridge, forcing me to adjust my balance and consider the footing. The decision wasn’t life-threatening—but it demanded thought.

I took the first careful step. Achilles, always attuned, noticed immediately. His hand brushed mine, steadying me even as he let me choose my path.

“Not easy, is it?” he murmured, eyes flicking along the hill.

I shook my head, surprised at how much attention I needed for something so simple. “No. But that’s the point.”

He nodded slowly, understanding more than I said. He moved slightly ahead, clearing a few loose stones, guiding without touching too much, letting me feel the weight of the choice. He wasn’t saving me—he was preparing me.

Hecate’s voice returned, softer now, approving. Carefully, but yes. Let him see the challenge. Let him learn how to act in time.

I realized then that the exercise was more than my training—it was ours. Achilles would see the cues, react in time, and I would learn to think through her nudges, anticipating danger and opportunity. A controlled rehearsal for the day the pull might be far less forgiving.

I exhaled, stepping fully onto the right side of the hill. “I see why we did not begin with something too dangerous,” I murmured, half to myself. “Even this requires every ounce of thought I can spare.”

Achilles smiled, but not mockingly. “Good. Then when it comes… you’ll know we’ve practiced it before.”

I glanced at him, gratitude and trust weighing heavier than the exercise itself. In that quiet moment, I felt certain that even the gods’ influence could not reach me unprepared—not when Achilles was beside me, reading every motion before it was fully mine.

~I~

The grove was quieter than usual, the wind holding its breath, and even the birds seemed cautious. I knew what I had asked for—a deliberate nudge from Hecate that would test me through doubt.

Her presence brushed against my mind, sharper this time, almost taunting. There may be no safe option. You may stumble. You may fall. But you will remain intact.

I swallowed, my chest tight with the tension of knowing that every step might be uncertain. And yet, that was precisely the point.

The first movement was subtle—a slight misalignment in the slope ahead. I adjusted. The second forced me onto an even narrower ridge. My instincts screamed caution, but I trusted the pull. The third… the third was something I had never attempted, the pull sudden and sharp, demanding a decision where no choice felt truly safe.

Achilles’ eyes widened as he saw me hesitate. The careful, methodical thinking we had drilled all year fled from him, replaced by raw instinct. Before I could even recognize the outcome, his hand shot forward, steadying me, pulling me away from a misstep I hadn’t even realized I was about to make.

When we finally paused, I exhaled heavily, chest heaving. “You weren’t supposed to react differently,” I said, voice catching. “The point was to follow what we practiced.”

He shook his head, still breathing hard. “This… training… it’s getting too close to reality. What if it isn’t practice next time? What if one day, there’s no margin for error?”

I blinked at him, my heartbeat slowing as I considered his words. He meant it, that instinctive, protective surge of his—rooted in the fear of losing me, not in disobedience.

“You’re not supposed to be trusting Hecate,” I said carefully, meeting his gaze. “You’re supposed to be trusting me. Trust my judgment, my will, the choices I make. That’s the point. That’s what the exercises teach, not obedience to her, but confidence in me—your partner.”

He blinked, eyes softening as understanding seeped in. “Trust you,” he repeated, voice low. “Even if the pull looks like it’s steering you somewhere dangerous?”

“Yes,” I said. “Because I am still here. Because I still carry my own will. Hecate only nudges. I choose how we move.”

He exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain; the instinctive anxiety was still there, but tempered by comprehension. His hand found mine, squeezing once, firm. “Then… I’ll trust you. Even when it looks like the gods are trying to throw us off balance.”

I allowed myself a small, relieved smile, the fear still lingering from the pull, but the connection between us solidified. In that moment, I realized that even the most deliberate doubt from Hecate could not unseat the trust we had built—trust between a demigod and a god-touched vessel, refined through careful exercise, instinct, and unwavering attention to each other.

Hecate’s presence brushed along my thoughts, sharper now, almost daring me—nudging toward a choice that carried no easy solution.

I felt the pull immediately. The ridge ahead was narrower than before, the loose stones scattered just enough to demand careful calculation. My heart hammered as I measured each step, knowing every movement would be scrutinized.

Achilles fell into step beside me, his jaw tight, teeth barely visible as he ground them together. His fists flexed at his sides, and I could feel the tremor in his restraint—the fight inside him, the instinct to throw caution to the wind and act before I could even choose.

But he didn’t. Not this time.

He followed through as we had practiced, his eyes locked on my face, reading each motion, each pause. He breathed with me, not for me, letting me work through the pull, the doubt, the fear. And slowly, carefully, I traced the ridge, each step a negotiation with gravity, instinct, and Hecate’s subtle guidance.

When we reached the safer ground at last, I exhaled sharply, the tension leaving my limbs in waves. I turned to him, startled by the sight of his white-knuckled hands and tight jaw. 

“You held back,” I said softly.

He met my gaze, jaw still tight but eyes steady. “I had to,” he admitted, voice low. “I almost didn’t. Every fiber of me wanted to act before you even realized the pull. But… I trusted you.”

A small, relieved smile tugged at my lips. “That’s the point,” I said. “Not trusting her, not avoiding danger, but trusting me to choose. You following through—letting me decide—is how we learn, how we survive.”

He exhaled slowly, the tension leaving his shoulders in a controlled release. “It’s harder than you make it look,” he murmured, though there was a note of admiration beneath the confession.

I placed a hand over his, letting him feel the calm grounding me. “It’s not meant to be easy. It’s meant to teach us to move together, to read the pull without losing ourselves—or each other.”

For a moment, we stood there in the dappled light, partners in balance and trust, the weight of Hecate’s influence tempered by the precision of human will—and by the patience Achilles had learned to master.

~I~

Our steps were easy, practiced, precise—we had mastered the art of moving together. But Hecate’s guidance had shifted. The danger was no longer in the footing, the ridge, or the loose stone; it was in the air between people, in the unspoken currents of conversation.

I could feel it in my chest, the weight of her presence, sharper and subtler than ever: Every word matters. Every pause, every inflection, every withheld truth. There are crossroads here, Patroclus, where a careless phrase can undo all you’ve built.

Achilles walked beside me, alert as ever, though the tension now was different. His eyes flicked toward my lips, reading the slightest twitch, waiting to see the careful path I would choose. Movement had been our shared language, instinctive, physical—but words required calculation, restraint, precision. The stakes were no less real, and often, far more treacherous.

The first test came quickly. A visiting envoy approached, their tone polite but loaded, questions disguised as pleasantries. I felt Hecate’s tug in my mind, guiding my phrasing, cautioning against revealing too much, hinting where a deflection would serve both our purposes.

I answered carefully, each word deliberate, each smile and nod placed with intent. Achilles observed, letting me lead, his presence a shield behind the words, ready to intervene only if my balance faltered.

The second turn in the conversation was sharper, subtle accusations woven into the envoy’s queries, probing for secrets I did not yet intend to reveal. My pulse quickened. Hecate’s guidance nudged me through the verbal maze, suggesting emphasis here, a pause there, a quiet redirection to safety without raising suspicion.

Achilles’ eyes tracked me, alert and tense. His restraint was tested—every fiber of his being wanted to leap in, to correct, to protect. But he did not. He trusted my judgment, even when the path ahead was unseen, every word a potential misstep.

When the envoy finally departed, leaving behind a trail of tension and unanswered questions, I exhaled slowly. “Movement was simpler,” I murmured, voice low, half to myself, half to him.

Achilles let a small laugh escape, though tight with relief. “Easier to see the danger. Harder to trust it’s all still there,” he said.

I nodded, letting Hecate’s lingering guidance fade. “Every word now is a step across a ridge we cannot see. One misplacement, one ill-chosen phrase… and even the most careful balance can fail.”

He reached for my hand, squeezing it lightly. “Then we’ll move together still. One word at a time.”

And I understood that the exercise had changed. The physical mastery we had honed was now a foundation, a scaffold for something far more delicate: navigating the perilous currents of speech, secrets, and intention, with Achilles’ trust as my anchor, and Hecate’s subtle nudges guiding me through the labyrinth we could not afford to misstep.

The next maze of words dealt with pride.

The hall was full of smoke from braziers, thick with the scent of cedar and oil. Voices layered over each other in low tones, laughter at one end, tension at the other. This was no place of swords or shields, but of sharpened tongues. I felt Hecate stir faintly at the back of my mind, her whisper as steady as a hand on my shoulder. Careful, vessel. These are crossroads more perilous than any cliffside.

The man who approached us was a counselor of Peleus, though not one of renown. His eyes were keen, his words polished smooth, meant to cut. “Strange, is it not,” he said with a half-smile, “that the gods favor some soldiers with glory before they’ve even raised a shield. Others—lesser-born men—cling to them, hoping some of that shine might rub off.”

His eyes fell deliberately on me.

I felt Achilles tense beside me, like a bowstring drawn back too far. His jaw tightened, and I could almost hear the grind of his teeth. One wrong word from him—an instinctive retort, a flare of pride—and we’d be undone, cornered by whispers before the night was through.

I drew breath slowly, letting Hecate’s guidance curl through me. Do not answer what is asked. Answer what lies beneath.

“My place has never been to steal glory,” I said evenly, tone smooth as river stone. “Only to stand where I am needed, beside those the gods favor most. If such light reflects onto me, perhaps it is because I’ve polished the armor it shines from.”

A flicker of amusement passed over the counselor’s face—he had not expected subtlety. “And yet,” he pressed, “some say that such closeness makes a man dangerous. Influence hidden in plain sight.”

Achilles shifted, the urge to strike back vibrating through him. I laid a hand against his wrist under the table, steadying him. My words had to do the work his sword could not.

“Influence is only dangerous when it seeks power,” I replied, calm and measured. “I have no taste for thrones or commands. The only danger I pose is to those who mistake loyalty for weakness.”

The man faltered, just for a breath. His tongue hesitated, the blade dulled. Hecate’s whisper urged silence—let him retreat, let the tension do its work.

I inclined my head in a small, deliberate bow, closing the exchange without ceding ground. The counselor excused himself shortly after, slipping back into the murmur of the hall.

Only when he was gone did Achilles lean close, his voice taut. “I would have split his tongue for him.”

“I know,” I said, turning just enough that my eyes caught his. “But that is what he wanted—to make you strike, and call it proof.”

His chest rose sharply, then steadied. He swallowed back the heat that still licked at his throat. Slowly, he nodded.

“Words,” he muttered, almost resentful. “They cut deeper than bronze.”

“And heal faster, too,” I answered softly, though I felt the sweat at my own palms. It had been a narrow path, a ridge of language, one stumble from disaster.

Hecate’s voice came to me again, faint but certain. Good. You are learning to walk the unseen roads. Do not forget—this is only the beginning.

It was not a feast this time, but a council—bronze lamps burning low, the air taut with the smell of wine and oiled leather. Peleus sat presiding, his counselors a circle of wolves dressed as men. They had spoken long of supplies, of ships, of tribute. Now the talk turned, and I felt the shift in the air before the words were cast.

“Achilles,” one of them began, a sharp-eyed man with the cadence of a fisherman turned lord. “They say you scorn gifts, that no weight of gold or women could bend your pride. Tell us, then—what does sway you? What leash can guide the son of Peleus?”

The table murmured, some leaning forward with smiles too sharp. It was not a question—it was a snare. Any answer Achilles gave could be twisted into insult, arrogance, or treachery.

I touched his knee beneath the table. He flicked his gaze to me—impatience, fire straining against its hearth.

Steady, Hecate whispered. This is the place where roads cross. If you choose wrong, you are bound forever to the path they set for you.

Achilles’ lips parted, but I spoke first, voice even. “A leash is for beasts. My prince is no hound to be bound. The only thing that guides Achilles is honor itself—the same that guides us all.”

The counselor’s eyes gleamed. “Honor? And if that honor leads him against his king?”

A dangerous silence fell. My throat went dry. This was the edge, the point where the ground crumbled beneath our heels.

I felt Achilles stiffen, his fury hot and sharp. He swallowed it—barely—and answered, his voice low but ringing: “If honor leads me, it leads me to truth. And truth is no enemy of kings—unless kings make it so.”

A ripple spread around the table. Some frowned, others leaned back, considering. The trap had not snapped shut. Not yet.

I picked up where he left off, layering words like stones in a wall. “And what greater proof of loyalty is there than this? That a man dares to speak the truth even when it cuts him? Achilles bends to no leash, but neither does he break the oath that birthed him here. He is not your beast—he is your prince.”

Achilles’ eyes found mine, a flicker of something rare—restraint, trust, the knowledge that he had placed his temper in my keeping. Together, our words settled like twin blades crossing, each guarding the other.

The counselor leaned back at last, lips pursed. He had not won the ground he sought. He would try again another night, but tonight, the snare lay empty.

When the council broke and the air spilled free of its weight, Achilles exhaled a breath he had been holding too long. His hand caught my wrist as we walked away, the grip almost bruising.

“I was one word from ruin,” he muttered. “One word, Patroclus, and they would have had me.”

“You gave them truth,” I said quietly. “Not the truth they wanted, but the one that kept you free.”

His teeth worried his lip. He released me, finally, and shook his head. “I can master the spear, the shield, the chariot. But this? These games of words—they will unmake me.”

“They will not,” I answered, more firmly than I felt. “Not so long as you let me stand beside you.”

Hecate’s presence was quiet, approving. You are learning to speak as one. But remember—every road you walk together draws sharper eyes upon you. The game is no longer a practice. It never was.

Chapter Text

I had been pacing the length of the colonnade, my thoughts knotted with absence. Achilles was gone too long — summoned, Thetis said, though she gave no answer as to where. The silence of it rattled me more than I dared confess.

I thought I would run myself ragged, and soon enough, it began with a sway beneath my feet, as though the ground had loosened and tilted beneath me. I caught the stone pillar with one hand, but even its solidity betrayed me; the marble rippled under my palm. My stomach lurched. Then my hands and feet numbed, as though blood had been stolen from them, leaving only hollowness behind.

The world fell sideways.

Breath tore in my throat as the palace around me bled into smoke, walls dissolving into gauze. Stumbling forward, a ringing filled in my ears, bright and ceaseless. Around me — laughter. Women’s laughter, sharp and rising like glass struck with a nail. A courtyard revealed itself, draped in silks, the air heady with perfumes not any I had known.

And Achilles.

He stood among them, draped in layered cloth of white and red, a thin veil tangled in his hair. Bracelets clinked at his wrist as he moved, but the motion was awkward, his smile strained at the edges. My knees weakened. I tried to call his name, but no sound would leave my mouth.

The scene fractured. The laughter soured, the colors bled to red. A girl pressed forward — though I had never seen her before, I knew her. Her eyes bore into him, into the strange vision itself, and the air seemed to curdle. Achilles flinched beside her, his jaw tight, and I felt it — a sharp, foreign pain cleaving my chest, burning down my ribs as if I had been pierced.

I fell. I could not tell if my body had struck stone or if I was still standing. Fingers clawed at air; the numbness had climbed up my arms, reached my jaw, my teeth grinding against the immovable weight of silence. The vision swallowed me whole, drowning me in nauseating color and harsh sound.

And then — breath.

The dizziness broke like a snapped thread. Cold air lashed my face, brine sharp in my lungs. My feet sank into sand, and the cry of gulls cut the ringing in my ears.

I was no longer in Peleus’ halls. Instead, I stood at the shoreline, the horizon yawning before me, the sea restless as if it knew my name and would dare to call it. My chest still burned with the echo of that crimson vision, but I could not look away from the expanse of water ahead.

Somewhere beyond it waited Scyros.
Somewhere beyond it, Achilles.

The sea stretched endlessly, though I could not remember walking here. I could feel my pulse thundering, hands tingling where the vision’s numbness had not yet faded. I pressed my palms into the sand, as if the grit might tether to something real.

“Breathe, child.”

The voice came soft, threaded through the salt wind. It did not startle me; it sank in, low and steady, like a tide rising. I turned, and she was there — a woman robed in black that shimmered as if woven with stars, her eyes silvered like a moon over dark water. Hecate.

“I—” My throat caught. The vision’s heat lingered in my chest, a phantom wound. “He was hurt. I saw it. She—”

Hecate raised her hand, and the words fell from me, stilled. “You were shown a thread of what is to come. Not fixed, not immovable. Do not let it master you.”

I bent forward, gripping my knees, dragging in air. My body shook with the aftershocks — the dizziness, the unmoored weightlessness. It felt as if I had left some part of myself back in the palace, trailing like torn cloth. “It felt real,” I whispered. “It was real.”

“Yes.” Hecate’s voice did not soften further, but it steadied. “And yet here you stand. The gods show such things to test the strength of your will. What will you do with it, Patroclus? Run from the shore, or cross it? ”

I looked at her, throat raw. The choice lay open, brutal in its simplicity. My body ached with fear. And yet— “I will not leave him there. I will not let her hurt him.”

Hecate inclined her head, as if she had waited for the words. “So be it. Then we must shape a path.”

She moved her hand in a slow arc, and the sea wind coiled with her, spiraling into a shape — a shimmer of glass, which bent and rippled until I saw myself reflected. Not as I was, but smaller, slight of frame, features blurred into something delicate and strange. A servant girl .

“Thetis would not suffer your arrival. If she knows you walk Scyros’ halls, she will close her fist around Achilles’ fate and make it bleed. But if you come hidden, unseen even to her sight…” Hecate’s silver eyes caught me, luminous. “ Then you may protect him. You may turn the vision away.”

I swallowed hard. “Like this?” My reflection’s eyes lowered, veiled with a girl’s timid grace. I did not recognize myself.

Hecate stepped closer, the air cooling as though night itself had gathered around her. “It will not be a mask, Patroclus. It will be you. Flesh, breath, voice — woven new until I unbind it again. None will know you for what you are.”

I felt the drastic weight of it — the risk, the strangeness. My chest still burned with the memory of Achilles’ pain, of that girl’s shadow falling across him. Whatever this meant, however it warped me, it was nothing compared to losing him.

I lifted my chin. “Do it.”

Hecate’s smile was faint, unreadable. “Then let the spell be sealed.”

The tide drew away, the sand climbing like fingers around my ankles, and quivered as the first threads of her magic drew around.

Hecate lifted her hands, fingers weaving patterns in the air, and the shoreline seemed to hush — no gulls, no waves, no breath of wind save her voice.

“Be still, and let the form take you.”

The words slid in like water. I closed my eyes, and the world shifted.

At first, it was subtle: the pull of my bones easing, joints trembling as if threaded loose. Then a dizzying lightness, the sensation of my spine compressing, body drawing inward. I staggered free of where I had curled around my knees, gasped as the horizon dropped even as I rose — lower, shorter, yet it felt like the earth itself had tilted.

My jaw prickled, as though sand had been brushed over it and smoothed away. Cheekbones softened beneath my skin, my lips feeling as if they had been swollen fuller, the bridge of my nose even feeling narrower as though carved with different hands. I raised a palm to my face, felt its strange smoothness, the absence of the familiar ridges, the sharper edges, the very hair that had marked me a man.

Then my scalp tingled hot. Hair poured down my back in waves like a cloak being thrown over me, heavy, dragging at my neck with its unexpected weight. This too startled me, as I reached to catch it, but it slipped like water through my fingers — curling thick and wild, locks I had never allowed time to grow. Each strand was a reminder of what I was no longer.

The spell finished with a quiet ache beneath my chest, a pulling heat that made my breath stumble. I risked a look down — and the sight of it undid me. The softness, the slope of narrow shoulders, the curve where there had never been one. My throat locked.

My arms flew across my chest, as if I could hide it, as if I could press myself back into what I knew. Heat burned against my cheeks, climbed my neck and ears until I thought my skin might catch fire. I could not look at her. I could not look at myself.

Shame struck deeper than the strangeness — the shame of being seen, of standing small and altered before a goddess who had wrought it.

“Shhh.”

Her voice came again, soft as dusk. I dared a glance, eyes watery with embarrassment and the anxiety of being in a body unknown, unwanted but necessary. Hecate’s expression was neither cruel nor mocking, but calm, steady, patient. She stepped closer, her shadow brushing like a blanket.

“Do not shrink from yourself. Nothing of ill intent shall be born of this form alone. I swear it. You are safe beneath my hand.”

The words pressed in, quieting the panic at its edges. Safe. The heat in my face lingered, arms still bound protectively over myself, but some part of me unclenched. Hecate’s tone carried no judgment, only certainty — as though she had known shame herself, and what balm it required.

My breath came uneven, somehow softer still, but at last I nodded, still holding myself close.

Hecate inclined her head, satisfied. “Then rise, Patroclus. Not boy, not girl — but what you must be, for him. For Achilles.”

The sea whispered back into being, the tide pulling gently at my feet. I slowly stood, foreign in my own skin, and knew there was no turning back.

~II~

I found myself walking differently, at first without even meaning to. Steps pressed into the sand lighter, narrower, the prints half the size of what I knew were mine. My weight was shifted differently, too, balanced not on the certainty of a soldier’s frame but carried in subtler places, my back adjusting to what now rested at my chest, shoulders easing under the impossible pull of hair that whipped and tangled with every sigh of the sea breeze.

Pausing, catching sight of my reflection in a shallow pool left by the tide, a stranger looked back: soft, long-limbed, delicate features that seemed too easily lost. The sheer length of hair—the thick curls tumbling past my waist—was nearly comical. I gathered a handful and let it slip through my fingers like water.

“Why must it be so long?” I asked, unable to keep the sharpness out of my tone.

Hecate, standing with her cloak loose as shadow at her back, tilted her head as if the answer were obvious. “Because in the eyes of men, long hair among women is a claim. A sign of marriage. It marks you as belonging to someone.”

I frowned, jaw tightening. “But I am not married.” I crossed my arms over my chest, then flushed, heating my cheeks at what now stood in the way of a firm cross. “I don’t see why I should wear such a lie.”

Her lips curved—not unkindly. “It is no lie. Long hair is protection. A woman marked as unmarried is often seen as vulnerable. Men think less of what their hands touch if no husband is there to strike them down. You will be safer this way.”

I stilled, the meaning sinking in like a slow tide. Hecate had thought ahead—not only of how I might blend in, but how I might endure. I could imagine the eyes this body would draw, even in a servant’s garb, the whispered words, the danger that came unbidden for those thought defenseless. But this hair… this symbol… was armor of another sort.

Her eyes flickered with some quiet amusement as she added, “You have known Achilles for eight years. So your hair falls to match those years. Every curl is time grown long between you.”

Something fluttered warm in my chest. My lips parted in surprise, and then, before I could stop myself, a soft laugh escaped me. “Eight years,” I murmured. I brushed a hand down the length, the curls winding around my wrist. “So… I may call him my husband, then?”

Hecate said nothing, only watching as color bloomed across my cheeks again. I ducked my head, grinning despite myself, boyishly giddy in a way that startled. For a breath, I was back beneath the olive trees, fourteen years old, lips pressed to Achilles’ for the first time, the shock of joy too immense for my small chest to contain. 

I bit back another laugh, embarrassment folding over into something bright, something tender.

“I think,” I whispered to the tidepool reflection, “I like this better than I should.”

~II~

I sat very still, the strange new weight of this hair spilling around my shoulders and down my back, alive in the torchlight. Never in my life had it been so long—it slid past ribs, down my waist, pooling almost to the floor when unbound. Now it was caught in Hecate’s careful hands, her fingers dividing, smoothing, weaving with a patience that steadied me against the lingering strangeness of this new body.

The brush she used was unlike any I had seen—made of bone and bristles soft as lamb’s wool, it never pulled or burned my scalp the way I had expected with so much hair. Her hands were precise, deft, never tugging, only guiding the heavy locks into a braid that wound as though it were a labyrinth. I caught glimpses of myself in the polished bronze at the side of the room and almost flinched. The curve of cheeks, the long lashes, the delicate jaw—I looked like a girl I might once have passed in the palace corridors. Yet my eyes remained my own, my soul thrumming beneath.

When I felt her pause, fingers slipping to slide something cool into the braid, I glanced sideways. A glimmer caught my eye—green, alive as spring grass. Then another, purple, tucked among the dark curls. And finally, a shadowy flash of black that seemed to drink in the light.

“What are they?” My voice sounded smaller in this form, softer, and I instinctively pulled my arms a little tighter around myself, though curiosity pushed forward.

Hecate’s mouth curved faintly, neither smile nor smirk, only the suggestion of both. “Stones,” she said, her tone low and melodic, “though more than that. Crystals born of Hades’ earth, pressed into being in the darkness of Erebus. They are not rare to me, but to mortals… they are treasures, feared as much as they are revered.”

I blinked, watching her thumb the green stone at his temple.

“They are not mere ornaments,” she continued. “Each has its voice. Each has its purpose. Many who follow me use them as guides, as offerings, as talismans of their will. They strengthen, they shield, they whisper truths.” Her eyes lifted to meet mine, sharp but kind. “Most of my worshippers have been women, called witches by those who fear what they do not understand. Men… very few. Yet you, Patroclus, are a rare exception. There is something within you I would see shaped—not only into protection, but into practice.”

The brush ran through the last of my hair, her fingers tightening the braid. I felt the gems settle into place like stars caught in a constellation.

“And what are these, in particular?” I asked, tilting my head ever so slightly to catch their light. “Do they have names?”

“They all do.” Her hand slid once more over the green gem, catching the firelight. “This is emerald. It will protect your love, guard it against envy, sharpen it against despair. It is a jewel of the heart, and yours beats stronger than most.”

Her finger moved to the soft purple gleam nestled higher in the braid. “Amethyst. It will keep your thoughts clear, soothe the storms of your mind, ease your sleep. In Scyros, you will need it, for your heart will ache often.”

Finally, she pressed her palm gently to the hidden length that rested along the end of the braid, coiled as though waiting. The stone was black, yet oddly luminous, a shard that gleamed like glass caught in moonlight. “And this—obsidian. A blade as much as a shield. It will hide you from fear, blunt Thetis’ cruel whispers, and hold your courage steady. Even should her eyes fall upon you, she will find no purchase for her poison.”

I swallowed, fingertips brushing the braid where the stones lay. They hummed faintly, almost as if alive.

“They’re beautiful,” I murmured, honestly. For all the strangeness—the new body, the heavy braid, the weight of magic—there was wonder too. I looked at Hecate again, lips curving just slightly. “And perhaps… a little frightening.”

Her eyes softened at that, her hand resting briefly at the crown of my head, steadying. “As are you, child of Menoetius. You only do not see it yet.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, the tension loosening from my shoulders. And though my cheeks still flushed when I caught sight of my reflection—long hair, softened features, a body I barely knew—there was a strange, secret joy that crept into my chest when I remembered her words about the emerald. It was bound to Achilles, protecting us both.

In the quiet, my lips quirked, just faintly. “Eight years,” I whispered, half to myself. “Perhaps… perhaps I can say he is mine after all.”

When Hecate finished winding the braid, gems glinting faintly in the lamplight of the chambers, she set aside the comb of bone and reached instead into a fold of shadow, her hand pulling free not mist or dream but fabric. She laid it gently across the low couch, smoothing it flat with long fingers.

“These,” she said, “are your second armor. The world will not know you by your blade, Patroclus, but by how you wear these.”

I leaned forward, wary and fascinated in equal measure. The first piece she lifted was a thin, pale shift, soft as water between her hands.

“This is the chitoniskos,” she explained. “It is the underlayer, linen, unbleached, plain—what a servant girl would wear closest to her skin. It will keep you from the scratch of heavier cloth and keep sweat from staining what lies above.” She folded it carefully again. “Never visible. Its virtue is that it disappears.”

Next she unfurled a stouter length of fabric, dyed a gentle ochre, neither rich nor poor in color.

“This,” Hecate continued, “is your strophion,” and she showed me how the band of cloth would bind across the chest, how it softened the prominence of my form into something more muted, more modest. I flushed crimson and instinctively crossed my arms again. But Hecate’s tone was calm, steady, as if she spoke of nothing more controversial than fitting sandals. “It is not a cage,” she said softly, “but a veil. And a veil, Patroclus, is a shield.”

I swallowed, half ashamed of how much relief I felt at her gentleness.

The next garment she displayed was the true outerwear: a deep green peplos, the color of pine needles after rain. Its wool was light but draped with dignity, stitched with a narrow border of pale thread that gave the impression of wealth, but only just.

“This is the mark of your station,” Hecate said, letting the folds fall across her arm to show the effect. “Too fine for a peasant, too tame for a princess. It says: I am noble-born, but I serve higher still. It makes you small before royalty, but grand before common eyes. That is how you must stand.”

She next drew forth a short mantle of brown, plain but warm, clasped with a single bronze pin.

“This you will wear only when traveling or in the open air. It tells the world you are owned—not in cruelty, but in station. The cloak over the servant marks her as belonging to another household.”

I studied it all in silence, noting how carefully it had been chosen, how no seam or dye seemed accidental. It was a disguise forged as surely as any weapon.

Finally, she revealed a narrow cord, dyed crimson, braided thrice over.

“This,” Hecate said, and for the first time her voice carried a trace of iron, “is the belt. Never discard it. The belt carries the story of your form. Without it, the cloth is only cloth. With it, the folds mean what I intend: humility, service, obedience—but not degradation. Remember this.”

I touched the belt, feeling the rough braid under my fingertips, and thought suddenly of the horse reins I had held as a boy, learning balance and control. A cord to guide, a cord to restrain. A cord that could either strangle or save.

“And with these, ” Hecate finished, “your shape will vanish, and another will appear in its place. A servant girl, yes—but a servant wrapped in quiet protection.”

I looked at the garments, then back at her, and realized with a start that every piece had been chosen not only for concealment, but for safety. It was not just a disguise. It was a shield.

I hesitated only a heartbeat before Hecate’s level gaze pressed me forward. My palms were damp when I lifted the thin linen under-shift, the chitoniskos, and drew it over my head. It fell around me like water poured from a bowl—light, clinging just enough to trace my frame. The fabric cooled skin, softer than anything I had ever worn for training.

“Good,” Hecate murmured. “This is the unseen. It must never trouble you. It is the quiet that allows the rest to exist.”

Next, she offered the strophion, the binding band. For a moment, I only stared at it in my hands, pulse quickening. It felt heavier than it looked, as though it carried not cloth but choice.

Hecate stepped closer, her voice low, almost kind. “You may do this yourself, or I will help. There is no shame either way.”

“I will,” I said, though my throat was tight. I wound the band around my chest, tugging it snug. At first it bit—too sharp, too foreign—but as I adjusted, I felt the shape of myself shift. Softer, less pronounced. Not erased, but… gentled. I exhaled, realizing I had been holding my breath.

Hecate’s hand, cool and steady, touched my shoulder briefly. “It does not unmake you. It only hides what must be hidden.”

When she handed me the peplos, I felt steadier. The wool slipped over my head, draping in long folds down to my ankles. Its pine-green color darkened the linen beneath, drawing my figure inward. As I smoothed the fabric against my thighs, I could almost believe I was cloaked in someone else’s story.

Hecate guided my hands to the crimson belt. “Here,” she instructed, demonstrating how the folds should be gathered at the waist, the cloth pulled just so to convey humility, not elegance. When the cord was knotted, the garment settled into its true shape, as though the fabric itself recognized him at last.

I stood still, shoulders stiff, while Hecate stepped back to take in the whole. She nodded once, then held out the short mantle. I fastened it across my chest with the bronze pin, the weight of it resting like a hand declaring you belong.

Only then did Hecate bring a small polished bronze disk—no larger than my palm. A mirror. She set it into his hand.

I looked down. For a moment, I hardly recognized the figure staring back: the braid, the softened chest, the lines of the peplos falling neat and proper. My eyes were still my own, soft and attentive, but the rest—everything about the figure—read as something other than me, other than the boy Achilles had known.

The thought pierced me. Will he still see me?

I gripped the mirror tighter, heart thundering.

“You fear being lost,” Hecate said softly, watching. “But you are not lost. You are only veiled. The world will see one shape. He will see another. That is the difference.”

I swallowed hard, lowering the mirror. The weight of the garments pressed against my skin—not heavy like armor, but enclosing, reshaping. My movements already felt altered: smaller steps, hands drawn closer, chin inclined down.

I realized that if I let myself, I could disappear inside this role.

I adjusted the mantle at my shoulder again, fingers clumsy, restless. The weight of the mirror’s image lingered in my mind, unsettling. I turned to Hecate, uncertain, and found her already watching, her dark eyes glinting with patience older than the earth itself.

“Clothing is not enough,” she said. “You must wear the shape. Speak with it. Breathe with it. Let the world believe it, and it will.”

I straightened, though the belt at my waist made me feel restrained. “And how am I to do that?”

“By listening.” Hecate circled slowly, her hand occasionally lifting to tilt my chin or lower a shoulder. “You already know how to move as a man of war, as one who strides with purpose, who commands or challenges. That will betray you.”

Her palm pressed lightly between my shoulder blades. “Your step must narrow. The hips, let them sway—not exaggerated, but looser than the march you have lived your whole life.”

I tried, shuffling first, then lengthening the step. The fabric tangled at my ankles, nearly tripping him. My cheeks burned.

Hecate made a low sound, almost a hum of amusement. “Too stiff. You fight your own shadow. Watch.”

She took the mantle from my shoulder, draped it around herself, and in the span of a heartbeat, her body seemed to dissolve into a different bearing. Her stride was smaller, her hands folded in front of her waist, her head tilted down as if never meant to meet a prince’s eye directly. A servant girl, humble but noble.

Then she returned the mantle to me, steady as stone once more. “Try again.”

I swallowed, reset my shoulders, and imitated what she had done. It felt unnatural, forced—but Hecate’s approving nod gave some measure of confidence.

“Good. Again. Your gaze—lower. Servants see much, but they do not stare. Let your eyes move without being noticed. Curiosity is allowed, arrogance is not.”

I obeyed, forcing myself to cast my eyes downward, though the habit felt like chains around my neck. My chest clenched at the thought of Achilles seeing me so diminished.

As if sensing the thought, Hecate stepped close, her cool hand brushing against my arm. “You will falter,” she said plainly. “Perhaps often. There will be moments where the mask begins to slip, where pride or fear would betray you. Do not be ashamed of it. Should disaster press near, I will nudge you. As I always have. The shadows bend where I will them to bend. If a step is too heavy, I will lighten it. If your tongue nearly betrays you, I will dull it. You will not stand alone.”

Her words worked like balm, though my throat ached. I nodded, barely trusting myself to answer.

“Now,” she said, releasing me, her tone firm again. “Walk across the chamber. Once as yourself, then again as the girl. I want to see the difference.”

I drew a breath, lifted my chin, and walked as I always had—shoulders squared, step even, gaze meeting hers unflinching. Then I stopped, exhaled, lowered my head, drew hands inward, and took the same path again, this time letting the folds of the peplos guide the rhythm of my stride.

When I returned, Hecate’s mouth curled into the faintest, rarest hint of a smile. “Better. You are not yet invisible, but you are not the boy Achilles trained beside either. In between—that is where survival lies.”

~II~

I had only just managed to feel the rhythm of walking without tripping over the folds when Hecate’s hand lifted, halting.

“Clothing, posture, even the turn of your head—these are surface things. But your tongue will betray you faster than your step.”

I stiffened. My voice had always been quiet, but never meek. “And how must I speak?”

“First, forget command.” Hecate circled again, her shadow whispering along the floor. “You are accustomed to speaking in short, clean words. When you ask, it is nearly an order. When you answer, it is final. A servant girl does not speak like that—not to royalty, not in the presence of men who see her as little more than a shadow.”

Her voice shifted, and suddenly she was no longer Hecate but someone else: a girl’s soft lilt, polite but unassuming. ‘Yes, my lady. At once. Forgive me, I did not mean to trouble you.' The words slipped like water, graceful and low, careful not to leave an echo behind.

I frowned. “You want me to sound like—”

“Like you have no edge.” She cut in smoothly. “Keep your tone lower than song, higher than command. When speaking to royalty, make your words smooth, deferent. Bend them like a willow. Let me hear you.”

I hesitated, then tried, my voice cracking with uncertainty. “Yes, my lady… at once?”

It came out flat, awkward.

Hecate’s lips twitched with what might have been amusement. “Too much soldier still. You bite the ends of the words. Loosen them.”

I tried again, stretching the sounds, softening the consonants. This time, it slipped closer to what she had done.

“Better. Now lower your eyes when you speak. The voice and the gaze must move together. Again.”

I obeyed, repeating the words, this time with my head bowed.

“Good. Now—” She straightened, her presence expanding, her tone suddenly sharp with authority. “If you speak to a fellow servant, how would you answer? ”

I blinked, caught off guard. “I—wouldn’t I speak the same?”

“No.” Hecate’s voice carried a note of satisfaction at his confusion. “To royalty you are deferent. To those beneath or beside you, you must balance nobility with humility. You are not a slave. You are not poor. You are a servant of one near a throne. To them, your words hold weight, though lightly carried. Practice: answer me as if I were another in your household asking for your aid.”

I swallowed. I tried again, this time allowing a faint steadiness into my tone. “Of course—I’ll see to it right away.”

Hecate inclined her head. “Yes. You sounded useful, not commanding. Noble, but not above them. Remember—to the high, you are humble; to the low, you are steady. You walk the narrow road between. Fail at this balance, and you will be seen for what you are.”

I exhaled, tension humming in my chest. “And if I falter?”

“As I said,” she murmured, stepping close enough that her presence cooled the air, “I will nudge you. A flicker of shadow at your throat, a tug at your tongue. The words will bend where they must. But only if you let me.”

Her eyes caught mine, dark and endless, until I nodded.

“Good,” she said simply, pulling back. “Now. Again. This time, greet me as if I were the princess herself.”

I smoothed the skirts unconsciously, my hands uncertain as I stood straighter. Hecate’s presence seemed to press down on me until my heart beat against the cage of its ribs. I drew a quiet breath, and instead of faltering, instead of letting the soldier in mw take over, I let the words fall gently from my lips. My head dipped, eyes lowered just enough, the syllables soft and curved:

“My lady. What would you have of me? ”

The air seemed to pause. Hecate did not move, only studied me with that endless, unfathomable gaze. There had been no bite in my tone, no edge of command—only deference, smooth as though I had practiced it for years.

She tilted her head, finally. “…Interesting.”

I blinked, then, realizing her scrutiny was waiting for an explanation, gave a half-smile, almost sheepish. “Once—long ago—I was told to answer to Achilles the same way. To bow, to soften my words, to call him prince when others were listening.” My throat tightened faintly at the memory, but I pressed on. “He endured it for a time, until one day he snapped at me never to do it again. Fiercely. He said he’d rather be dishonored a hundred times than let me kneel before him.”

The smile faltered, leaving something more tender in its place. “But I remember how the words sounded. I remember how it felt, to speak them as though I belonged to him—not in battle, but in service.”

Hecate’s expression did not change, but her silence held a weight, as though she weighed more than just my performance. “So you draw on memory. Good. It means the role will not be foreign to you. What once you used to shield him, you will now use to shield yourself.”

Her hand lifted, a faint ripple of shadow brushing the edge of my chin. “Do not forget—the words were once love. Here, they are disguise. Do not let the two tangle, or you will betray yourself.”

I nodded, throat tight again, though I forced composure. “I understand.”

“Good.” Hecate stepped back, her cloak dragging silence with it. “Then again. This time with less memory, and more artifice. Let me see if you can separate the two.”

Hecate wasted no time. Once she had drawn the words from me twice more—once colored with memory, once scraped clean of it—she stepped into the center of the chamber and with a flick of her hand set the air shivering. Shadows crawled outward, curling along the stone walls until the plain chamber resembled something richer, broader.

“Your stage,” she said. “Here, you will live out every motion until it is not a mask but your second nature.”

I hesitated only a heartbeat before bowing my head, skirts brushing against my shins as I moved.

“Walk to me,” Hecate commanded.

I obeyed, careful now: chin lowered, shoulders softened, stride shortened just enough to mimic someone of slighter confidence. She watched as the steps took on the sway of fabric, as though the dress itself dictated the rhythm.

“Stop. Turn.”

I did so, skirts flaring lightly. My hands twitched toward my thighs, instinctive soldier’s stillness pressing against this newfound softness.

“No,” Hecate murmured, stepping closer. Her hand ghosted over my wrist but did not touch. “A servant girl’s hands are never still. They carry trays, fold linens, sweep, pour, hold. Idle hands betray the ruse. When you stand, hold your skirt or fold your fingers. When you move, let your arms flow with it. Again.”

I swallowed and tried. I let my fingertips curl into the cloth at my sides as I turned, and suddenly the gesture looked effortless.

Hecate’s smile was faint but satisfied. “Better.”

Then came the voice again, woven through movement. She set me to curtsy while speaking, to bow my head while asking permission, to pour invisible wine while answering softly, humbly, deferentially. Each time she corrected me with the precision of a blade:

“Too upright. Lower your eyes.”
“Your tone dripped with steel—smooth it to silk.”
“You do not command, you offer.”

I bore it all with quiet determination, sweat beginning to bead at my temple from the sheer concentration. I felt absurd at first, like a soldier forced to act in a child’s play, but soon—unnervingly soon—the motions began to fit. They slid together like steps in a dance.

By the time Hecate finally let the shadows relax, returning the chamber to itself, I found myself pacing its length as if it were a hall in Scyros. My head bowed at just the right angle when I imagined greeting a princess. Skirts pinched between my fingers as I dipped to a mock-curtsy. My voice, pitched lighter, gentler, carried like the hush of a well-trained servant girl.

At one point I stopped at the mirror she conjured and stared at the reflection—at the long curls, the softened features, the curve of the dress, the lowered eyes. It was still mw, and yet not me at all.

A rush of heat climbed into my cheeks at the sight, shame tugging me toward the impulse to turn away. Arms crossed over my chest in instinctive protection.

Hecate’s voice reached, low and steady, from behind. “You are ashamed because you see weakness. But it is not weakness—it is armor. One stronger than bronze or shield. The world will see what you let them, and no more.”

I shut my eyes, steadied my breath, then uncrossed my arms, forcing my hands back to my sides. “I’ll… keep at it. Until it feels natural.”

“You will,” Hecate replied, the certainty in her voice undeniable. “Already you wear it better than most. That is why I chose you.”

The chamber had grown quiet, the shadows softening at the edges, as I practiced one last curtsy under Hecate’s watchful gaze. My breath was steady now, each movement feeling slightly more natural, though the weight of the braid and the layers of cloth still pressed insistently against skin.

Hecate stepped forward, her long fingers brushing a stray curl from my face. Her dark eyes caught mine, holding in a way that made the world outside the chamber seem irrelevant.

“It is time,” she said softly. “For a name.”

I froze, uncertain. “A name?”

“Yes.” Hecate’s voice was gentle but carried weight. “A name for this form. One that the world will speak and yet not undo what you are. One that carries purpose and protection.”

She circled slowly, letting the fabric sway as she moved, and then finally stopped, placing a hand lightly on my shoulder. “You will be called… Kleio.”

I blinked. The sound felt strange on my tongue, foreign yet familiar. “Kleio? ”

“Yes.” Her tone deepened, revealing the hidden layers behind it. “It is not random. It is not meaningless. Consider your own name—Patroclus. Patro… from patēr, father. Clus… from kleos, glory. Together, a father's glory.”

I swallowed, comprehension blooming like fire. “And Kleio?”

Hecate nodded, faintly pleased with his quick understanding. “By renaming you Kleio, I remove the paternal weight. The patriarchal thread no longer binds you. What remains is glory—glory in its purest sense, not defined by men or fathers, but by your own being, your own choices, your own strength.”

I felt something lift in me, a small flame of pride, tempered by the humility of the disguise I now inhabited. “Even… in this form?” My voice was softer, almost reverent.

“Even in this form,” Hecate confirmed. “You are no less glorious, no less vital, no less worthy. The world will see a servant girl, but her name—your name—remains unbowed. Kleio. Glory itself, carried lightly in a vessel you control.”

I exhaled, feeling the name settle within me like a cloak. I whispered it to myself: “Kleio.” It felt both good and powerful, yet strange, all at once.

Hecate let her hand fall, and the faintest smile touched her lips. “Remember it well. Speak it to yourself often. The world may not know the name yet, but it will know the presence. And wherever you move, Kleio, you will carry that presence safely, unseen but unbroken.”

I nodded, heart swelling in a quiet, fierce defiance, even as I adjusted the braid and smoothed the peplos. For the first time, I felt fully the unity of disguise, purpose, and self—the armor Hecate had built for me, both body and soul.

~II~

Hecate drew a thin stick of incense from her shadows, its tip unlit, and held it between her fingers like a wand of possibility.

“Most gods,” she began, her voice low and patient, “demand something tangible—blood, gold, obedience. A trade of ownership. I… am not so bound. My magic is not in the taking, but in the weaving.”

I tilted my head, uncertain. “Weaving?”

She nodded, setting the incense between us. “Words are the most powerful offerings. Spoken rightly, they shape perception, bend shadows, guard the unseen. The name of a god holds infinite weight—too much for most mortals to handle. But you, Kleio, can carry it carefully.”

She pinched the end of the stick, igniting the tip of the incense. A curling line of fragrant smoke drifted toward the ceiling. “Now,” she said, handing it to me, “wave it.”

I stared, unsure. “Wave it… how?”

Hecate’s smile was faint, patient. “Say the word, then let your movement answer it. Try. If you were to say ‘hide’, how would you move the stick? ”

I froze, thinking, and then took the image of Hecate before me, framed as she had stood in the shadows. Slowly, I began moving the stick in sweeping strokes, brushing from her head to her feet, back and forth as though scrubbing the outline of her figure.

Hecate’s eyes widened just slightly. “You understand intention naturally. Even with a simple motion, you carry the essence of the word.”

Encouraged, she leaned closer. “Now, ‘confuse’ .”

This time, I grasped it quickly. Using only the lit end, I scribbled small, chaotic circles across the head of her vision, imagining the subtle scattering of thought and perception.

“Better,” Hecate said approvingly. “With practice, you will weave my magic with words unspoken. The smoke, the stick, the ritual—they are guides. The power lies in the vessel, the intention.”

I frowned, blunt. “So… I don’t actually need an incense stick to do it?”

Hecate chuckled, the sound soft and distant, like wind through a hollow column. “No. That stick was symbolic, a teaching tool. Your essence as my vessel, your thought, and your intention are enough. The stick merely makes the principle tangible. Remember this: the clear intention is all that matters. Nothing else.”

I nodded slowly, a weight settling in my chest—not the burden of responsibility, but the strange thrill of potential. “I think… I understand.”

“Good,” Hecate replied, eyes dark and steady. “Soon, you will practice this while moving, speaking, blending. In Scyros, every motion, every whispered word may save you—or him. That is the art you must learn now.”

I clenched my jaw, feeling the truth of her words press in. I inhaled the sweet incense, watching it thread through the air.

~II~

Hecate’s lessons grew stranger once I— Kleio , as she named this form—had found rhythm in the servant-girl’s mask. The walking, the tone of voice, the gentle bending of eyes downward instead of staring too long—all of this she praised as a seamstress praises her weaving, neat and tight, each stitch falling into place. But then she took my hands, turned the palms upward, and pressed the incense stick between my fingers again.

“Now you will learn what it is I have given you,” she said, voice hushed, as though teaching a child secrets not meant for daylight.

The flame smoldered faintly at the tip. I thought perhaps she would have me envision more scribbling in the air, trying to make sense out of chaos. Instead, she bent and whispered into my ear: “Say ‘left.’”

Confused, I glanced down where Hecate had warped the shadows once more, and with a slight flicker, a hare jumped from the darkness, its fur oil-dark, the little creature quivering at the edge of her hearth’s light. Her hand ghosted above my shoulder, not guiding but reminding me of her presence.

I raised the stick almost without thinking and flicked it toward the animal’s feet, a shooing motion, as though brushing away dust. “Left,” I said softly.

Something unseen sluiced through me then, a curious sensation like a stream of cold water suddenly spilling over my right shoulder and down my arm. Not forceful—no blow, no shove—but inescapable, the way gravity will not be denied.

The hare twitched its ears, startled, and then—obediently—bolted leftward, precisely as I’d suggested.

I blinked as my chest tightened with the weight of it. I had done that. Not begged, not forced, but steered. Nudged.

Hecate smiled, the corners of her dark mouth curling like smoke. “Do you feel it? The pressure? That is the weight of intention being carried. It will never crush you, but it will always make itself known when you are true to it.”

I swallowed. “It felt like pouring water. Not harsh, but… pressed.”

“A fitting image,” she agreed. “You are now what I am to you. A whisper at the edge of choice. A finger on the hinge of a door.”

She set another creature loose from the shadows—this time a crow, hopping in cautious little arcs. “Now. ‘Right.’ Show me you understand balance.”

I lifted my hand again. The crow turned, resisting for only the span of a heartbeat before shuffling rightward, exactly where I guided.

Hecate let the silence linger, then said, “You are beginning to understand. The smallest suggestions first. You do not crush a will—you change its current. You are the stone in the river, and the flow bends around you.”

I lowered the incense, staring at my fingers. I whispered, almost absently, “This is what you’ve always done to me.”

Hecate’s smile widened. “And now it is what you may do for others. Remember: it is not command, it is redirection. If you falter, if you lean too heavily, the will you touch will break—or break you. But if you learn to brush rather than seize, to redirect rather than demand… then there will be no lock you cannot open.”

The hare had disappeared into the shadows, the crow however perched now on a beam above us. I exhaled, shoulders still tingling from the lingering echo of that cold, pressuring weight.

~II~

Hecate then set me to use the same ability to nudge people, an effort she said would create challenges, but would also be a good lesson.

I remained out of sight, hiding behind a column, troubled by the complexity of whether I should really attempt to steer anyone’s perception, but Hecate reminded me that I can use this to help people, not just trick them. 

I take in the decision to act with a steady heartbeat, and watch as a servant of the palace carries a tray of glasses down the corridor. The glasses seem unbalanced, working to not topple, but not exactly secure either. I very subtly raise a finger, keeping out of view, and poke the image of the glasses: fix.

The servant pauses. 

I feel the weight of nudging a person like being kicked in the ribs. 

Hecate holds me steady, soothing a touch around my ribs. I suck in a tight breath silently, and hold it, watching slowly through the heavy discomfort, heartbeat in my ears, as the servant moves some of the glasses around, rearranging them until they stand securely, before continuing. I heave once they are far away enough, cradling my sides as if the strike had been real. 

I sat down as my breath finally came back, ribs expanding with shallow effort. My hand stayed pressed at my abdomen, still caught in the phantom ache. Hecate’s hand remained on my back, not pressing, not commanding, just a constant steadying weight.

“You understand now,” she said softly, voice level, without judgment. “A person’s mind resists more than a beast’s. They are tangled by thought, pride, caution. It is not so easy to shift a knot of rope as it is a single strand.”

My eyes lingered down the hall where the servant had gone, brow furrowed faintly. “It felt—wrong. Not the same as with the animals. Like I was taking too much.”

“You were taking too much,” Hecate replied, not unkindly. “You asked the man to think through an entire act: assess the glasses, decide their order, and change them all. That is a chain of choices. You will drain yourself if you ask for chains.”

I tilted my head, listening, still steadying my breath. “So I should… break the chain apart.”

“Exactly.” She moved her hand away then, a slow withdrawal, allowing me to sit with the thought without her weight to anchor. “One link at a time. To nudge one glass, or to hesitate mid-step. Smallest actions are best—they ripple outward. You are not here to become a puppeteer, Kleio. You are here to learn the difference between steering and overwhelming. Between help and harm.”

I drew my knees closer to myself, elbows balanced there, fingers worrying at each other. My voice was quiet when I answered: “I’ve always been better at holding a wound shut than drawing blood. I don’t want this to change that.”

Hecate looked at me—truly looked, her dark eyes never straying from my face. Then she gave a single nod. “And it won’t. That is why you will excel. Because you hesitate. Because you question. Power in hands like yours becomes aid, not tyranny. Do not confuse that weight in your chest as guilt—it is the measure of your conscience. Keep it.”

I exhaled, long and slow, and finally nodded back. My hand left my abdomen, though I still felt the echo of the pressure.

“Again,” Hecate said after a silence, her tone quieter now, almost a murmur. “But smaller this time. Choose one glass.”

I swallowed, straightened, then stood, and set my eyes back down the corridor, waiting for the next chance.

Another figure came down the corridor—a young attendant with a satchel tucked beneath one arm. The boy’s stride was brisk, purposeful, the satchel shifting with each step. My thumb flexed against my knee, then very faintly lifted into the air, making the smallest swipe across the boy’s vision as if brushing dust from a page: look.

The attendant’s eyes dipped down to his collarbone mid-step—only a glance, no pause, no thought—then carried forward as though nothing at all had happened.

My breath caught. The sensation that returned was almost delicate, foreign yet strangely intimate: a fingertip pressed to my cheek, fleeting and light, gone in the same heartbeat. Not the crushing force in my ribs this time, but still a weight, however brief.

I pressed my palm flat against my thigh, grounding myself, and murmured aloud, as though afraid to speak too loud would dispel the realization: “It’s them. I’m not only pushing—I’m being touched back.”

Hecate, who stood silent beside me, tilted her head in acknowledgement. “Balance. Always balance. You set your hand upon their will, and their will rests against yours. Push harder, and more of you meets more of them.”

My eyes flickered, widening with thought. “That’s why it hurt before. I wasn’t only pressing—I let him press into me just as much. He carried too much with him.”

“And now? ” Hecate asked.

My hand went to my cheek, ghosting over the place where the phantom touch had lingered. “Now it was… just a glance. Like a brush of skin in passing.”

“Then you are beginning to understand. A glance in passing is enough to shift a moment, to prevent a misstep, to draw one’s attention to danger, to help them notice what they would not. You need not break their stride to aid them. A glance is enough.”

I lowered my hand, gaze still following where the attendant had vanished around the corner. My heartbeat was steady this time, not frantic. But the strangeness of it clung, the knowledge that in that instant, however small, another soul had touched my own.

Hecate let me sit in silence for a moment, allowing the realization to settle in like sediment in water. Then, with her voice low and calm, she said:

“Now you will practice this balance. Nothing complex, nothing burdensome. Only glances, only touches. You will not shift a thought, nor a step, nor an intention—only the eyes.”

I turned toward her, brow furrowed faintly. “Only their eyes?”

“Eyes lead the rest,” she replied. “If you can guide them to look, you can teach yourself restraint. Every glance is a thread you pull, soft enough not to fray, light enough not to snap.”

She gestured to the corridor, where servants and messengers passed in intervals. “When one crosses, you will brush them. Nothing more. A sweep of your finger, a word in your mind. Left, right, up, down. Nothing that demands action. Only where they place their gaze.”

I shifted my weight, skeptical. “That seems… harmless. Almost meaningless.”

Hecate’s mouth curved into something unreadable. “Harmless is the point. Meaningless is not. You will feel the differences in weight, in force, in how they press back. A hundred glances will teach you what a single heavy push cannot.”

I exhaled slowly. I raised my hand, thumb braced against forefinger. The next passerby was a woman balancing a stack of folded linens. I brushed the air before me, softly, as though tugging at a string: up.

The woman’s eyes flicked upward, catching briefly on the ceiling beams, then dropped back to the linens.

The touch returned to me—featherlight, like someone’s breath on my temple.

I blinked, startled at its gentleness.

“Again,” Hecate murmured, steady as stone. “And again. And again. Until you no longer notice the strangeness. Until it is as natural as moving your own hand.”

I swallowed, a faint tightness in my chest. The task felt simple, almost deceptively so. Yet with each sweep of my fingers, each brush of unseen balance, I felt the boundary between myself and another life, the subtle thread of will meeting will.

It left me unsettled—but also, in some quiet way, empowered.

~II~

I did as she said. The days that followed blurred into a rhythm of corridors, passing feet, and the soft, silent sweep of fingers.

 A boy with ink-stained sleeves hurried past, muttering to himself about a delivery. I raised two fingers, barely brushing the air. The boy’s eyes flicked right, catching briefly on a wall torch before sliding back ahead. The weight of it returned—barely there, like the hush of a moth’s wing brushing my arm.

Hecate’s voice came: “Do not let the lightness fool you. A brush is still a touch. Every thread you tug is remembered.”

I wondered if the boy would recall the glance later, or if it would pass from his mind like smoke.

~II~

A guard in bronze strode through, eyes fixed forward. I nudged lightly upward. 

Nothing happened.

The man’s will pressed back—unyielding, immovable. The sensation hit me like leaning against stone. I flinched and dropped my hand, breath sharp in my chest.

“Not all threads may be pulled,” Hecate said, her hand hovering steady near my ribs. “Strength is not only in yourself, but in knowing where not to press.”

I nodded, shaken but absorbing the lesson.

~II~

A servant girl passed with a basket of figs. I barely moved, thumb flicking sideways. Her gaze slipped left for only a heartbeat—at nothing in particular—and then she walked on.

The return press was neither featherlight nor stone. It was like someone had leaned a shoulder briefly against mine before pulling away. Familiar. Human.

I exhaled, realizing how much easier it felt when I asked for less.

~II~

I tried three in succession. One man’s eyes tugged toward the floor, another’s toward the lintel above, a third toward the stairway where no one stood. Each returned differently: one like a sigh, one like a hand brushing his sleeve, one like a brief shove against my back.

By the third, my diaphragm ached as though I had been running uphill. I stopped, bent forward slightly, cradling my middle.

Hecate steadied me. “Pace, Kleio. This is not a soldier’s drill. This is weaving, and weaving cannot be rushed.”

~II~

I stood at the corridor wall, hand poised, waiting. My pulse was calmer now, breath measured. A messenger hurried by with scrolls tucked under his arm. I traced a faint curve downward. The man glanced at his feet, startled as if afraid of tripping, then continued.

The push that returned was quiet, nearly soft enough to vanish, but I held it. I felt it. I did not stumble, did not gasp.

I straightened, heart steady, lips parting slightly in realization.

Hecate’s voice was low, approving: “There. You feel it. Not intrusion, not domination. Balance. The thread that touches and is touched.”

I let my hand fall to the side. The corridor was silent once more, save for the faint echo of sandals on stone. For the first time, the strangeness did not unsettle me—it hummed, alive, inside my ribs.

~II~

The lapse came without warning.

I lifted two fingers toward one servant, another hand toward a guard that crossed behind her. I meant only to brush, to tip the balance of their eyes for a heartbeat.

But the moment my reach split—two threads pulled at once—the world shifted.

It was as though I had fallen soundlessly into water. My breath caught, yet I did not choke. Light around me dimmed, blurred, stretched thin as if I floated somewhere both vast and close. Time itself seemed to stretch—too slow, too thick—while my body stood still, unmoving.

I was stuck.

A rising panic pressed against my ribs, but even that moved sluggish, like bubbles struggling upward through a deep ocean. I could not move my limbs, could not even tip forward, yet I was not sinking either. I was suspended, and utterly bound.

The figures I had reached for passed by, untouched, unknowing. Their wills slipped free of me and carried on, and as they did, the weight broke.

Air rushed back into me. My knees buckled, but Hecate’s hand was there, firm at my elbow, keeping me upright. I knew with perfect clarity: she had not caused this stillness. She had simply kept me from toppling during it.

My heart hammered, breath ragged.

Hecate’s tone came measured, though edged with something like a warning: “You are very good at adapting to limits, Kleio. But your training ends here. I will not let you run further ahead of yourself.”

The words stung—less from reproach and more from the finality in them. I blinked, still half-bewildered by the oceanic stillness that had held.

“I—why did it happen? That…frozen feeling. For those moments, I couldn’t move at all.”

Hecate did not answer at once. Her silence lengthened, her gaze level. Only after a beat did she speak, low and careful:

“Nudging is not the only influence capable of being woven. Threads run thicker than yours, threads that belong to prophecy, or to fate. Those cannot be turned aside, not by you, nor by me. You felt yourself brush against such forces just now.”

I swayed faintly, thinking on it as though in a dream. The notion struck at something deep, something both frightening and mesmerizing.

“And…how does that connect to two nudges at once? To me being—caught?” My voice was hushed, curiosity forcing its way out despite the tremor still in me.

Hecate exhaled slowly—more sigh than breath. Not annoyance, exactly, but weariness at my persistence.

“You lack coordination between targets,” she said. “One will presses like stone, another like mist. When you tug both, their strength does not balance—it misaligns. Their variation pulls you in directions you cannot anticipate. Your body falters, your thread slips, and you misplace yourself. That is the stillness you felt.”

I shut my eyes briefly, recalling the weightless ocean, the way my muscles had refused me. A warning, wrapped in wonder.

When I opened them again, Hecate’s hand was still steady at my arm. She had not let go.

~II~

The silence after her explanation stretched long, heavier than the air in the chamber. My breath had steadied, though my chest still ached with the phantom press of that unmoving ocean. I searched Hecate’s face, waiting for the next lesson, for her to gesture, to begin again.

But she did not.

Instead, she smoothed the front of her dark robes with a gesture almost dismissive, and her voice, calm as stone, said,

“I have prepared your belongings for travel.”

I blinked. “…Travel?”

“There is a ship expecting to leave with a new flock of servants bound for Scyros. You must be on it, come dawn.”

Her words cut deeper than any reprimand. For a moment, I thought I had misheard. She had never once spoken of me leaving. Never once spoken of farewell.

My stomach turned, thick and sour, as if the stillness had returned, but this time it came from within. “You mean—this is finished? You are sending me away?”

Hecate’s gaze rested on me, neither cruel nor yielding. “I am not sending you away. I am guiding you where you are meant to be. What we have done here is finished. What lies beyond must be yours to walk.”

I pressed my hand against the column to steady myself, bile creeping up. The word rang in my ears— finished.

She took a step closer, her hand not reaching for mine this time, but lifting with quiet certainty as she spoke. “Do not mistake me. I am never gone from you, Kleio. I will be within you, around you. I will no longer decide each of your choices—until it is absolutely necessary.”

My throat worked, trying to swallow the unease. “But you are leaving.”

“I am returning,” she corrected. “Returning to the soft voice in your mind. The gentle breeze through your hair. You are my vessel, Patroclus. I do not leave behind what is mine.”

The words struck both as a comfort and a chain, binding and reassuring all at once. My sickness twisted sharper, though I could not tell if it was grief, fear, or awe that churned in me. Perhaps all three.

For the first time, she had spoken to me as if this truly were a farewell.

My mouth opened, but no answer came. Only silence, and the faint, phantom rush of wind stirring through my hair as though to prove her point.

~II~

The chamber felt different that night.

Not emptier—never empty—but unfastened, as if the tether that had anchored Hecate into flesh and voice had been gently loosed.

I sat on the low couch, belongings stacked neatly in a bundle beside me, waiting. My hands rested on my knees, and though I tried to still them, fingers tapped nervously against the fabric. The quiet pressed in. I almost thought to call her name aloud, to demand she appear, to tell me this was some test—

But then I felt it.

Not the commanding brush of her presence, not the star-like glow of her robes or the clear firmness of her words. It was smaller, subtler: a whisper sliding down my arms to my wrists, like cool water threading beneath the skin. A feather-light pressure at my elbows. The faintest sensation curling along ribs and the soles of feet, as though I stood in two worlds at once.

She was there.

But not before me—not as I had come to expect.

I drew in a breath, shaky at first, then deeper, steadier. The touch did not vanish. If anything, it pulsed, faint and rhythmic, like a second heartbeat running beside my own.

I leaned back against the couch, eyes closing. My chest ached with the realization: she had not lied. She had not fled. She had simply… stepped aside.

And with that came the weight of her meaning. For all this time, she had held my hand—literally, figuratively, binding me in guidance so I could not stumble too far astray. Now, she let me move without the lead rope. Trusting me. Expecting me to trust myself.

The thought made me clench my jaw. The air was cool against my skin, and for the first time since she spoke of dawn, I did not feel sick. Not quite. Uneasy, yes, but also—alive.

The night stretched on. I could not sleep, not truly, but I lay upon the couch with my bundle close, the ghost-touch at my ribs and elbows steadying me like invisible hands.

I whispered once, low into the dark: “I will not fail him.”

The hush that answered was not words, but the barest brush of air across my hair, so soft I might have imagined it. And then stillness.

Chapter Text

Dawn came soft and colorless, the horizon veiled in mist. The harbor of Aulis was restless with activity—ropes drawn taut, voices calling, crates thudding on planks. The ship Hecate had picked stood waiting, sails slack for the moment, its hull already swallowing the lives of servants bound for the isle.

I—Kleio now, as she had named me—stood at the edge of the dock with my bundle in hand. For a moment, the swell of voices and gulls seemed distant, as though the world moved just a little out of reach. I breathed in the salt air, the bitter tang of tar and wood, and beneath it, I listened.

There.

A brush along the forearm. A faint, cooling ripple at the ribs. A half-step of air against the back of my neck, as though the morning breeze carried her with it. Not command, not insistence—simply presence. A reminder without tether.

The sickness that had pressed my stomach the night before did not rise. Instead, I felt the oddest certainty, as though I carried a hidden flame within my chest. She was not gone. She had not left me. She lingered at the edges of focus, an echo in the marrow of bones, no longer steering, but always near.

My grip tightened around the bundle.

When the sailor at the gangplank barked for the next aboard, I did not hesitate. I set one foot on the worn wood, then the next, the boards creaking still under my lighter weight. My heartbeat thudded in my ears, but it was steady. Confident. The ghost-touch at my ribs seemed to nudge me forward—not in force, but in faith.

As the dock fell behind, swallowed by fog and the rising swell, I did not look back.

I did not need to.

~III~

The voyage began with silence—at least for me. The servants around me quickly fell into rhythms of chatter and shared burdens, voices softening the hard edges of labor, but I kept mostly to myself, listening. I knew well enough that distance made anyone conspicuous, and familiarity—however slight—was its own armor. These would be the people I lived among, worked beside, and slept near in crowded spaces. If I did not belong with them, I would stand apart, and standing apart was dangerous.

So I watched, and slowly—deliberately—placed myself near their circles without pressing into them. A word of agreement here, a nod there, small acknowledgments that earned returned glances, faint smiles, or the casual brush of a hand as someone shifted closer on the benches. In a matter of days, I was not a stranger in their eyes, not a shadow to be questioned, but simply Kleio, another thread in their fabric.

It was during those quiet days of integration that I noticed her.

At first, she seemed little different from the rest—dressed plainly, hair bound against the wind—but her presence carried a weight that did not come from habit or labor. Her skin bore the sun’s bronze, her auburn hair shifting shades with the day: brown in dimness, ruby when it caught the light. And yet it was not her looks that marked her most to me, but her way.

She had a gentleness in her voice, not airy but steady, when she spoke to the other women. A hand on a shoulder, a word to soothe nerves about the sea’s rolling, laughter shared with ease. Warmth radiated from her not like fire, but like sunlight that reached everything it touched without demanding notice. It was the warmth of someone used to standing higher and yet choosing, quietly, to stand level with those around her.

I watched longer than I meant to. I felt it, the pull in my chest—a recognition that she was not just important to notice, but good to know. Reliable. A presence that would not fray under strain. And, I thought with something like longing, perhaps even kind.

The thought unsettled me. Friendship was not foreign, but to choose it here, to reach across this anonymity where no one knew my true name—this was something else. Something risky, something strangely vulnerable.

Still, when her laughter carried across the deck and met my ears, warm as the sun on the water, I caught myself thinking: I would not mind being her friend. I would not mind at all.

All that remained was courage—finding the right moment, the proper excuse. For now, I was content to wait, listening for the echo of Hecate’s ghost-touch in my ribs, and telling myself that when the time came, I would not falter.

The first moment came not by intention but by stumble.

The sea was restless that morning, a wind pressing hard against the sail, and I had been tasked with carrying a bucket of water across the deck. I moved carefully, adjusting balance with each tilt of the ship, when the boards beneath me shuddered and I clipped a shoulder against another body. Water sloshed, spilling across the planks, and I turned quickly with an apology on my tongue.

It was her.

The auburn-haired woman steadied the rim of the bucket with her hand before I could fumble further, her touch sure, almost casual in its rescue. “Careful,” she said lightly, her voice smooth as the waves when they lapped calmly against the shore.

I lowered my head. “Forgive me. I should have been more mindful, my lady.”

Her smile was immediate, but it carried a trace of mischief. “You needn’t speak to me like that.” She straightened, letting her hand fall back to her side. “I am Briseis. I am bound for Scyros as a noble, yes—but on this deck, I would rather not be addressed like one.”

I blinked, hesitating. The lessons whispered through him: deference, restraint, the habit of distance. But she gave me no space to retreat, her gaze warm and steady, her presence like sunlight on the chilled spray of sea air.

“I’ve seen you,” Briseis continued, softer now. “Always so polite. Always so quiet. You stay near the others but apart from them—close enough to listen, but never close enough to be heard.” She tilted her head slightly, as if trying to puzzle me out. “I don’t want someone like you to be alone on a voyage like this.”

The words brushed through me like Hecate’s ghost-touch along the ribs—unexpected, startling, but not unwelcome. For a moment, I simply looked at her, and then I bowed my head slightly in thanks.

“Your kindness honors me,” I said, voice low but steady. “If you are willing, I will be grateful for your company.”

Briseis beamed at that—beamed as though I had given her a gift instead of the other way around. “Good,” she said, her smile bright enough to match the sun at the sail’s edge. “Then it’s settled.”

And just like that, I felt the ship a little less vast, the sea a little less endless.

~III~

The days bled into each other in rhythm with the sea: rope pulled taut, the creak of wood, the constant lap and hiss of waves. Within that pattern, Briseis began to appear like recurring sunlight through a restless sky.

At a meal, when the servants were gathered with bowls in hand, I lingered at the edge of the group as usual. Briseis caught my hesitation and nudged an empty space beside her with her knee. “Here,” she said, patting the plank. “You’ll starve if you wait to be invited every time.” Her tone was firm but kind, her eyes amused. I sat, and though I spoke little, she leaned closer just once to ask quietly, “Comfortable?” I nodded. She smiled, satisfied, and carried on speaking with the others until my silence no longer mattered.

Then again, one afternoon, Briseis joined me where I sat mending a frayed hem, her shadow falling across my hands. “You work neatly,” she remarked, watching. When I started to explain the method in polite, cautious detail, she cut me off gently: “Don’t be so stiff. It’s just me.” Then, to make me laugh, she added, “If you can’t be untidy around friends, where can you?” I didn’t laugh aloud, but my lips curved just enough for her to notice.

And then again. A windstorm tossed the ship, and many were unsettled, their chatter loud with unease. Briseis found me by the mast, my face pale but calm, hands folded neatly in my lap. She leaned beside me, shoulder brushing mine just barely, and whispered, “You’re steadier than half the crew.” I glanced at her, uncertain whether she meant it in jest, but she grinned and held her ground until the corners of my mouth eased.

Our unseemingly friendship continued to grow, out on the sea.

The first time Briseis leaned against the railing beside me, the sea swaying softly beneath us, it was to speak of nothing in particular. A complaint about the heat, a comment on the thinness of the bread served, and the way the deckhands barked at one another like stray dogs. I, at first, only answered with small nods, murmured words. But Briseis had a gift for warmth that persisted like sunlight through shutters, and soon her voice threaded into my quiet days until it felt natural that she should be there.

Meals shifted. Where I had once sat neatly at the edge of benches, speaking only when addressed, Briseis would slide in beside me, her laugh quick, her glance sharper than her smile. Her presence drew others in, and before I could recognize the change, I found myself within the circle rather than watching its edges. They teased me gently for my politeness, for the way I seemed startled by jokes, and it was Briseis who checked with a touch or a glance when the laughter tilted too far. Always she seemed to keep me from drifting too far into solitude.

It was some nights later, with the sea glinting black and silver beneath the stars, that Briseis confided in me. Small things at first: the petty cruelty of another noblewoman she’d once served beside, the way her household had stifled her voice, the frustration of being told to smile when she wished to speak. I listened, hands folded together in my lap, the silence carrying weight rather than emptiness. When she paused, uncertain, I surprised myself by asking quietly:

“Would you like only my ear, or my suggestion as well?”

Briseis tilted her head, a faint surprise sparking in her eyes, then softened. “Both,” she decided, as though the word came with trust.

I answered carefully, with respect, but without falseness. “If they expect you to smile when you wish to speak, then perhaps it is better you give them both in measure. Smile as they ask—and then speak anyway. They cannot take both at once.”

She blinked, considered, then laughed low. “Wise. Far wiser than your years, Kleio.”

The praise flushed hot, and the weight of her gaze made me restless. On instinct, I reached for a tether—and found one in the shape of a lie woven from truth.

“I am used to guiding my husband,” I said softly, lowering my eyes as if it were a confession. “He is often quick to temper, though never with me. Only with arrogant men who seek to provoke him. I’ve learned to give him direction when his anger could carry him too far.”

Briseis’ lips curved into a grin, girlish, conspiratorial. “So you are married.” She leaned closer, voice full of teasing delight. “Then you must tell me everything. What is he like?”

I stammered, color high in my cheeks. “Strong,” I began, “a fighter. Bold beyond sense, and certain of himself. He… he is arrogant, yes, but only with men who mistake arrogance for strength. With me, he is…” My throat tightened, the longing sudden and sharp. “Gentle.”

Briseis listened with the care of a friend, her teasing quieting into a respectful warmth. “And parting from him? That must be heavy.”

My hand tightened against the table, nails pressing into the wood. “It is a burden I am not sure how to carry,” I admitted.

Her eyes softened. “And his name?”

For a moment, panic flickered in me. To say it would be to undo all that Hecate had woven. I hesitated, then shook my head, gaze lowered. “I’d rather not. He has a high station, and to speak his name on such a voyage might bring ill luck. I cannot chance it.”

Briseis accepted this with a small nod, her auburn hair shifting in the breeze. Then her grin returned, sly and kind. “Still, Kleio—you have never spoken so much, not all at once, and certainly not with such eagerness. We should gossip of husbands more often.”

I laughed then, soft but true, the sound surprising even myself. For the first time since that dawn had carried me away from Hecate, the ghost of loneliness eased from my chest.

The ship rolled gently, its timbers creaking as the waves bore them onward, and in the servants’ circle of low voices and scattered laughter, Briseis leaned closer to me with the sly brightness of someone who had found a secret game.

“You must tell me more,” she urged, brushing a strand of auburn hair back behind her ear. “Your husband sounds fierce, but I think you make him gentle. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

I flushed again, tugging at the edge of my sleeve as though to anchor myself. “Perhaps… he listens when I speak. Not always willingly, but eventually. His stubbornness is…” My lips curved, the faintest smile. “It’s half his strength and half his downfall.”

Briseis laughed softly. “A stubborn man, then. Gods help you. But I think I would like him.” She paused, eyes narrowing in mock-seriousness. “Does he at least have manners? Or does he stomp about like a bull and leave you to smooth the earth behind him?”

That drew a quiet laugh, one that slipped past my reserve. “The second. Without question.”

Briseis clapped her hands once, delighted, though she quickly tempered her joy so as not to draw too many glances. “Ah, see, that is a husband’s purpose—keeping us occupied in mending the paths they crush underfoot. Mine is not so different.”

I tilted her head, careful but curious. “Yours?”

Briseis’ voice softened. “Yes. He is kind, though not always with words. He is often away—far too often—but when he is near, he is steady as the sea. I do not worry when he is with me.”

I watched her in silence, then asked with practiced gentleness, “Do you want my ear or my suggestion?”

The corners of Briseis’ mouth lifted. “Both, as before.”

“Then I would say…” My gaze lingered, thoughtful. “That steadiness is a rare gift. If he is gone often, then perhaps it means others depend on his strength as much as you do. It makes the moments you share worth holding even closer. Not lesser for their rarity, but greater.”

For a moment, Briseis only stared, as though I had set a mirror before her that she hadn’t expected. Then, her face broke into a grin. “How wise you are. How old are you truly? A freshly bloomed woman, and already a priestess of counsel?”

My blush deepened, but I lifted my chin in mock dignity. “I am married. It comes with certain… duties.”

Briseis leaned in eagerly, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tell me more then. How does he look at you? Like a conqueror? Like a supplicant?”

My chest ached with warmth at the thought, and I answered softly, “Like I am his anchor. His home.”

Briseis sighed dreamily, though her grin was teasing. “Ah, now you sound like a poet. If you keep on, I’ll be forced to steal him away from you.”

I laughed, shaking my head, but my voice was firm. “No one could.”

The two of us lingered here, speaking in circles of husbands unnamed, weaving warmth into the air between us like a tapestry. Briseis’ girlish coaxing brought detail after detail from me—of a man fierce and loyal, stubborn and tender in turn—while I listened with equal care to the scattered fragments Briseis offered of her own.

By the time the meal ended, the servants were dispersing, and yet the two women remained side by side, shoulders nearly brushing. Briseis gave me a quick, conspiratorial smile.

“We must gossip more often. You are too quiet otherwise, and I like the sound of your laugh.”

My blush had not received the chance to slip away, but I did not look away this time. “Then you shall hear it again.”

~III~

The wind was softer that evening, the ship rolling more gently than it had in days, its timbers creaking like a lullaby. The servants had withdrawn into little clusters along the deck, laughing in corners, speaking in whispers or resting heads against folded arms. Briseis, seated where the moonlight caught her hair, gestured for me to come near, her smile tugging the shyness out of me before I could think better of it.

We began, as we often did, with Briseis coaxing: teasing questions, soft laughter, small confidences. She asked of my husband again, eager as a girl speaking of love in secret. And I, warmed by her persistence, found the words spilling out more freely this time—how my husband’s pride was quick, how anger burned in him only for arrogant men, never for those he loved. How in private he could be quiet in ways no one else would imagine. My cheeks burned, but Briseis leaned closer, delight plain in her eyes, listening as though every detail was treasure.

“And you,” I asked at last, braver for her smile, “do you love your husband in such ways too?”

Briseis tilted her head, soft with thought. “I do. He has his cruelties, his roughness—men are rarely without it. But there are moments, when it is only him and I, that I feel something gentler in him. That is what I carry.” She let the words hang between us, unguarded.

Our talk shifted, drifting to the daughters of King Lycomedes, whom all the ship’s passengers were bound for. Briseis spoke candidly: how each princess would take her portion of servants, as though drawing lots at a feast. “I worry for you, Kleio,” she confessed, her fingers toying with the seam of her gown. “You are quiet, gentle, too careful for your own good. They could disregard you, or worse. Cruelty can be a sport for high-born girls.”

My throat tightened. I stared at my hands folded in my lap. “…I have thought the same.”

Briseis, watching me, seemed to weigh something before she leaned nearer. “I’ve wondered, ever since you told me of your husband—why would a married woman be sent to serve a foreign king at all?”

The question pierced too close. My breath caught, and I swallowed against the knot in my chest. But the lie came smooth, practiced by heartache. “My husband’s mother. She… wished to use me, to force me into schemes, manipulations. I could not stay. Leaving was the best decision left to me.”

Briseis’s eyes softened with sorrow. “That’s why you wince when I speak of going home to my husband. It wounds you, because you cannot go to yours.”

I looked up, blinking back the sting in my eyes. I straightened my spine, refusing the collapse of grief. “One day, I will return to him,” I said, voice firm. “Whether with his mother’s anger, or worse, I will still find my way back.”

For a moment, Briseis simply studied me, as though seeing the steel beneath the quiet. Then she smiled—a sad, proud sort of smile. “You are brave, Kleio. Braver than most I’ve known. To be so determined by love, that is no small strength.”

“It is my only strength,” I whispered, meaning every word.

Briseis shifted closer, so near that the scent of her oils drifted between us. She reached for my hand, her grip firm with resolve. “If any of the princesses dare mistreat you, I will speak to the king myself. I’ll bargain for you, Kleio, and have you placed under me instead.”

My eyes widened, startled. “That would be impossible—you’d risk the king’s fury! Even for a noblewoman, such leverage—”

“I am not just a plain noblewoman,” Briseis interrupted, gaze steady. “If it comes to it, I will risk what I must. For your safety.”

The words struck deeper than expected. I stared at her, chest tight with gratitude so sharp it nearly hurt. “I don’t deserve such kindness,” I whispered, shaking my head.

Briseis’s grip only tightened. “Never say that again. Not to me, not to anyone. You are worth protecting, Kleio. Never discredit yourself.”

My lips trembled into the smallest smile, warmed through by her fierceness, by this unexpected bond. In her presence, the ghostly echo of the goddess that lingered in my chest seemed to hum softer, as though in approval.

The night carried with it a hush that seemed to soften the rocking of the ship, a lull that made every whisper feel heavier, every touch linger longer than it should. I sat with Briseis on the small bench against the wall, the candle between us throwing faint shadows against the beams above. My chest ached, not with pain but with the fullness of having been seen and heard so directly—Briseis’s loyalty had wrapped around me without warning, and the weight of it pressed at my eyes until they blurred.

Briseis noticed instantly. She shifted closer, gentle in a way that did not match the bluntness of her tongue, and lifted a hand to my cheek. “Don’t cry alone,” she murmured, and without hesitation pressed the lightest peck to my brow, smoothing back a strand of dark hair from my temple. Then, as if to insist the ache should be split between us, she pressed our faces together, cheek to cheek, skin to skin. The closeness was not romantic—there was no attempt at it—but it held the intimacy of shared grief, of women who had weathered storms they never asked for.

The warmth broke through my trembling. I closed my eyes, letting the touch root me to something that wasn’t loss. Briseis didn’t let go until my breath steadied.

Later, when we parted from the other servants for the night, Briseis took me by the hand and walked me back to the cramped quarters I had been given. The gesture was simple, but protective in its quietness, as though daring anyone to look in any way but with respect. Once inside, Briseis stayed. She guided me to sit and reached carefully for my hair. “Let me,” she said softly, and began to undo the braid with deft fingers, never tugging, never disturbing the jewels woven into it. Each gem she left nestled, respecting them as much as the woman who bore them.

I let myself be tended to, though my throat still ached. When Briseis saw the shadows returning to my expression, she shifted tactics. With deliberate persistence, she started small—an exaggerated imitation of one of the rowers, a cutting remark about the cook’s obsession with fish stew, a teasing mimicry of one of the princesses’ rumors. She poked, teased, and prodded at my solemnity until, against my will, I let slip a short laugh. Briseis only doubled down, making a game of pulling another from me. Before long, the tears had dried, replaced with quiet, breathless laughter that carried us past midnight and into the earliest edge of dawn.

I lay back at last, chest lighter, eyes sore but not from grief. Briseis had succeeded in chasing the ache away, if only for tonight. And in that stillness, I thought that Briseis was the nearest equal to Achilles I had found—not in love, not in devotion, but in the gravity of a bond that could not be faked. A sisterhood, a kinship. The kind of closeness one might have with a sibling born under the same foreign roof, surviving together despite the weight of fate.

For the first time since stepping on this ship, I felt I had someone I could stand beside without the disguise between us breaking the truth of what we shared.

~III~

The sun had barely climbed the horizon when the ship slid into the small harbor of Scyros, the water catching gold in soft ripples. My heart fluttered with both anticipation and trepidation; the city was unfamiliar, its scents and sounds prickling nerves. I kept close to the railing as the gangplank was lowered, the wooden boards creaking beneath careful steps.

Briseis stayed at my side, her hand occasionally brushing my sleeve in reassurance, a subtle tether that reminded me that I wasn’t alone. As we stepped onto the docks, Briseis’s eyes darted over the figures around us—guards in polished bronze, merchants carrying crates, nobles inspecting their arrivals. She subtly shifted her posture so that I naturally remained just behind her, not hidden but shielded by her presence.

A guard approached, eyeing the newcomers. Briseis offered a small, polite bow, her voice firm but warm as she greeted him. I followed suit, mimicking the bow and words as I had been trained, but Briseis never let me step forward alone. When the guard’s gaze lingered on me for even a moment too long, Briseis’s hand lightly pressed on my elbow, guiding me to meet the man’s eyes with calm confidence, and then stepped slightly in front, projecting both courtesy and authority.

We passed through the bustling docks and into the narrow streets that led to the palace. Each step carried a new uncertainty—noblewomen walking past with curious or disdainful looks, merchants haggling loudly, guards exchanging coded nods—but Briseis never faltered. She whispered small instructions under her breath when necessary: how to tilt my head, how to let my voice sound humble yet present, how to hold my hands so as not to appear weak or timid.

I felt the weight of Hecate’s lingering presence in my chest, the ghostlike touch urging steadiness, but it was Briseis’s unwavering guidance that anchored me in reality. The subtle reassurances, the occasional squeeze of my hand, the way she adjusted my posture without making a scene—these were acts of protection as crucial as any shield.

As we approached the palace gates, the grandeur of Scyros stretched before us—columns of white stone, the banners of the Lycomedes family fluttering in the morning breeze. Briseis kept her arm lightly brushing mine, a quiet signal that she would not let any threat, subtle or overt, reach me. Even when a passing noble gave a disapproving glance, Briseis’s slight tilt of the chin and steady gaze ensured that I would not feel the sting of scrutiny.

I realized with a quiet, swelling relief that Briseis’s loyalty was not performative; it was instinctive. It matched, in some small way, the devotion I had known with Achilles—protective, watchful, and unwavering—but without the binding of romantic or martial obligation. It was care given freely, and for me, that was as close to a true companion as I had found since leaving home.

~III~

The palace doors opened into a high, echoing hall, white stone catching the sunlight in a dazzling glare that made my eyes water just slightly. The servants were assembled in a line three deep, the way a tide pool might present its brightest fish for inspection, each trying not to stumble, each trying to appear polished, subtle, and unremarkable while still holding a semblance of pride. I kept my gaze forward, fingers lightly folded, and tried not to let the nerves claw too far up my throat.

Briseis remained beside me, in the same line, shoulders squared, chest lifted with calm composure. She was a noblewoman, and in every other circumstance, protocol would demand she step aside, stand apart, or somehow show her station. Yet she did not move. Her presence was deliberate, a tether, steadying me in the current of anxious energy.

A sharp voice broke the quiet. “Lady Briseis,” it called, measured but cold, carrying the unmistakable authority of royalty. The words made me flinch slightly, stomach tightening.

The speaker stepped forward—a woman with black hair, straight at the roots but turning into a wispy haze at the ends, eyes as dark as onyx, sharp against the softer hazel of Briseis. Every inch of her radiated both confidence and quiet menace. Briseis responded immediately, her tone cool but deferential, “Princess Deidamia,” she said, bowing with careful precision, each word measured as if it could not afford to falter.

I froze at the sound of the name. Deidamia. The vision from my first glimpse of Scyros came flooding back—the dark-haired woman, the one whose presence had sent a red shadow across the images of Achilles, the woman who would, in some way, attempt to harm him. The uncanny resemblance made me pale, though I knew better than to betray it outwardly.

My gaze swept the princesses’ line, searching for Achilles, my chest feeling hollow. 

He was nowhere among them.

 Not merely because he was disguised, but because he was entirely absent, standing somewhere else, unseen. The weight of his absence pressed down, a hollow ache that made me feel unmoored despite the training.

King Lycomedes, whose presence was far more serene than his daughter’s, stepped forward. His gaze fell on Briseis with a measured curiosity. “Why do you insist on standing amongst the servants, my lady?” he asked, a faint, polite smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Briseis did not turn to me as she answered, but I could feel the subtle closeness she maintained, the tether of loyalty that kept her side near. “I have grown rather fond of them on the journey here,” Briseis said carefully, her voice even. “I thought perhaps, after the daughters have made their selections, I might request one for myself.”

A faint murmur ran through the assembly of princesses. A few looked stricken with offense, but the King’s interest never wavered. “I see,” he said. “Very well. But you must leave the group, so that the daughters may properly view all options.” He paused, a softening in his voice. “You shall have a servant of your choosing afterward.”

Briseis inclined her head, again avoiding eye contact with me, and stepped aside. I felt the small loss keenly, as if Briseis’s proximity was a shield now withdrawn. I pressed my hands together, trying to steady the tremor that had begun in my chest.

Then, like a pack of lionesses descending on prey, seven pairs of eyes swept over the servants. Each glance was a careful, predatory assessment, taking stock of posture, height, grace, composure, and the faintest hints of temperament. My pulse quickened, the trepidation thick in my chest, my every muscle taut and aware. I reminded myself of Hecate’s lingering presence, the ghostlike touch in limbs and ribs, a calm anchor amid the torrent of attention, but it did little to still the hollow echo of Achilles’ absence.

I inhaled sharply and tried to center myself, remembering every lesson in posture, every measure of humility and dignity, every instinct both Hecate and Briseis had helped me cultivate on the journey. The tide of scrutiny was here, and I was expected to stand, not to falter, as the princesses began their deliberate, calculating survey.

The moment Deidamia’s gaze met mine, the familiar foreboding prickle of Hecate’s whisper flickered against my mind. 

Deidamia has been challenged. She will seek revenge, the goddess murmured, a ghostlike warning that slid along my spine and into my chest. The knowledge brought no comfort, only a pulse of panic that I smothered with the effort of control I had honed for so long.

The line of servants thinned meticulously around me, sliding away with precision, leaving me isolated, the last of three, as if the others had been drawn by invisible hands to the edges of the hall. It crossed my mind that Hecate had orchestrated this—perhaps not to harm, but to hide me more effectively from scrutiny. The pressure of being alone before the gaze of a calculating princess tightened my chest.

Deidamia’s eyes found me like a snake. Cold. Sharp. Predatory. The moment stretched, and I felt the serpent-like will of the princess biting at my throat, a weight pressing through limbs, demanding recognition. Without much thought, instinct took over. I remembered Briseis, the warmth of her friendship, the tether of loyalty I had cultivated. I would not allow Deidamia to claim me from Briseis, or, unknowingly, bar me from Achilles.

A nudge surged from my own will, tempered and guided by Hecate’s lingering presence. I imagined sweeping Deidamia’s head to the side, to the other servants remaining, and thought the words sharply: Not me. At once, my muscles trembled, mind burning with exertion. The princess’s force was venomous, coiling through my chest, but I held, feeling the snake-like bite of the challenge pass slowly, a savage test of endurance. Hecate’s subtle shielding masked some of the danger—the way my breath cut sharply, the wild, sudden flicker of my eyes—but the pressure was enough to leave me weak, every limb heavy as if poisoned by exertion.

Time seemed stretched into eternity, each heartbeat a hammer against my will. And then, finally, Deidamia’s gaze shifted, breaking from me, and settled on the last two servants with a decisive claim. I sagged, relief mingling with lingering tremors. Briseis’ expression faltered only for a fraction of a moment, then leveled into calm composure, concealing any hint of surprise at my success at being the last servant.

All eyes turned to King Lycomedes, whose quiet curiosity dominated the room. “Briseis,” he asked, “will you meet your request for an attendant?”

My heart thudded violently in my chest as Briseis’ gaze softened briefly toward me, a subtle acknowledgment. She inclined her head carefully, hiding her joy behind composure. “Though Kleio is the only one left,” she said, her voice even, “and may not impress as intended, I will accept the gift from Your Majesty nonetheless.”

I swallowed hard, the tension finally releasing in a rush of relief that poured through my chest, limbs loosening, breath coming easier. Hecate’s lingering touch whispered warmth against my senses, affirming my strength, choice, and control. In that moment, I allowed myself the smallest, most private smile, knowing I had survived the first true test of the Scyros, and that Briseis—my steadfast friend—had been my anchor through it all.

~III~

In the following days, I followed Briseis through the bustling corridors of Lycomedes’ palace, eyes darting to each group of servants lined up or moving about. The changes were unmistakable: small tokens of color, subtle sigils sewn into tunics, little bands of ribbon or cloth around sleeves and waists, each marking the servant’s allegiance to a particular princess. The distinctions were precise, almost ritualistic, and I noted how quickly the newly chosen servants adapted to these signs, their movements almost instinctively deferring to their designated noblewoman.

In contrast, I had remained in the wardrobe Hecate had selected: deep forest greens and muted browns that allowed me to blend into the background yet spoke of careful thought and refinement. The crystals in my braid caught the light in delicate glints, emeralds, amethysts, and the sharp black Obsidian reflecting faintly with every turn of my head. I could feel Hecate’s lingering presence, soft but steady, whispering guidance as I moved.

Curiosity tugged at me, however, and I leaned close to Briseis as we walked. “Do you… have colors you would want me to wear, My Lady?” I asked quietly, mindful of my posture, tone careful and respectful.

Briseis glanced at me with a gentle smile, the corners of her eyes crinkling faintly. “No, Kleio. Wear what you are most comfortable in. Don’t feel you have to perform for me or please me with appearances. Let yourself exist without that weight.”

I felt the warmth of something that nearly matched the sun’s rays filling my chest. It was rare to receive from someone not Achilles—being seen without expectation, without judgment. “Thank you,” I murmured, voice soft, and for a fleeting moment, I allowed myself to relax against Briseis’ presence.

The kindness wasn’t performative, wasn’t measured—it was steadfast, unconditional. And I realized that in Briseis, I had found not only protection and guidance, but a rare, genuine respect. That was perhaps the most grounding of all: someone who asked nothing of me beyond my own comfort and safety.

Of course, not every path taken through the palace was as pleasant.

I stepped lightly into the grand hall without Brisei once, keeping my eyes lowered just enough to remain unobtrusive, yet alert to every movement around. The line of servants parted to make way, though the whispers of those already chosen trailed faintly behind me like ripples.

Princess Deidamia, standing near the center of the hall with her dark hair falling like a curtain around her shoulders, seemed almost to hum with authority. Her gaze flicked across the room with an intensity that felt like it could carve stone, and I felt it strike against me even before words left her lips.

When Deidamia finally spoke, the sharpness of her voice sliced through the murmurs of the court. Every word was calculated, pointed, designed to unsettle and provoke. “And who is this?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, her eyes narrowing in. “A servant… or something else?”

I felt the intended sting, the weight of the question as if it were a blade meant to test my composure. Yet, beneath the surface, I saw more than just the arrogance of royalty. There was hunger there, the familiar glint of someone shaped by expectation and ambition, someone seeking leverage, influence, and validation in the power she wielded. Deidamia’s scorn was a shield, but not all of it; the rest revealed a woman who craved more than her title afforded.

I straightened, allowing myself the smallest lift of chin, and answered with careful neutrality, voice soft but precise. “I am Kleio, a servant of Briseis, Your Highness.”

Deidamia’s lips curved faintly, not quite a smile, but a recognition of challenge. “Briseis’ servant, is it? We shall see how well you serve.”

Even as the words landed with subtle venom, I understood the game: Deidamia measured, sought to unsettle before she even began, to assert dominance and test control. But my attention didn’t linger on the sting. I acknowledged it, then let it pass, focusing instead on the woman behind the sharpness—the ambition, the cunning, the desire to rise above circumstance.

It was a subtle lesson in observation, in reading beyond words and tone, and I felt Hecate’s quiet echo in my mind, nudging my awareness. Every interaction was a door, every word a threshold, and even a princess’ scorn could be a map if one knew how to read it.

I took a breath, steadying myself, knowing that surviving Deidamia’s gaze would require more than politeness—it would require understanding, patience, and the careful application of my own guidance, my own subtle influence, the kind Hecate had taught me.

~III~

The days carried on with their own kind of stinging nettle.

I moved quietly through the palace corridors, the polished floors reflecting the muted sunlight from the high windows, each step measured, careful not to draw attention. My eyes flicked from doorway to doorway, searching for any glimpse of Achilles, the familiar presence that had always been my anchor. But no matter where I went—through the servant quarters, past the kitchens, along the marble galleries—he was nowhere to be found.

The absence gnawed, a hollow ache in my chest. Not knowing where Achilles was, not knowing when or how I might protect him, felt like standing in the middle of a storm without shelter. Every laugh from the nobles, every bustle of servants, seemed to remind me of the distance, the separation, the impossibility of control. I wanted at least the comfort of knowing he was somewhere in the palace, even if out of reach, so that the hunger to see him, to hold him, might be tempered by knowledge, if not by presence.

A subtle pressure brushed against my mind, and Hecate’s voice, soft as the trace of wind through hair, spoke. 

Thetis is at work here. Her nets are woven in secrecy; her mist hides even from the sharpest eyes. It is not for you to see all, nor is it yet time to intervene. Patience is the shield you must wield.

My shoulders slumped slightly, the weight of worry pressing down, but I forced myself to inhale slowly, feeling the ghostlike echo of Hecate’s touch along my arms and ribs, grounding me. 

One way or another, he will appear when he must. You cannot chase the tide; you must trust the current.

I closed my eyes for a heartbeat, letting the words settle, allowing the invisible thread of Hecate’s guidance to steady me. Then, opening them, I lifted my chin and stepped forward again, weaving through the palace halls with the quiet grace of a servant yet with the silent determination of a guardian. The waiting was difficult, unbearable at times, but Hecate had taught me that influence was often exerted in restraint, in patience, in the unseen readiness that comes before action.

My gaze swept the corridors once more, alert, watchful, and even in the absence of Achilles, I carried the ghost of his presence in my memory, letting it temper anxiety, sharpen senses, and prepare me for the moment when the son of Thetis would inevitably appear.

~III~

I found that in the meantime, the servants of the palace kept their days idle with gossip and warning.

I lingered just outside the small cluster of servants in the corridor, half-shy, half-curious, letting the chatter wash over me. It wasn’t long before a few noticed me, voices softening in welcome, and soon I was gently pulled into the circle, allowed a place on a low step near the hearth.

“They’re all hiding from her temper,” one whispered, nodding toward the room of Princess Pyrrha. “Three days she stayed up there, refusing anyone. The King’s worried she’ll sulk herself into sickness.”

A few of the others chuckled quietly. “I won’t miss her,” one admitted. “Her tantrums could ruin an entire week’s work for the kitchens alone.”

“But maybe she wanted to feel alone,” offered another, more thoughtful. “Separated on purpose. Children of the palace are… complicated.”

My eyes flicked around, absorbing every expression, every small gesture, and I could feel the pulse of gossip shaping itself into a subtle map of the household, each servant’s words a stitch in the tapestry of the palace’s hierarchy.

“And what of Deidamia?” a younger girl ventured, lowering her voice. “She seems… sharper than the rest, doesn’t she?”

A pair of servants whom the princess had chosen nodded grimly, exchanging glances. “Sharper, yes,” one murmured. “She knows how to twist words, bend them around her will. More ill-tempered in practice than Pyrrha, if you ask me.”

My hand pressed lightly to the folds of my skirt, feeling the soft weight of the green and brown fabric Hecate had chosen for me. The jewels in my braid caught the low light, glinting like distant stars, and I listened carefully, absorbing not only the words but the tone, the caution behind each voice.

“It’s easier to see the current before stepping in,” one older servant concluded. “You understand it, or it will sweep over you.”

My gaze dropped to my hands, the subtle echo of Hecate’s presence brushing through my fingers. I felt the nudge of awareness, the weight of perception settling like a mantle over my shoulders. If I were to protect Achilles, I would need this subtle knowledge, this network of observation and whispers, before the storm of the princesses’ tempers entirely broke.

The gossip swirled around, a mixture of amusement, apprehension, and quiet strategy, and I realized that the servants’ stories were more than idle chatter—they were a lesson, a map of influence and behavior I would need to navigate if I were to survive in Scyros, and perhaps, to save Achilles.

I sat cross-legged now, among the murmuring circle of servants, back straight but hands resting lightly in my lap. The gossip was steady now, flowing with the ease of repetition, yet each voice carried a different flavor—some delighting in scandal, some cautioning, some simply curious about what might unfold.

“She’s the youngest, Pyrrha,” one murmured, glancing around at the others. “Easily upset, but not vicious if you handle her right. Stick to her moods and you’ll be safe.”

“And Deidamia,” another added, “she talks first, acts second. Her words cut before you can blink. Most of the younger ones just follow her lead, afraid to speak out.”

I noted the careful distinctions. Even within the royalty, there were nuances—who held power through command, who through charm, who through the fear others granted them. Another servant whispered about a princess with flaxen hair, fair and seemingly timid, yet always present where disputes formed, quietly observing, her eyes sharp behind polite smiles.

“The middle ones,” said a fourth, voice low, “vain, selfish—but they’re easily distracted. Tread carefully. You can use that.”

I absorbed all of it, building a mental map of the hierarchy, the strengths and weaknesses of each princess. And yet, no matter how much I learned about their foibles, their tricks, and their temperaments, I felt the hollow ache of being left outside the web of power—serving Briseis, safe, yes, but never at the center of the courtly dance.

A small, curious servant, one of the newer girls, leaned forward, eyes wide. “What’s it feel like?” she asked softly, “to serve someone who isn’t a princess? Doesn’t it… sting?”

I hesitated, feeling the weight of truth. I didn’t want to incite jealousy, didn’t want the girls to question my fortune. Carefully, I chose my words. “Serving Briseis is different,” I said gently, voice measured, creating the small lie. “It’s not the same as being on the ship with her… it’s like silence, distance. Isolating.”

A few heads nodded in understanding, and none pressed further. The relief that I wouldn’t have to fabricate more, or invite envy, made my shoulders relax ever so slightly. I could remain in my position of gentle oversight without betraying the secret or my feelings.

The conversation wound on, each servant contributing a piece to the picture of Scyros, and I stitched them together quietly with the need to survive.

~III~

Another evening came in the bedchambers of Briseis.

I sat quietly beside her, the gentle essence of the evening around us, letting the conversation unfold without interruption. Briseis spoke of things she had never mentioned before, of alliances, of trust, of power among distant lands—politics that I had only ever glimpsed from the edges of courtly whispers. I kept my expressions neutral, humming softly or nodding to show attention, but internally my mind was on high alert, bracing for the inevitable current that ran beneath the words.

It came almost imperceptibly, like a ghost drifting past in the corner of a room: “My people fear an alliance with Troy,” Briseis said quietly, as though speaking to herself at first. “It would mark us as targets to the Archaens.”

I froze. My heart stuttered, the threads of conversation tangling with the knowledge that I was Archaen, that Achilles—hidden somewhere within the walls of this palace—was meant to avoid the call to war. And yet, the shadow of inevitability pressed against my chest: war would come, one way or another, and I could not predict if I would be able to protect him.

My mind raced, searching for a connection to Briseis: by blood, by marriage, by title—anything that might explain why her loyalty, or her presence, mattered here. But my thoughts refused to settle, spinning too fast.

Noticing my sudden silence, Briseis’s voice softened. “I—I didn’t mean to frighten you,” she said quickly. “This talk of war… I just thought you should understand why some alliances matter. I never meant to scare you.”

I forced her voice steady, even as my pulse remained rapid. “No… no, I apologize. I didn’t mean to fall silent, or to appear frightened.”

Briseis shook her head gently. “There’s no fault in being thoughtful. But we needn’t dwell on this. Let us speak of something else.” She shifted the conversation with ease, drawing my attention back to lighter matters, smiling to ensure I, as a companion, felt reassured.

Yet my mind could not fully return. Slowly, painfully, a dawning realization settled over me like a shadow: Briseis’s presence here was temporary. She was visiting Scyros for reasons tied to her own people, her own obligations. Sooner or later, she would leave, and she would expect me—her attendant, her trusted companion—to follow.

And I could not leave without Achilles. If I could even find him among the princesses, among the walls of this palace, I had no certainty of where he would be, or how I would reach him. The thought pressed into my chest, heavy and immovable. I felt the sting of helplessness I had long avoided—an ache sharpened by the echo of what I was sworn to protect.

~III~

The weeks coasted by with careful routine, repetition.

I fell into the rhythm of my duties with a careful grace, following Briseis through the marble corridors of Scyros’ palace. Every movement was measured, every gesture precise: smoothing the folds of Briseis’ gown, adjusting the silk draping over her shoulders, quietly offering my arm when the hallways demanded balance. It was a careful dance, one performed without complaint, one that carried an undertone of devotion, a closeness that mirrored the intimacy of siblings who had survived childhood together.

Briseis, aware of the careful attentions, met each act with subtle warmth. She would place her hand lightly over mine as she helped steady a tray, or brush my hair aside in the tiniest of motions, never overtly, but with a tenderness that spoke volumes. The other nobles and attendants, keenly observant, could not ignore it—the way Briseis’ eyes softened when I approached, the way her voice carried assurance whenever I spoke to her.

It became clear to anyone watching that I was under Briseis’ quiet protection. A noble who attempted to sneer at my modesty or challenge my presence found Briseis subtly intercepting, steering the conversation, or positioning herself in such a way that I remained unscathed. No insult, no display of arrogance could pierce the shield that Briseis provided, and in return, I responded with steadfast loyalty, movements and words always polished, always careful, yet never losing the warmth of my attentions.

Our companionship began to weave itself into the fabric of the palace. Courtiers and attendants alike noticed the interplay—the soft nods, the gentle touches, the way Briseis’ presence seemed to grant me an unspoken authority, a recognition that even without rank, I was seen and protected. Yet the connection was never boisterous; it existed in gestures, in the quiet shared moments, in the protective attentions of one friend to another.

I felt the subtle pride that came from this recognition. Though I was a servant, a disguise, and hidden from the one I truly loved, I had found an ally, a confidante, someone whose presence reminded me that care and loyalty could thrive even amidst foreign halls, wary eyes, and the shadow of greater dangers. And Briseis, in return, continued to foster that bond, teaching the palace silently that I was not alone, that my devotion would not go unnoticed, and that together, we could carve out our own small realm of trust and warmth, even under the scrutinizing gaze of Scyros’ royalty.

~III~

I moved carefully through a narrow corridor, the soft weight of Briseis’ folded clothes pressed gently against my chest. Each piece had been selected with care, gifts from a passing lord, meticulously crafted for Briseis, and though the favor would never be granted as intended, the garments needed to reach the mistress nonetheless. The scent of the fabrics—lavender and clean linen—was faint but comforting, a reminder of the order I was meant to maintain in the palace chaos.

I hadn’t anticipated reencountering Deidamia so alone. The princess emerged from a branching hallway, her dark eyes immediately locking onto my figure. A thin line of silk caught the light, and Deidamia’s attention sharpened. “What are you carrying there?” she demanded, her voice smooth yet bristling with the barely restrained sting of mockery, as though each word were a hidden dagger aimed to shame me for being where I should not be.

My chest tightened. The phantom ache from our first encounter—the poison of Deidamia’s will—throbbed insistently, sending a shiver down my spine. I straightened, pressing the clothing closer, forcing my voice to remain steady, though it wavered slightly. “These are for Lady Briseis,” I said firmly. “A gift from a lord.”

Deidamia’s lips curved into a thin, cold line. Her hand moved toward the garments, slow, deliberate, as though to test my resolve, to see if fear would break me. I instinctively stepped back, holding the clothes protectively to my chest. The air between us was taut, thick with tension, the silence nearly screaming. I could feel the chill of Deidamia’s gaze as if it were snake scales pressing lightly against her skin, cold and measuring, calculating just how far she could push.

Before the princess could escalate further, another voice cut sharply through the corridor. “Deidamia,”

Both Deidamia and I turned. A figure stepped from the shadowed hallway, commanding attention simply by presence. My chest constricted, breath catching. 

It was Achilles—finally here, standing just a few paces away, still under the careful guise of a woman, yet unmistakably him. The cadence, the strength of the voice, was his alone, and I felt her knees weaken as tears sprang unbidden to my eyes.

Two fell silently, sliding down my cheeks before I could catch them. I hastily brushed them away, but it was too late—Achilles had noticed. His eyes, sharp and unwavering, assessed me, not in recognition, but in the certainty of concern. “Deidamia,” he snapped this time, voice firm and lethal in its calmness, “you should be ashamed for making a servant not your own feel threatened. She belongs to a queen, and yet you would torment her?”

I froze, mind flickering with sudden understanding. Briseis… indeed, Briseis held a status far above what I had been led to believe. The weight of that realization pressed on my chest, yet I could barely dwell on it. Deidamia, unimpressed, scoffed, spinning on her heel with the grace of a predator dismissing a pest. “Do not presume to speak to me, sister,” she murmured, though the words carried a venomous undertone, brushing past Achilles’ authority like air against glass.

I swallowed, steadying myself against the torrent of relief, fear, and awe. Achilles’ presence steadied me, even if it carried no immediate comfort, and the sharp contrast between him and the cold fury of Deidamia reminded me that the palace was still a battlefield, and I would have to navigate it with both care and courage if I were to protect the one I loved.

My steps felt heavier than they should, though my body moved with the measured grace Hecate had taught me. Achilles remained beside me, strides long and assured, his presence at once grounding and painfully elusive. He glanced at me, but there was not an ounce of recognition in his gaze—not a flicker of the boy he had known, the friend he had cherished, the lover he had shared nights with. He saw only a servant, perhaps polite, perhaps dutiful, and nothing more.

The words clung to the edges of my tongue, a desperate tide threatening to spill: Achilles, it’s me. Patroclus. I’ve come. I’ve found you. My heart ached, thumping against my ribs like a caged bird, and yet Hecate’s whisper curled through my mind like a cool, stern hand. Not yet. The vision has not yet come to pass. Do not reveal your disguise. Do not tempt Thetis’ fury.

I bit down hard on my lip, tasting the copper tang of restraint. My throat burned with the unshed cries of longing, and a sudden, almost childish desire to weep overtook me, but I swallowed it back. Every tear restrained, every breath carefully measured, was for him—for Achilles’ safety.

“You… you alright?” His voice, crisp and steady, broke through my storm. My hands curled slightly around the folds of Briseis’ garments I carried, knuckles whitening. My reply was ragged at the edges, a tremor hiding behind every syllable, but Hecate’s magic smoothed the sound, carried it as soft and even, a gentle melody that belied the turmoil I felt.

“Yes,” I breathed, voice light, careful.

Achilles nodded, satisfaction plain in the tilt of his head. “Do you need an escort to reach Lady Briseis without further delay?”

My chest tightened. Any excuse, any reason to keep him near—even for a moment—was precious. My lips parted, and the word that would bind us in proximity slipped out under Hecate’s watchful guidance. “Yes.”

He fell into step beside me, strides parallel, and I felt a thrill of both relief and unbearable longing. The palace corridors stretched before us, grand and echoing, yet Achilles’ presence narrowed my entire world to the mere space beside him.

“And your name?” he asked casually, eyes forward, scanning the hallway, as though the act of asking was routine, almost perfunctory.

I felt my heart constrict painfully, like it was being pinched in a vise. I swallowed hard, the taste of tears lingering at the back of my throat. “Kleio,” I said softly.

Achilles nodded once, not truly registering it beyond the courtesy of acknowledgment. It was as if the name passed between us like a coin exchanged, necessary but forgettable. The casual indifference in the way he received it cut deeper than anything I had felt before—how many hearts had he unknowingly broken with such ease, I wondered? How many had been reduced to silent longing while he moved through the world untroubled?

I pressed on, the folds of the garments held firmly against my chest, eyes focused straight ahead, each step a lesson in patience, endurance, and quiet devotion. Achilles walked beside me, unknowing, untouchable, and yet near enough to burn into memory every careful movement, every inflection of his presence.

My chest ached, my throat constricted, but I endured, for him, for Hecate’s warning, and for the hope that one day—one day soon—he would see me not as Kleio, not as a servant, but as Patroclus, as the one who would stop at nothing to keep him safe.

I stumbled slightly as Achilles pushed the door open to Briseis’ chambers without a knock, heart hammering as I hurried to step inside. “I—I’m here,” I announced quickly, praying that Briseis wasn’t in a state that required privacy.

To my relief, Briseis was simply amidst her wardrobe, gowns and delicate fabrics spread across the bed, each one more elaborate than the last. She looked up from the array with a hint of surprise at my sudden entrance, and then, instantly, her eyes narrowed as they caught sight of Achilles lingering in the doorway. The protective instinct was immediate, sharp, and undeniable.

“Why is Pyrrha following my servant?” Briseis demanded, voice even but edged with concern.

My tongue stumbled over an explanation, words tangling in a rare display of frailty. “I—I mean, I was just— Princess Pyrrha—I mean, she…” My cheeks burned, and I froze under Briseis’ concerned gaze. Briseis crossed the room swiftly, hands cupping my face as though to read my very soul, checking for bruises or distress. The touch was grounding, almost protective, and I immediately clamped my mouth shut.

Achilles spoke up, attention flicking toward Briseis. “I interrupted Deidamia from tormenting her,” he said, calm but sharp, like a blade meant to slice tension in two.

Briseis didn’t immediately respond, eyes trained on me, silently asking whether I would confirm or deny the statement. I drew a deep breath, finally letting the words come. “It’s true,” I said, voice steadying. “Deidamia wanted these clothes for herself, but they were a gift to you from a passing lord. I didn’t let her touch them.”

Hearing this, Briseis’ expression softened, the edge of worry fading as she finally acknowledged Achilles with a brief, courteous apology for sounding brisk. “No offense intended,” she murmured.

Achilles inclined his head lightly, his presence calming, and then asked, “Do you always take favorites among the servants?” The question startled me, the bluntness almost cutting—but in his gaze there was something unspoken, a subtle understanding I could not name.

Briseis smirked, the tension breaking around the edges. “If you are jealous of missing the servant selection, you should have shown up for it,” she teased.

Pyrrha—Achilles—tossed his head, deadpan and uninterested. “I cared not for selecting more to belong to me.”

Briseis leaned closer to me, fingers softly adjusting a crystal in my braid, voice low and teasing. “Are you sure you don’t just want an adorable girl following you everywhere?”

I felt a surge of relief, half-laughter and half-tears pooling in my chest, as Pyrrha’s expression remained utterly unmoved. “Keep her all to yourself,” Pyrrha said flatly, and Briseis’ grin widened, smug and satisfied.

“I will,” Briseis replied, voice soft, possessive in the gentlest way, resting her hand again lightly on my curls. My heart swelled at the warmth, at the safe certainty of this bond, feeling for the first time in days that some things—some people—were mine to hold, even if the rest of the palace remained a maze of tension and hidden threats.

~III~

I learned to walk softly through the palace of Scyros, always at Briseis’ side, my hands gentle, my voice quiet. I tended to her as one might a sister—brushing out her hair, pinning folds of silk, soothing her shoulders when the weight of noble eyes grew too heavy. And Briseis, in her way, returned it. She never let me be belittled by other princesses or their servants, constantly correcting with a smile or a quick change of subject, her presence a small shield in a court where rank and cruelty often walked hand in hand.

It was in those days that Pyrrha began appearing more often. At first, it was coincidence—at least it seemed so. I kneeled once in the garden to clip lilies for Briseis and looking up to find Pyrrha perched on the fountain’s rim, humming idly to herself as though she had simply wandered there. Later, during feasts, I would stand silently behind Briseis’ chair only to catch Pyrrha leaning forward from down the table, laughter spilling too loudly, eyes flicking across the crowded hall to mine. A moment no one else noticed, but enough to steal the breath from my lungs.

Briseis felt the tension but misread its source. She reached for my hand beneath the table once, squeezing it gently, thinking perhaps the crowded hall unsettled me. I let her believe it. Better that than confess the truth—that it was not the room at all, but the nearness of the one who should not have been here at all.

The encounters grew. Pyrrha visited Briseis’ chambers more often, her wit quick and sharp, her laugh too familiar. I brushed Briseis’ hair in silence, my fingers trembling each time I heard that sound—Achilles’ laugh, folded into a higher tone, disguised but not lost. Once, I nearly dropped the brush. Pyrrha caught my eye in the mirror, and the laughter faltered, concern flashing across her features before she masked it with another jest.

Another morning, I came upon the lower court where several of the daughters sparred with wooden spears. Their play was all clumsy bravado—except for Pyrrha. Her stance was too clean, too fluid. My breath caught. It was in her—Achilles—wrist turning exactly as I had seen every day of our childhood, during drills by torchlight. She noticed me watching. For one heartbeat, her mask slipped; then she laughed loudly, tossed the weapon aside, and let the others tease her for her lack of skill. To them, harmless play. To me, it was the sound of walls crumbling.

It was the worst one night in particular. Once, sent to fetch a lamp for Briseis, I turned a corner and nearly collided with Pyrrha. The flame wavered between us, casting half her face in shadow. "Do you always walk with your head down?" Pyrrha asked, lightly, casually. My throat went dry, but I forced my answer steady. "Only when the floor is more welcoming than the people." That nearly won a smile, the ghost of one, before she stepped aside and left me trembling in the dark hall.

Through it all, Briseis seemed to grow fond of Pyrrha. They shared jokes and sharp words, testing one another like flint striking steel. Sometimes Briseis would tug me closer into their circle, ask my thoughts on a dress, or rest a hand in my curls, small gestures of affection and protection both. And each time, I felt Pyrrha watching me, her gaze unreadable.

My heart began to hammer with a new, unrelenting rhythm. Not because I had spoken my name, or revealed myself, or breached my careful silence—but because I didn’t need to. In my laugh, my stance, my eyes, Achilles was already pressing through the seams of my disguise, and I feared it was only a matter of time before the mask fell altogether.

I told myself I would not lean into it. I had Briseis’ trust, my place here, my duty. I would not look for Achiless, would not seek him out. But still, when Pyrrha appeared in my periphery—too often, too near—my pulse betrayed me. And in that betrayal was my greatest fear: that Achilles already knew.

~III~

The evening stretched long, the torches dimmed to embers, and the silence of Briseis’ chambers carried the weight of an unspoken storm. Pyrrha had just swept out with her usual calm poise, leaving behind a faint trace of perfume and the memory of her bright eyes following me too closely. The air seemed to linger heavy with it, and Briseis, seated on her couch, did not immediately return to her scrolls or her embroidery.

Instead, she looked at me.

“Kleio,” she said softly, voice low enough to keep the shadows hushed. “Come here.”

I, dutiful as ever, moved toward her, but Briseis didn’t hand me a task, nor ask me to fetch something. She took my hand instead, leading me to sit on the foot of the bed. Her hand was cool but firm, gentle in the way one might coax a frightened bird to perch.

“You’ve been flinching,” Briseis continued, studying my face with eyes sharp enough to catch what others missed. “You walk as if a net hangs over you. You swallow your words when Pyrrha is near, though once you never stumbled.”

My breath caught. The exact thoughts I had worked so hard to bury had been seen plain as day.

“Tell me what binds you,” Briseis urged, her voice careful, coaxing.

My hands twisted into my lap, and though I tried to hold myself steady, my chest trembled against my will. The frayed edge of restraint broke, and the words caught in my throat came up wet and raw.

“It is—” I had to stop, gather breath. Hecate’s whisper brushed faintly at her ear, urging me: You may speak what your heart can bear.

I swallowed hard, finally lifting my eyes. “She—Pyrrha—” My voice broke again, this time with a strangled sound. “She looks like him. My husband. The one I had to leave behind.”

My face crumpled. The relief of saying it was laced with torment, because the truth only tore wider the wound I kept bound.

Briseis’ breath drew in sharply, and in an instant she was beside me, arms enfolding without hesitation. She rocked me gently, swaying as if to a rhythm older than words, the way the wind rocks a cradle hung from the eaves. I pressed my face against Briseis’ shoulder and shook with tears I had held for too long.

“It is both a balm and a blade to see her,” I whispered hoarsely. “A shadow that heals and cuts. I cannot—cannot stop the ache of it.”

Briseis’ hand stroked through my curls, tender and protective. “Then you should not carry it alone.” Her voice was fierce but soft. “When we leave Scyros, I will fight your husband’s kin for you. I will make them yield. You will be returned to him.”

I gave a wet laugh, small and bitter, that trembled into another sob. “You cannot promise me that. The truth is harsher than wishes. But oh, Briseis…” I broke again, clutching at the woman who held me, grief spilling from the seams I had stitched shut.

Briseis only hushed, swaying, steady as stone and gentle as a tide. In her silence, she gave me something truer than promises—presence, protection, the vow of one heart that refused to let another suffer unseen.

And then Pyrrha caught me the next morning.

I had meant to make myself scarce—fetching water, keeping close to Briseis, folding myself into the tapestry of palace life so that Pyrrha might pass by without notice—but fate was crueler than that. I turned a corner in the pillared hall, arms full of linens, and nearly walked straight into her.

Pyrrha’s hand came up instinctively, steadying the bundle before it toppled. And then, just as instinctively, it lingered too long—fingers ghosting over my wrist as if to anchor me. Her eyes swept my face, pausing at the shadows pooled under my lashes.

“You’ve been crying,” she said, not accusing, not pitying, just knowing.

The words stung. I jerked my arm back, clutching the linens to my chest like a shield, the refusal written in my body before my mouth could find words.

Pyrrha froze. Her surprise was sharp and visible, the kind of wound she didn’t hide. “Have I…?” Her voice broke halfway, then hardened. “What have I done, that you would shrink from me?”

The sound of it nearly tore me in half. My throat clogged. Hecate’s unseen presence pressed against my spine, stilling me, warning me. I shook my head rapidly, as if that could undo the moment. “Nothing,” I rasped. “You have done nothing. The fault is not yours.”

“Then what is it?” Pyrrha pressed, stepping forward, not quite daring to touch again. Her brows pinched, her breath uneven. “What has happened?”

I swallowed, once, twice, until it burned all the way down. Arrowheads, I thought. Each word was an arrowhead swallowed whole. “I miss my husband,” I whispered, voice brittle as clay. “Terribly. And you—you act too much like him. It is… unbearable.”

For a moment, Pyrrha was silent. And in that silence, I saw it—the devastation flicker across her face like lightning behind storm clouds. It was quiet, nearly invisible, but I had been made to read Achilles like scripture. I saw it all.

Her lips parted, shut, then parted again. “Would you rather,” she asked carefully, almost pleading, “that I keep my distance?”

My answer came like a snapped bowstring. “No.”

Pyrrha exhaled, the tension trembling out of her. She bowed her head briefly. “…Then I am sorry. For my face, if nothing else.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” I said, more harshly than I meant, then softened. “Truly. Nothing.”

But Pyrrha only gave a thin smile, tired, aching. “It is hard not to.”

The air thickened, heavy with something unsaid. She lingered, shifting—not retreating, not advancing, but circling as if searching for safer ground. At last, she stepped to my side, not facing me, but standing close enough that her voice was nearly a secret.

“You look familiar to me too,” Pyrrha murmured. “At odd angles. As if in the corner of my eye.”

My knees nearly buckled. Hecate’s magic held me steady, the invisible hand at my back. Still, I forced my breath out slow, careful. “How do you mean?” I asked, desperate and terrified both. I wanted the wound opened. I wanted the arrow twisted deeper.

Pyrrha’s throat worked. Her gaze fixed on the stone ahead. “…I left a boy behind.” The words were hate and grief entwined, low and raw. “And it kills me to be without him.”

My lungs crushed inward.

Slowly, finally, Pyrrha turned to me. And the eyes—the same eyes I had watched, adored, worshipped—met mine, full of an agony she refused to name. “You have eyes like his,” Pyrrha said.

I nearly collapsed then, almost sobbing, broken and whole all at once. Hecate’s unseen grip braced me before I could fold into the stone. Somehow I managed to whisper, “I am sorry.” And though the words were meant to be nothing more than another mask, the truth bled too plainly through them.

Pyrrha’s mouth trembled into something close to a smile, even if faint. “Then I forgive you. And I hope… our resemblances do not turn us bitter toward each other.”

Tears burned my eyes, but I forced a nod. Because if I spoke now—if I dared one word more—the fate Hecate warned me of would strangle us both.

~III~

The garden was quiet when Hecate summoned me, the sea winds brushing in through the lattice of stone like a hushed tide. The moon hung low and full, spilling pale light over the walls of ivy and curling vines. I came reluctantly, face still flushed and tender from what had just transpired with Pyrrha, my body taut as a bowstring, heart unsteady in its rhythm.

Hecate stood as though she had always been waiting there, dark starlight robes whispering against the stone. The goddess’s presence did not fill the space, not in the way gods usually did, but rather seemed to hollow it, dimming even the moonlight. Her eyes, sharp and endless, cut into me at once.

“You are unraveling,” Hecate said softly, though it struck like a whip.

I bowed my head, clutching my hands to still the tremor. “I— I held myself back. I have not betrayed you.”

“I know,” Hecate said, moving closer. Her voice gentled, though the weight of it was no less dire. “But you let him see your grief, and that was enough. Achilles has the scent of you now. Recognition has begun.”

I flinched. My ribs felt tight, as though the goddess had reached inside and closed a hand around my lungs. “I couldn’t stop it. He— he spoke of leaving a boy behind, and—” My voice cracked. “Hecate, I wanted to collapse. I wanted to throw everything down and tell him the truth.”

Hecate reached forward, her hand brushing my chin upward, forcing my gaze to meet hers. Her touch was not cruel, but it carried all the inevitability of iron chains. “And if you had, what then? He would have known you. And through him, Thetis. And if Thetis knows Patroclus has come…” Hecate’s mouth curved, sorrowful and sharp. “The threads would tangle too soon. The story would consume you both before its time.”

My throat burned. “Then I am to keep lying. To him. To Briseis. To everyone. While he looks at me and— and knows something of me, even if not the whole.”

The goddess’s eyes softened, though they never lost their iron. “You are enduring a torment I would not wish on any mortal. But this is the weight of your role, child. Achilles’s recognition is inevitable—it is written in his blood, in his heart. But you must ensure that when he sees you fully, it is at the exact right moment. Or else…” Hecate’s hand released my chin, falling away like shadow. “Or else everything unravels, and not even I can spare you the cost.”

My vision blurred, body shaking with the effort of restraint. “It hurts, my lady. Every day it hurts.”

“I know.” Hecate’s voice lowered, rich with sorrow. “And I am proud of you. Proud that you restrain yourself when your heart begs otherwise. But take heed: strength does not lie in clinging until you break—it lies in bending at the right moment, and never before.”

The goddess stepped back into the moonlight, her form thinning into shadow and silver mist. “Hold fast, Kleio. The hour is not yet come. But when it does… you must be ready.”

The garden stilled, and I was left trembling among the vines, the echo of the warning clawing deep into my ribs, alongside my grief.

Chapter Text

That night, sleep was a stranger. I lay curled on a narrow pallet, the woven blanket pulled up tight though the air was warm. The silence pressed heavy, broken only by the faint chorus of insects and the distant hush of the tide. Yet inside my chest was no stillness—only a storm that would not quiet.

I turned Hecate’s words again and again, each repetition striking like a hammer. 

Achilles’ recognition is inevitable. 

The phrase coiled around my ribs, so taut it left my breath short. Inevitable. A certainty, as though all my carefulness, all my trembling restraint, was not to prevent it but only to delay it.

And wasn’t that what I had been doing? Not saving myself, not saving him, but buying time like a merchant haggling at a market stall. Every smile I forced for Briseis, every downcast glance before Pyrrha, every careful silence was coin spent for a handful more days before the dam burst.

My throat ached at the thought of Briseis. She had seen too much tonight, touched too close to the marrow of my grief. Her kindness had been unbearable—worse than cruelty, worse than suspicion. For in Briseis’s arms I had felt for one fragile moment what it might be like to be believed, to be known, to unburden myself. And then, sharper than salt on a wound, came the truth: that Briseis’s promise could never be kept, because my husband was not waiting in some distant home. He was here. In disguise.

I pressed my face into the pillow to smother the sound rising from my chest. 

Strength does not lie in clinging until you break. 

Hecate’s voice lingered like smoke. What did bending at the right time mean, when all I wanted was to collapse now? To rush into his arms, to tell him I was here, that he was not alone, that neither of us had to carry this dreadful silence any longer.

But I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I lay rigid, nails pressing half-moons into my palms, forcing myself to breathe slow, shallow, to master the sobs trying to break loose. I would not undo myself tonight.

And yet—every day I endured like this felt like driving a knife deeper into my own flesh, a wound I had to keep open, pressing against the pain until I forgot what it was to be whole.

A final thought, before exhaustion dragged me under, was not of Hecate’s warning nor Briseis’s comfort, but of Pyrrha—Achilles—in the way he had looked at me. The sharpness of it, the nearness to knowing. The dread and the relief entwined so tightly it hurt to breathe.

And for a fleeting, terrible heartbeat, I almost left to go to him.

~IV~

The morning light fell clear and golden over Scyros, but I moved through it as though weighted with lead. My steps were measured, my voice—when I used it—muted. I kept my gaze lowered, clinging to Briseis’s presence like a tether.

Everyone noticed. The other attendants whispered behind their hands, quick glances darting toward my bowed head. A few of the bolder girls, who might have teased me on another day, started forward with sly remarks forming on their lips—only to be met with Briseis’s gaze. It was sharp as a drawn blade, cutting them down before a word escaped.

Briseis kept me close, hand light on my elbow, guiding through corridors and gardens as though I were something fragile and precious, and I both resented and cherished it. The weight of my own restraint made me brittle; every smile cost, every breath was careful not to crack the shell I had wrapped myself in.

And then—Pyrrha.

She was there as she always was, at the periphery and yet never far, as though some unspoken thread bound her orbit to mine. She passed in the colonnades, lingered in the courtyards, her voice bright when she spoke to others, dimmed when her gaze cut sidelong to me.

Today, she was closer.

I felt it before I looked—Pyrrha’s presence tightening the air, her tall figure leaning toward our path. Briseis had steered me into the shade of an olive tree, intending a pause, but Pyrrha crossed into that space, her steps too deliberate to be chance.

“Kleio,” Pyrrha said, voice gentle but carrying that sharp edge of recognition I dreaded.

My throat closed. I could not answer, not without betraying myself. I gripped my skirt instead, nails pressed into fabric, head bowed as if studying the dust.

Briseis shifted, her protective air bristling, but Pyrrha didn’t look at her. She only looked at me, searching, her hand half-lifting as though to touch my arm, my shoulder—something.

The moment stretched, taut as a bowstring. I could feel it: one more breath and the world would split open, disguise unraveling, truth spilling where it could never be gathered back.

And then Pyrrha stilled. Her hand dropped.

Something flickered across her face—not defeat, not yet, but an awareness, a dawning realization that pressing closer now would wound rather than heal. She stepped back with a forced lightness, her smile practiced, the kind that hid more than it revealed.

Briseis caught it at once. She drew me close, her fingers firm, and turned me gently but decisively away, as though shielding me from a storm not yet come.

I kept my head lowered, but inside my chest my heart was a frantic bird. Relief and agony warred within: relief that Pyrrha had not broken her disguise, agony that she had come so near.

Hecate’s words echoed again—inevitable—and I wondered how long I could go on before the string snapped.

~IV~

The restraint did not ease with time—it thickened.

Pyrrha held back, yes, but the distance was thin as silk. Wherever Kleio moved, she lingered just far enough to avoid Briseis’s wrath, but near enough that her gaze never quite left Kleio’s slight frame. At meals, her laughter was directed outward but her eyes strayed inward. In practice, her strength was unmatched, yet between each swing of the blade, her glance returned, again and again, to the shadow Briseis cast around Kleio.

Kleio felt it like heat on her back. Even when she did not look, she knew. Each time her shoulders stiffened, Briseis’s hand would press against her arm, grounding, reminding, a warning to any who thought to breach her circle.

But Briseis saw the ache in Pyrrha too. The girl was restless, wound tight as a bow, and no amount of pretense softened the truth of her watching.

So one evening, when the sun was slipping red-gold past the horizon and the others were occupied, Briseis stepped into Pyrrha’s path. They stood in the colonnade, shadows long, cicadas humming in the olive branches.

“You need to stop,” Briseis said, voice low, firm but not unkind.

Pyrrha’s brows knit, her jaw tightening. “Stop what?”

“Hovering. Pressing near. Watching her as though she’ll vanish if you look away.” Briseis folded her arms, gaze steady. “You’ll only harm her.”

For a long moment, Pyrrha said nothing. Then her voice cracked, though quiet. “Do you think I don’t know that? Every time I see her, it’s like—” She broke off, swallowed hard. “Like a ghost returned. Someone I’ve lost and can’t stop searching for. She isn’t them, I know that, but—”

Her voice faltered, rough with restraint.

Briseis’s eyes softened despite herself. She knew that yearning too well—the way grief twisted memory into hunger, the way the living bore resemblance to the gone. For Kleio it was her husband, for Pyrrha… someone else, unnamed, but no less deeply carved into her.

Still, Briseis straightened. She stepped closer, her tone gentler but unyielding. “I understand your ache, Pyrrha. But Kleio is fraying. And she is mine to protect. She belongs at my side, under my care. I won’t let anyone—even you—unravel her further.”

Pyrrha’s throat worked, and her eyes dropped to the stones between them. Her hands flexed helplessly before falling still at her sides.

Briseis did not move until Pyrrha finally inclined her head, the barest of nods, resignation tight in her shoulders.

Only then did Briseis turn away, her expression unreadable, but her decision made: whatever haunted Pyrrha, whatever resemblance bound her gaze to Kleio, it could not outweigh what Kleio needed now.

And as the night drew down, Briseis returned to her chamber to find Kleio already curled close to the lamplight, brittle as glass, and she gathered her near, whispering in her hair as though to banish the day.

~IV~

Pyrrha kept her word. For days, even weeks, she lingered at the edges of Kleio’s world but did not pierce it.

She trained harder, sharper, each swing of the pathetic wooden practice sword cutting the air with a ferocity that made the younger girls whisper. At meals, she sat farther down the benches, speaking louder than before, as if noise could bury silence. In the halls, she forced her steps elsewhere, her shoulders tight with the effort of passing Kleio by.

But her eyes betrayed her.

Every time Kleio crossed a courtyard, Pyrrha’s gaze followed, quick and fierce, then just as quickly wrenched away. When laughter echoed from the women’s quarters, Pyrrha would look up, only to grit her teeth and return to her work. At night, while the palace drowsed, her restless pacing carried her past Briseis’s chamber more often than chance should allow.

Kleio noticed. Of course she did. The air bent strangely when Pyrrha was near: full of a yearning pressed into silence. Yet Kleio never turned her head, never risked meeting that pull. She could not.

Briseis noticed too, and it weighed on her. For all Pyrrha’s restraint, the strain showed—the tight set of her jaw, the restless hands, the brittle glimmer of something unsaid beneath her practiced calm. The silence was its own kind of tension, as if the halls themselves held their breath, waiting.

And so the days stretched. Pyrrha held back, outwardly dutiful, but each time she passed Kleio and did not reach, her shoulders curled as though she bore a wound no one could see.

Kleio, for her part, only grew more brittle, caught between Briseis’s steady guard and Pyrrha’s unspoken gravity, the weight of recognition pressing from both sides—one tender, one fierce, both impossible.

~IV~

Pyrrha’s restraint cracked on a night heavy with heat, when the lamps burned too low and the air smelled of sweat and salt from the sea. Kleio had been sitting with Briseis, their heads bent close over some idle weaving, when the sound of armored steps broke through the hush.

Pyrrha stood in the threshold, shoulders squared, her gaze sharp and unwavering at Kleio. For once, she did not look away.

“Kleio,” her voice rasped, unguarded, almost pleading.

The stillness between them stretched until Briseis rose, setting her shuttle aside with deliberate care. She placed herself like a wall, gently, firmly, between them. “Pyrrha.” Her tone warned, and Pyrrha faltered, fists curling at her sides. But the hunger was in her eyes, the recognition she could no longer cage, and it made Kleio’s breath knot in her throat.

Pyrrha turned away before she shattered further. The door slammed in her wake.

~

That night, Achilles tore the last of Pyrrha’s silks from his body and climbed to the high ledge where sea spray licked the stone. He called for her, for Thetis, and the tide answered with silver foam.

She came, pale as moonlight, towering, her eyes deep as the ocean floor.

“Mother,” Achilles said, his voice breaking raw, “let him come to me. Let Patroclus find me. I cannot breathe without him.”

Thetis’s gaze was merciless, carved from the weight of gods. “Then you will do as I command. You will lie with Deidamia.”

Achilles flinched as though struck. “What?”

“You will give her a child,” Thetis pressed, her tone sharp as coral. “An heir to anchor you. With blood to bind you here, you cannot be stolen to Troy. Your life will be spared.”

“No,” Achilles spat. “How can you—how could you even ask this of me? I am yours, and yet you twist my love to chains?”

“Do you think me cruel?” Thetis’s voice rose, tidal, terrible. “I am your mother. I would see you live. Fathering a child will root you to this place, keep you from war, preserve your glory and your breath. Without it, your death waits at Troy.”

“I refuse.” His voice shook with fury, with grief. “I would sooner die than betray him.”

The sea hissed, dark and endless around her. She leaned close, eyes like crushing depths. “Then you will never see him again. Not here, not in this life. I will bar his steps, keep him from your side, if you defy me.”

Achilles staggered back as though the words were a blade. The silence between them carried the sound of waves eating at rock, eternal and pitiless.

Swallowed by grief, brittle as glass, he turned, storming into the shadows, his fists clenched and chest burning. He knew what he would do. He hated it, loathed it, despised it— but already the shape of it weighed in his bones.

He would bend. He would lie with Deidamia. Not for fate, not for legacy, not for Thetis—but for Patroclus. To see him once more. And even if every part of him burned with shame and disgust, he had to, he had to be beside Patroclus once more, or he’d throw himself into the sea. 

~IV~

My eyes snapped open, the echo of dreamless sleep shattered by a hammering dread in my chest—the same searing pain I had known in my vision long ago. Breath came fast and shallow, each one tasting like ash. Hecate’s voice cut sharply through the fog of panic, urgent and commanding.

“Now. Run. Stop it before it begins!”

I leapt from bed, heart thrumming like a drum. I moved as though guided by some invisible hand, feet pounding the palace floors in a rhythm I had never known I could hold. Hecate’s whispers directed me through halls and corridors, nudging me to choose the correct path at every fork, at every landing. I stopped for nothing. No guard, no door, no obstacle slowed me.

Finally, we came to a door. Hecate’s voice was immediate, insistent. “Open it.”

My hand shot to the handle, and I flung the door open with the force of desperation. 

Heat drained from my body. 

Before me stood Achilles, no longer in Pyrrha’s guise. Half-bare, shadows carving every line of his body, expression heavy with an impossible burden. Beside him, Deidamia, half dressed, eyes wide with outrage at the intrusion.

“Close the door! Begone!” Deidamia’s shriek cut through the room like a blade.

But I could not move. Not from fear, not from shock. My gaze locked on Achilles, and every instinct, every ounce of purpose I had carried for months, condensed into that one, terrible moment. His face was shadowed, hollowed by tension, impossible responsibility pressing him into a form no mortal should bear. My vision reddened at the edges, heat licking at my sight, and I recognized it, though rare it was: pure, unbridled rage, not towards Deidamia only, but toward the fate that had almost been realized.

Deidamia surged toward me, hand raised in anger, ready to strike. Reflex and fury collided in my mind. I lunged, grabbing a fistful of the woman’s hair and yanking with all my strength. Deidamia stumbled, caught off-guard by the force too great for a woman, too swift for a mere servant.

Fog swept suddenly across the balcony, curling in front of the windows of the room like smoke from some hidden fire. The air itself thickened, a cloak of concealment falling over the chamber. I dragged Deidamia backward, each step heavy with purpose. And then, as if by some spell breaking, my long disguise began to shatter.

The soft lines, the polished curves of my womanly guise, melted away. Muscle hardened, height expanded, and my frame solidified into the form I had borne in secret—the soldier, the protector, the one who had always acted as Achilles’ shadow. Only the long hair, entwined with jewels, remained as a memory of the guise I had worn.

My voice emerged, low and dangerous, the true Patroclus: “Never—approach him again.”

The words were a growl, an unyielding demand, and in the same instant, I seized Deidamia with a strength that left the woman powerless, tossing her from the room with brutal precision before slamming the door as if to forever seal her from entering it again.

Achilles’ eyes widened, recognition burning at the edges, but before any words could be spoken, the weight of what had been prevented hung heavy in the air. I—Patroclus—stood tall and unflinching, fury and relief coiled within, knowing that at last, the immediate danger had been averted, even as the storm outside and the threat within the palace still pressed upon us.

~IV~

I stood frozen for a moment, watching Achilles collapse to his knees, body trembling with a raw, unfiltered grief. My chest tightened, fear gnawing as I rushed forward, hands hovering just in case my beloved had been hurt. But Achilles’ arms shot around me the instant I neared, clinging with a desperation that silenced all thought.

Tears shimmered in Achilles’ eyes, unshed, turning them into pools of fragile glass. I opened my mouth, intending to speak, to soothe, but a strangled sound came first: apologies, spilling like blood from Achilles’ throat, weak and broken, yet anchored by impossible force in his grip. “Kleio… I—please… forgive me… I—”

My chest tightened at the trembling confession, at the wrong name on his tongue. 

“Gods curse the maniae for making me see his face upon yours,” Achilles' breath rushed out as if he meant to spare me. “But I can’t—I have betrayed my dearest heart and I’d die to the sea before —”

I grabbed Achilles’ face, hands firm yet careful, forcing him to meet my gaze. “It is me,” I whispered, voice trembling with the weight of truth. “It is Patroclus. Not Kleio. I wore the disguise to protect you, to save you from Thetis’ manipulations. It has always been me.”

Achilles froze, eyes wide, disbelief etched into every line of his face. “But… I—” His voice faltered, drowned beneath the tide of emotion building inside him.

I pressed closer, unyielding, whispering again and again, “It’s truly me. Not a god’s trick, not a ruse—just me. Only me.”

Something in Achilles broke then. The dam of restraint crumbled, and his body gave way, collapsing entirely against me. He held on with a strength no mortal—or even god—could wedge apart, arms wrapping like iron. My hands fisted in Achilles’ hair, anchoring him, a tether against the storm of anguish, relief, and love that flooded the room.

Achilles pressed his face into my chest, lips seeking, trembling as he kissed it over and over, tears tracking down onto warm skin, apologies spilling continuously, a litany of regret, fear, and devotion. My own chest rose and fell beneath the weight of Achilles’ grief, feeling it pulse against me like waves in a furious, beautiful sea.

I wrapped my arms fully around Achilles then, holding him close, whispering my own truths back through the tears, steady and unwavering: “You are safe. You are here. I am here. Always. It’s me, Achilles. It’s always been me.”

And in that room, amidst the shadows and the lingering echoes of threats barely averted, the two of us clung to one another, the world outside ceasing to exist, bound by love, trust, and the unbearable relief of finally being found.

The minutes passed, then hours, measured not by the moon, but by the steady rhythm of apologies and refusals, of trembling voices and clinging bodies. Achilles’ words came in ragged bursts, each one soaked in the anguish of lost time and cruel fate. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry… Patroclus, forgive me…” And each time, my own tears answered, warm and unrelenting, murmuring back, “You don’t need to apologize. Not once. Not ever.”

We lay entwined on the floor, bodies folded into one another like ribbons caught in a stormy wind, knots and tangles made with abandon, impossible to undo. Achilles heaved violently, as if his lungs had been wrenched from him, and I clung tighter, the only air he could find being the chest of the man he loved.

Through sobs, Achilles confessed the unbearable weight of his longing. “I would have done anything… anything to see you, to hold you… to be near you again,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I despise her… Deidamia—but my mother said it was the only way… the only way to be with you.”

My hands pressed firmly against Achilles’ head, feeling the tremors of guilt and fear ripple through him. “Did she touch you?” I demanded, voice low but firm.

Achilles shook violently, like he could shatter at the seams, but his head moved in a resolute no. “She… she was about to… but I—I didn’t let her. I… I couldn’t.”

My lips found Achilles’ crown, pressing with reverent relief. “Then that’s all I care about,” I murmured. “That you weren’t violated. That you weren’t hurt irreversibly.”

A strangled, trembling argument escaped Achilles, desperate and broken. “I would have… I would have let her… if it brought you to me… if it meant I could be with you. I… I chose to—”

My hands gripped his shoulders, eyes burning with fierce insistence. “No! You were never given a choice! Thetis’ cruelty was never about you choosing… it was about denying you the one thing you could never refuse. It wasn’t your fault, Achilles. Not ever.”

And then Achilles cried harder, pulling me impossibly closer, if such a thing could be measured. Every sob shook us both, each heartbeat echoing the agony and relief of reunion.

I pressed my forehead to Achilles’ temple, whispering over and over, “You never betrayed me. Never. I love you, just as I always have. Endlessly. No matter what. Nothing can change that.”

The room seemed to shrink around us, leaving only warmth, only breath, only the endless, desperate clasping of two hearts finally, finally unbound from the cruel chains of time and fate.

Even as the night pressed onward, each apology and each refusal became a rhythm, a testament to the devotion we had survived, to the love that would never break, and to the cruel beauty of being found, at last, in each other’s arms.

I let the words spoken between us sink like molten warmth into the ache that had gripped me for so long. I then pressed my forehead to Achilles’, feeling the quick, ragged thrum of his heartbeat, as if it had been counting the months apart and now rushed to catch up. My hands stayed while Achilles’ traced—over my back, the loose folds of the dress, the small imperfections that only made each of us more achingly real.

The fog outside the window remained, dense and unyielding, and I realized Hecate’s protection was absolute. The goddess whispered again, soft as silk, her single word “hidden” threading into my mind. She had cloaked us from Thetis, from the mother who believed her son assaulted. The thought ignited a fury in me, raw and scorching. I gripped Achilles tighter, voice firm but shaking, “As long as I draw breath, fate will not twist against you again. I will not let it.”

Achilles shuddered at the words, a quiet hitch catching in his throat, and yet he did not pull back. He let himself be held, let himself rest in the sanctuary of my arms. Hours stretched on in silence, punctuated only by soft, broken breaths, the quiet reassurance of a body pressed against his.

Then Achilles lifted his head, hands trembling with effort, eyes locking onto mine like sunlight striking snow, blinding and intense. He traced every feature of my face—over the nose, along the jaw, under the eyes, mapping each line as though to ensure nothing had been lost to time. He lingered over the curve of my chin, the slight asymmetry of my features, memorizing them like a map of home.

His hand drifted upward to my hair, cascading past my shoulders, the crystals entwined still gleaming faintly in the dim light. His brows furrowed as he followed the length, studying the weight and the length with a careful reverence. I let one hand rest over Achilles’, steadying him, and softly asked, “Do you want to know why my hair is so long?”

Achilles nodded, tight with unspent emotion.

“When Hecate made my disguise,” I explained, “she made me appear as a married woman. Women wear long hair for marriage. And… she told me, too, that you and I have known each other for eight years. She let it grow this long to symbolize it. It may be impractical, but I love carrying the length, the weight, the years of our time together this way.”

Achilles traced a single strand slowly, from root to tip, eyes still stormy and red, but softening with understanding. His voice came rough, ragged from tears and emotion, “Were you truly Kleio, all this time?”

“Yes,” I said, unwavering, voice full of the certainty of every shared heartbeat.

Achilles hesitated, breathing thick and uneven, then whispered, “Did you… did you know me as Pyrrha?”

I shook my head slowly, pressing a hand to Achilles’ chest, letting my palm feel the frantic, desperate beat beneath. “I could never mistake you. I could recognize you by touch alone, by smell; I would know you blind, by the way your breath came and your feet struck the earth. I would know you in death, at the end of the world.”

Achilles’ hands clutched my shoulders as if he could anchor himself to the truth of it. His voice broke again, almost a growl, yet laced with awe and relief, “Even Hecate could not hide the eyes I know as yours, the ones even in Kleio’s face. I would recognize you in total darkness, if I were deaf and you mute. I would find you in another lifetime entirely, in different bodies, in different worlds. And I would love you in all of this… until the very last star in the sky burns out into oblivion.”

I could feel it—the depth, the irrevocable gravity of it—folding around me like the tide itself. I pressed closer, letting my heart speak in silence where words could not, letting my fingers thread through Achilles’ hair, grounding us both in the reality we had longed for, so fragile and yet indestructible, as the fog outside held us hidden and time itself bent to this singular, perfect moment.

I shifted slightly beneath Achilles, letting the warmth of his body press into me, tracing the slow, deliberate inhale and exhale. The fog outside the window pressed like a heavy curtain, still unbroken, thick with quiet protection. Achilles’ hand now rested over my waist, fingers curling just enough to remind himself he was anchored, while the other arm slung over my chest, pulling me close still.

“How long will the fog last?” Achilles asked quietly, eyes still fixed on the obscured horizon.

I tilted my head, following the line of Achilles’ gaze, the dark gray light filtering through. “I… I should think just long enough,” I replied, voice low, letting the certainty hang in the stillness. Hecate’s absence in immediate reply made me almost feel the weight of the unknown pressing in.

Achilles tightened his hold suddenly, fear and tension spiraling through the grip, whispering the dread of what Thetis might do when she learned the truth. I felt it, a thread of panic coiling in my chest, but before it could rise, Hecate’s voice brushed against my mind, gentle yet certain. 

“Thetis believes he lays Deidamia… and will have a child,” she said, and my stomach dropped as though the floor had given way. I nearly leapt upright, but Achilles’ arm coiled around me like iron, forcing me back, a tremor running through both of us.

I spat, venom dripping from the syllables, “Thetis.”

Achilles pressed his forehead into my chest, as though seeking forgiveness on a mother’s behalf, though I knew his contempt ran far deeper than that. Hecate did not intervene to soften my fury; she guided it, letting me root myself in it, grounding me until my pulse slowed enough to breathe without striking the walls of the room with anger.

“Thetis cannot see us,” I said finally, voice heavy but measured. “She likely still believes you are… with Deidamia.”

Achilles exhaled, a shuddering release, eyes closing briefly as relief mixed with exhaustion. “And the only person I would ever—ever—lay with,” he murmured against my chest, “is you.”

“You don’t have to keep saying it,” I replied softly, hands stilling over Achilles’, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his chest. “I know it’s true.”

Achilles leaned forward until our foreheads touched again, warmth and pressure mingling in a quiet intimacy. “And my mother cannot see us,” he repeated, more a statement than a question, voice raw with lingering fear.

A memory tugged at me then, years back, both of ua thirteen, a cave that held the same suffocating, yet protective, properties. A small laugh escaped me despite the tense moment, and I snorted before quickly covering my mouth. “Did you just make a joke?”

Achilles’ lips twitched, a shadow of a smile lifting the weight from his features. “If she believes I am creating a child, why not take the opportunity?” he said, tone lightly teasing but eyes serious enough to unsettle me.

I flushed pink, the harrowing energy of the room fleeing as heat crawled up my neck. “Achilles, you ought not say such things,” I protested, voice higher than I intended.

“We don’t have to succeed,” Achilles said softly, still holding me, the rasp of emotion in his tone intimate and heavy.

“We couldn’t succeed anyway,” I replied, cheeks burning, the word pitched sharp with both embarrassment and stubborn disbelief.

Achilles’ half-smirk was soft, almost indulgent, eyes glimmering as he countered, “You don’t know that.”

“I’m telling you we won’t succeed!” I said, exasperated, though a trace of amusement flitted beneath my heated tone.

Achilles chuckled, the sound husky, raw, yet warm, brushing across my ear. “I don’t mean to embarrass you… or manipulate you.”

I huffed, cheeks still flushed, but the tension was melting slightly, my lips curving in a reluctant smile. “I would never deny you, Achilles… I just think you are being too silly to expect a miracle.”

Achilles’ hands tightened gently over me, pressing closer, voice a husky whisper brushing against my ear. “Is that not what you did tonight to save me? A miracle?”

I swallowed, a faint smile tugging at me despite the pink flush. “It was not a miracle… just a simple nudge.”

“You give yourself too little credit,” Achilles murmured, lips brushing the shell of my ear, voice warm, intimate, almost unbearable in its softness.

I shivered, a tremor of relief and exhaustion rolling through, letting myself sink fully into the closeness, knowing the night—thick with fog, hidden from the world, held safe by Hecate—was ours alone.

The chamber was silent save for our breathing and the shifting of limbs that refused to part. We had shifted, my head now settled over Achilles’ chest, listening to the steady thunder beneath, feeling each breath expand against my cheek. Achilles’ arm was curved around mw with such care that it was almost reverent, like he was afraid I would vanish if he loosened even a little.

“Does Briseis know?” Achilles’ voice was a low murmur into my hair. “About you being Kleio?”

I kept my gaze shut, lips brushing against skin with an answer. “No.”

“And Pyrrha?” Achilles tilted his head just enough, his voice curious but not accusing. “She doesn’t know who I am?”

I exhaled softly. “No.”

Achilles hummed, the vibration rolling beneath my ear. “Then only Deidamia knows me… but not you.”

I groaned in reply, the sound heavy with the weight of it all. Achilles kissed the crown of my head, as though that touch could dissolve the noise, quiet the world.

“I didn’t mean to reveal myself like that,” I muttered, voice worn. “I didn’t think at all, only acted. Brutal, perhaps, to her. She wasn’t the cause of this.”

My words trailed, but then sharpened again. “No—she knew it was wrong. She would have done it regardless of what you wanted. She’d have boasted of it, too. A terrible mother, she’d have been.”

For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then the faintest sound slipped from Achilles, a chuckle so soft it could’ve been mistaken for breath. “I’ve never heard you so possessive before.”

I flushed, but didn’t lift my head. “I never needed to be. The ones who knew you knew me, too. And you could always deny others without question. This—” I pressed closer, frowning into Achilles’ skin—“this was different. Strange in me, but no less right to feel it. Only wish I’d spared you sooner.”

Achilles’ hand smoothed down my back, a hush against my self-reproach. “You did all you could, Patroclus. All that was within reason.”

I let out a faint huff, half a laugh. “That’s very responsible of you to say.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Achilles answered, the corner of his mouth curving where I could feel it against my hair.

I chuckled, small and unguarded, the sound easing Achilles further, both of us sinking into the quiet that followed—still speaking, still whispering, letting the night stretch long with our words like threads binding us together.

Achilles’ chest rose and fell with the heaviness of near-sleep, his hand still curled protectively against the back of my head. His voice broke through the quiet like a sigh, slurred but searching, “How did you even get here, Patroclus? To Scyros? To me?”

I shifted, pressing my cheek closer to Achilles’ heartbeat. My words came soft, as if confessing something sacred. “Hecate showed me,” I said. “She granted me a vision of the very moment Deidamia would try to sink her claws into you. She set me on the path before it could happen. She taught me how to move in a woman’s body—how to walk, how to bow, how to speak as if I’d never been anything but a servant girl. She gave me the name Kleio. She even cloaked me in another face so no eye could pierce it.”

Achilles’ breath stilled, sharpened by wakefulness. “Hecate did all that?” His hand tightened slightly against my shoulder. “Even… spells?”

“Yes. Small ones,” I murmured. “Little protections, nothing vast or divine. Enough to make me pass where I otherwise would not.”

Achilles’ voice was quiet, tentative, childlike in its wonder. “Did it hurt? Changing into Kleio?”

I smiled faintly. “No. Not at all. It was…like slipping on a garment. Strange, but not painful.”

Achilles let out a thoughtful hum, the weight of his hand tracing idly along my arm. Then, after a pause: “Were you ever afraid, being Kleio?”

“Yes,” I answered without hesitation, then softened, “But not because I was a woman. I feared every day for you. Every night, I wondered if I would arrive too late, if you would already be lost to me.”

Achilles swallowed, and I could feel the muscles in his chest tense beneath my cheek. Another pause, and then Achilles’ voice came low and sharp. “And…were you ever mistreated? As Kleio?”

I lifted my head slightly, hearing the storm begin to kindle in Achilles’ tone. “Yes—but listen,” I said firmly, pressing my hand against Achilles’ ribs as if to anchor him. “It was nothing but whispers, ugly gestures, petty rumors. Briseis kept me safe. She drew me into her circle, guarded me. She reminded me of you more often than she knew.”

That stilled Achilles, though I felt the restless silence in him—the way he was thinking, coiling, rather than drifting to sleep. I waited until Achilles’ voice broke through again, quieter than before. “How much did she care for you?”

I considered, then answered honestly. “Briseis believed my ‘husband’ was kept from me by a cruel mother-in-law. She saw my grief, and said she would use her nobility to help me return to him. To you. So yes, she cared—if not for me, then for Kleio.”

Achilles let the words linger. His silence pressed like a weight until I heard it for what it was. 

Jealousy.

I lifted my hand and cupped Achilles’ face, guiding him to meet my gaze even in the dark. “Briseis was like a dear friend to me,” I said gently. “We were two strangers in a place not our own, learning to trust what care we could find. I care for her. But it is nothing—nothing—like what I hold for you. For you, I would defy gods themselves. For you, I would even defy myself.”

The tight line of Achilles’ brows eased, unknitting under the weight of the words. His lips parted as if to speak, but what came out was only an apology, whispered like a plea. “I’m sorry— you know how I cling to you, even unspoken.”

I brushed my thumb over Achilles’ cheek. “There is no need. Just believe me when I say it—when I proclaim my love for you, my adoration. Believe me, and you’ll have all you need.”

Achilles closed his eyes, exhaling against my palm, a sleepy smile that warmed the space between us.

~IV~

The quiet wrapped us like a shroud, broken only by the slow rhythm of Achilles’ breathing against my temple. The warmth of his chest, the rise and fall beneath my cheek, felt like the most certain thing in the world. Achilles shifted faintly, his arm tightening as though the thought of letting go, even in sleep, was unthinkable.

His voice came low, roughened by weariness, “Did Hecate tell you how long you’d need to stay like that? As Kleio?”

I tilted my head, eyes half-lidded in the dim glow of the oil lamp. “No. Only until I found you. She said the disguise would last as long as I willed it, or until my purpose was fulfilled. And I think—” I exhaled softly, “—my purpose was always to reach you before it was too late.”

Achilles hummed, the sound vibrating. “Too late,” he repeated, tasting the words as though they were ash. “If you hadn’t come, Patroclus, I would have…” He trailed off, no need to finish; the shadow of Deidamia hung between us.

I lifted my head, just enough to press my mouth to the curve of Achilles’ collarbone. “But I did come.”

Achilles smiled faintly, his lashes heavy with sleep, but his mind still restless. “You must have hated it—being kept in a woman’s skin.”

I shook my head. “Not hated. Only… it wasn’t mine. It was a mask I learned to wear, and I wore it willingly. Because it led me here.”

For a long while, Achilles was quiet, until at last he murmured, “And Briseis—did she ever suspect you weren’t what you seemed? At all?”

“No,” I whispered. “Not once. She looked at me and saw Kleio, a woman far from home. She pitied me, cared for me, even claimed me when Deidamia would have taken me.”

Achilles’ lips pressed together, his jaw tightening though his eyes stayed closed. I could feel it in the bones of his face beneath my fingertips.

“You’re still jealous,” I said gently, without judgment.

Achilles opened his eyes just a little, green catching the lamplight. “Yes,” he admitted, voice small, boyish, as though confessing something shameful.

I cupped his cheek, thumb stroking once across the high line of it. “She was kind to me. Protective. Like—like a sister might have been, if I’d ever known one. But never anything more. My heart is yours, Achilles.”

Achilles’ breath left him slowly, tension melting from his brow. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“You have no need,” I answered, kissing his forehead. “You only have to keep believing me when I tell you I love you.”

“That,” Achilles whispered, a faint smile ghosting his lips, “will be easy.”

The silence stretched again, softer this time, as Achilles’ body sagged heavier with the pull of sleep. His hand, still resting over my back, traced a lazy pattern against the tunic, as though memorizing the weight of me.

I closed my eyes, listening to the slowing cadence of Achilles’ breaths, and thought—not for the first time—that even if the gods demanded everything, even if fate itself unraveled around ua, this moment was worth the price.

~IV~

The lamplight was guttering low, shadows stretching long across the chamber as the night pressed close. Achilles had settled almost into sleep, his arm heavy around me, breath steady. Yet he murmured suddenly, voice half-slurred with drowsiness.

“Patroclus… tell me—how did it begin? The first vision.”

I let out a quiet hum, eyelids too heavy to lift. “It was… strange. Like my body had betrayed me. My hands and feet went numb first, as though they no longer belonged to me. Then a dizziness, spinning, as if I were being pulled away from myself, losing my place.” My words came soft, unhurried, lulling. “Then… light. Red light. So bright it swallowed everything, drowning the image I was meant to see. And when it broke, I woke on the shore. Facing Scyros. As if the sea itself had set me down there.”

Achilles’ body tensed subtly beneath me, the weight of his near-sleep giving way to something sharper. His eyes opened, green and searching even in the dimness.

“Did it hurt?” he asked, the question too alert for the hour.

I shifted faintly, cheek still against Achilles’ chest. “No,” I murmured, voice almost swallowed by the quiet. “Not pain. Only… disorientation. Like the world had tipped sideways, and I had to relearn how to stand.”

Achilles’ hand stilled against my back. His voice grew tighter, urgent in its restraint. “And the incantations Hecate gave you—did they hurt?”

My lashes fluttered, mouth dragging into a weary half-smile. “Achilles…” My voice was heavy with sleep. “I’ll tell you more in the morning.”

Achilles’ jaw worked, the restlessness returning to his frame, coiling in the lines of his shoulders. “That wasn’t a ‘no,’” he said, a thread of agitation fraying through the words.

With a sigh that was almost a groan of reluctance, I forced my eyes open, pushing myself up just enough to meet Achilles’ gaze. My hand lifted, fingers curling against Achilles’ cheek. Then, with quiet insistence, I bent and kissed him—deep, slow, pouring myself into it as though I might give Achilles his very breath.

Achilles melted into it, the restless edge dissolving, his hand clutching at my side as the kiss drew him under. His body slackened, overtaken by the sheer warmth and sensual gravity of the moment.

I broke the kiss at last, lips brushing against Achilles’ with the faintest parting breath. “Sleep,” I whispered, soft as a spell.

Then I sank back down, nuzzling into the curve of Achilles’ neck, pressing my face into the warmth there, arms holding fast around him. Achilles exhaled, long and shuddered, the agitation gone—only my presence left, anchoring him to rest.

Achilles lingered in that liminal space where wakefulness clung like a burr, his mind still restless even as I pressed against him with all the warmth of earth and hearth. He felt the whisper of my curls brushing his throat, the steady weight of my breathing. I felt subtle hum of his pulse where my cheek met chest. Yet Achilles’ hand would not still—it traced once, twice, the ridge of my spine, a touch not for comfort but for reassurance, as though afraid that if he stopped, I would dissolve like mist.

I murmured again, drowsy and faintly chiding, “I said sleep, Achilles…” My voice was thick with fatigue, but the softness in it carried a smile.

“I’m trying,” Achilles whispered back, almost petulant. His fingers tightened gently, clutching closer, as if the command could only be obeyed if he had me secure in both arms. His cheek pressed to my hair, inhaling the faint and familiar fig scent, the tether that had guided him through every exile, every uncertainty.

Silence grew between us, save for the measured rhythm of breath. 

~

Patroclus’ had already fallen into the cadence of dreams, slow and deep. Achilles’ remained uneven for some time, catching now and then, like a swimmer resisting the current that would draw him under.

But gradually, inexorably, the tide took him. His lashes lowered, his muscles loosened, though his arms did not. Even in sleep, his hold refused surrender, his grip still firm about Patroclus’ waist, an unconscious oath that not even dreams could pry from him. His breathing steadied at last, syncing to the man pressed against him, until the two of them seemed to breathe as one.

Patroclus shifted faintly in his dreams, his face pressed closer into the hollow of Achilles’ neck. Achilles stirred only enough to sigh and murmur something wordless, and then he sank fully, unresisting, into sleep—yet never let go.

~

The light came soft, pale and hesitant through the windows, the kind of morning that felt more like a secret than a beginning. Achilles stirred first, breath catching on the awareness that he had slept—truly slept—without the tossing and burning that often plagued him. For a moment he lay still, suspended in the fragile quiet, before lowering his gaze.

Patroclus was still there, tangled against him, cheek pressed to the bare skin of his chest. His hair spilled dark and unruly across Achilles’ collarbone, tickling with every exhale. Achilles could feel the warmth of him everywhere—along his ribs, his hip, the bend of his arm where he’d folded Patroclus close and never let go.

Careful, as though any sudden movement might disturb some divine balance, Achilles shifted just enough to better see him. The faintest of lines marked Patroclus’ brow, even in sleep, though his lips were parted in the gentlest breath. Achilles traced the shape of his shoulder with the lightest touch, hardly more than a brush of air. He thought of the night before—the kiss pressed into him like a vow, the words bidding him to sleep—and a soft smile ghosted across his face.

He realized, distantly, that his arm ached from holding Patroclus so tightly all night, but he did not loosen his grip. He would bear a thousand such aches, if it meant this: Patroclus safe, his heartbeat steady beneath his hand.

Achilles bent his head, brushed his lips to the crown of dark hair, lingering there in a kiss that was less gesture than devotion. “You kept me here,” he whispered, though no one was awake to hear it.

The morning stretched around them, slow and golden, but Achilles remained content to be still, to simply watch the rise and fall of Patroclus’ chest, and to guard the peace that the night had carved for them.

~IV~

I stirred first with a shift of breath, not with movement. Achilles caught it—the subtle change in rhythm, the small sound against his chest—and lowered his gaze just as my lashes lifted halfway. My eyes still felt heavy with sleep, hazed and soft, but when Achilles whispered, “Good morning,” the response came easily, instinctive.

“Mm. Morning.” My voice was roughened, but the corners of my mouth curved faintly; even half-conscious, I answered Achilles without effort.

That tiny proof of presence sent a warmth spiraling through Achilles, and he moved almost without thought, his hand tracing across my bare skin. He followed the slope of my shoulder, the line of my arm, the curve of my side—slow, deliberate, as though he were reading some hidden text that might tell him more. His fingertips wandered like seekers, as if each patch of skin might reveal a secret.

I blinked against the slow intrusion, drowsiness giving way to alertness. I shifted, propping myself a little higher against Achilles’ chest, brows pulling. “What are you doing?”

“Checking,” Achilles said softly, his voice steady, but intent burning beneath it. “For wounds.”

I exhaled, half a sigh, and caught the wandering hand with my own, stilling it. My grip was warm, patient. “I am not wounded.”

But Achilles’ gaze did not ease, and his hand only slipped free to continue. “Then how badly does it hurt?” he asked, low, almost a demand though cloaked in gentleness. “The incantations she taught you.”

My expression softened at once into weariness; I had expected this question, and dreaded it. I shifted my cheek briefly against Achilles’ chest, gathering my words, before answering. “It isn’t pain of the flesh. It is a clash of wills against one another. If I push too hard, or against one too strong, it… bites back. Phantom pain, nothing more.”

Achilles’ brows drew tight, like the words gave no comfort. He leaned on one elbow now, hovering above me, unwilling to let the explanation stand as enough. “Where does it settle?” he asked, voice low but firm.

I hesitated, then—almost without thought—pressed my hand lightly against my ribs.

At once Achilles’ hand followed, tugging aside the fold of my clothing to bare the place. His palm settled warmly against the skin, pressing carefully, as though he might find a bruise hidden beneath. “Show me.”

“There’s nothing to see,” I murmured, watching him with something between fondness and exasperation. “No mark. Only memory.”

But Achilles did not withdraw, fingers splaying across my ribs as if his touch alone might draw the pain out. His eyes searched my face instead, sharp and desperate, needing to know.

My lips tilted faintly. “When I give a simple nudge, it’s soft. A feather, a breath. No pain at all. But when it’s too complex, or when the will resists…” My gaze flickered away, briefly recalling. “It is like being kicked in the ribs. Or like a snake’s bite—sharp, lingering, as though it poisoned me. When Deidameia—” I stopped, then admitted more firmly, “When I nudged her away from choosing me as her servant, the recoil burned like that; a snake. A strike. A warning.”

Achilles’ fingers pressed a little more firmly against my ribs, as if to ground the confession, to soothe a wound that was long since faded. His eyes were storm-dark with thought.

“But most times,” I went on, quieter, “there is nothing. Only breath.”

Achilles drew in slowly, then asked, “How often?” His voice was low, careful, but there was steel underneath.

“It’s only occurred twice.” My honesty held him steady. “Once in training. Once… with her.”

Something in Achilles’ shoulders eased, a partial release. Still, he shook his head. “I don’t want you using it. Not if you can help it.”

My lips curved wryly, though there was no fight in me this morning, only calm. I rested my hand atop Achilles’, pressing it more firmly to my ribs as if to anchor us both. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

~IV~

Achilles had the nature to show relief through touch.

He moved like a tide pulling itself higher onto the shore, unrelenting but never cruel, every motion steady and sure. His hands pressed into me as though to reassure himself of the warmth beneath, sliding over ribs and waist, as though to mark every inch as his own to guard. His mouth followed, lips grazing skin as if each kiss was an oath—light, reverent, yet spoken with a weight that could not be mistaken.

I lay beneath him, the morning glow outlining the sweep of my throat and chest, breath rising and falling with a calm that seemed to steady Achilles more than words ever could. My fingers threaded into Achilles’ hair without resistance, gentle in my encouragement, urging him closer, saying without sound that I approved, that I welcomed all of it.

Achilles whispered between the kisses—not with words the ear could hear, but with the fervor of his mouth against my skin, the reverence of his touch. His relief was palpable, curling into every motion; the desperation that had cracked him apart the night before now softened into a tenderness just as consuming.

I watched him like the moon watches the tide, knowing its pull, knowing its depths, and loving it still. My eyes were softened, lips parting only to murmur Achilles’ name once, low and quiet, as though to remind him that I was here—alive, whole, unharmed—and Achilles’ answering breath shuddered against my chest like the sea finally reaching home.

Achilles could not still himself. The more I yielded beneath him, the more the weight in his chest shifted—relief unraveling into hunger, need, devotion sharpened into something that made his hands firm and his mouth restless. He kissed down with greater insistence, no longer only whispering vows into skin but claiming it, teeth grazing, breath quickening. Every sound I gave in response fed him like air.

I did not resist—I never had, never would. My body moved in rhythm to Achilles’ touch, my back curving, my hand tightening in Achilles’ hair. My other hand smoothed over Achilles’ shoulder, down his spine, urging him on. Where I had first only watched with quiet approval, now my gaze darkened with desire, and I drew Achilles closer, our breaths tangling.

Achilles raised his head just long enough to look at me, and what I saw there made my breath hitch—relief still, yes, but burning hotter now, as though Achilles had been starving for me, and at last had me back within reach. The desperation had not vanished; it had only turned inward, into need, into a fierce devotion that could not be spoken with words.

“Patroclus,” Achilles breathed, voice rough, almost breaking on the name. He kissed me then, deep and consuming, nothing left in reserve. His body pressed fully down, one arm caging, the other tracing over ribs, hip, thigh, learning all over again.

I yielded, but not passively—my lips met Achilles’ with equal fire, my touch urging, guiding, pulling him deeper. The taste of relief turned to fervor, each kiss hotter, more demanding, as if to burn away the memory of doubt and distance.

The morning light spilled over us, and the quiet intimacy of dawn became something else entirely—an affirmation, an insistence, a vow renewed with every breath and every desperate kiss.

Achilles’ kisses trailed deeper, hungrier, until words were forgotten altogether. His hands framed my face as if to remind himself of what he held, then slid down—throat, chest, ribs—each place pressed with lips and palm, as though to lay claim, as though to map me new again. I arched into it, the shiver in my breath betraying both tenderness and need.

The last of restraint cracked when Achilles lifted me closer, our bodies aligned, bare skin meeting bare skin with no barriers left between us. The touch alone drew a sound from Achilles, almost pained, relief sharpened into something raw. He buried his face in my neck, words tumbling in broken fragments—mine, with me, don’t leave, Patroclus.

My hand cupped the back of his head, steadying him, grounding him. “I’m here,” I whispered, voice hoarse, lips brushing his temple. “I’m not leaving.” My other hand roamed Achilles’ back, coaxing him down, opening to him fully, offering without hesitation.

When Achilles pressed forward, the world narrowed to that moment—the stretch, the joining, the trembling breath caught between us. Achilles froze, not from uncertainty but from reverence, his forehead pressed to my shoulder, his body shaking as though the reality of being inside again was too much to bear.

I soothed him with quiet touches, murmured reassurances, until Achilles finally moved—slow at first, deliberate, each thrust like a vow, like he was writing devotion into my very body. His hand gripped mine tightly, our fingers twined as if to anchor ourselves together against anything that might separate us.

The pace grew, from careful to consuming, each movement speaking what Achilles could not trust words to hold. I met him without hesitation, body answering, breath spilling into soft sounds that urged Achilles further. The air was thick with heat, with the weight of love sharpened by longing, with the ache of two souls trying to fuse wholly into one.

When release came, it was near simultaneous—Achilles breaking first, his cry muffled into my neck, his body quaking with the force of it, clutching as if I might disappear. I followed, pulled over by the sheer intensity of Achilles’ need, holding him fiercely through it.

After, Achilles refused to part from me. Even as his breath slowed, even as exhaustion dragged at him, he stayed pressed deep, arms locked around me as though letting go would undo everything we had fought to reclaim.

I stroked his hair, his back, breathing evenly against him. “I’m here,” I repeated, softer now, into the hush of morning. “I’ll stay.”

Achilles finally eased enough to look at me, eyes red at the edges, raw with devotion. He kissed me once more—slow, lingering, all-consuming even in its gentleness—and then lowered his head back to my chest, drifting toward sleep still holding me close, as though nothing in the world could pry us apart.

~IV~

The quiet aftermath settled over us like a soft tide. Achilles’ arms remained locked, holding me as if the warmth of my body could stave off any intrusion from the world. Our breaths fell into a lazy rhythm, punctuated only by the occasional soft sigh or murmur.

I shifted slightly, careful not to disturb Achilles’ hold, brushing fingers through his hair and along his back. Achilles responded with a gentle hum, pressing closer as if to reinforce the claim that he would not let go. The tension that had clawed at both of us over weeks—months, in a way—slipped slowly into something deeper: safety, relief, the unspoken promise that here, in this room, we could finally exist without fear.

Sunlight slanted weakly through the fog-draped windows, illuminating the small curls of my hair, and Achilles’ eyes flicked open just enough to trace the light over me. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the crown of my head, a silent, almost worshipful acknowledgment that he could feel me, that he had me, finally unguarded and unbroken.

I murmured back, sleepy but steady: “I would not trade this for anything.” My hand traced circles along Achilles’ arm, each movement slow, deliberate. “No one can touch this. No one can take it from us.”

Achilles’ lips curved faintly into a tired, raw smile, and he pressed a soft kiss against my temple. “I’ll never let them. I’ll never let go.” His voice was husky from sleep and tears and the weight of our night, but there was an unshakable certainty behind it.

Time passed in silence and gentle movement. We shifted only as necessary—I, curling more fully against Achilles’ chest, Achilles’ arm draping protectively over my waist, our legs tangled as if the world itself had been pared down to the bed and our bodies. The quiet was not empty; it was full of sighs, of brushing touches, of whispered reassurances, of hearts beating and breaths mingling.

At one point, I tilted my head up, eyes still heavy with sleep, and spoke softly against Achilles’ shoulder. “I didn’t think we’d get here. Not like this. I… I didn’t think I’d feel safe in a place like Scyros, not truly.”

Achilles tightened his hold, pressing his forehead to mine. “Shh. You are safe. Only with me now.” His thumb traced gentle patterns along my spine. “I swear it. The world, the gods… none of them will take this from us. Not while I draw breath.”

I exhaled slowly, letting the tight knot in my chest ease. “I believe you,” I murmured, resting my cheek against Achilles’ chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. “I believe it.”

The day grew slowly, sunlight creeping past the fog, but we remained wrapped around one another, tethered by touch and presence. Even as the warmth of morning nudged us toward rising, neither of us wanted to let go. Every movement, every glance, every small press of a hand or forehead against skin was a reaffirmation: that we were together, whole, and untouchable for now.

Chapter Text

When being forced to move eventually came, like I tragically knew it would, I couldn’t help but want to be petulant.

I groaned, burying my face against Achilles’ shoulder. The warmth and closeness of the night still clung to him, and the thought of peeling away from it, even briefly, was agonizing. “Already?” I whispered, voice hoarse. “I… I just—”

Hecate’s soft, urgent voice filled my mind again. You must. Briseis will be searching. Deidamia still plots. The fog has held as long as it can.

I pressed my fingers against Achilles’ chest, memorizing the rise and fall of his breath. “And Briseis? She… she’s awake?”

Yes. She will be looking for you soon. And Deidamia—she still believes you angered a god. She knows nothing else.

I cursed under my breath, the words muffled against Achilles’ shoulder. “A god, right. Perfect. What a gift from the fates.” I lifted my head reluctantly, eyes meeting Achilles’ with a mix of frustration and lingering desire. “And Achilles…you have to return to your Pyrrha guise too?” I said it with such woe that I could have been pronouncing him dead.

Achilles’ half-lidded eyes met mine, and he gave a tired, reluctant nod. “I suppose we do. Until this is truly over.”

I exhaled shakily, pressing a final kiss to Achilles’ lips before disentangling myself. I let Hecate’s guidance nudge the transformation, and it began—the soft unraveling of my form, the feminine curves and careful nuances of Kleio returning. Even as I became Kleio again, the weight of the night clung to me: every breath, every heartbeat shared with Achilles, seared into memory.

I was gone behind a partition before my entire body entirely changed again, heat still sticking stubbornly to my cheeks at the idea of Achilles’ seeing this womanly body unclothed.

Achilles allowed me such privacy, still in the bed, and closed his eyes as Hecate whispered across our minds. Do not falter. You must resume your guise as Pyrrha. Patroclus is safe with you, for now.

With a deep, trembling breath, Achilles rose from bed and took on the delicate silks and jewelry of a Princess of Scyros, Pyrrha’s appearance forming once more: the lines of his body made delicate by cloth, the slight bowing in his frame that gave way to a woman’s stance, all a cloak of anonymity that would shield him from prying eyes. 

He waited until I left the partition, clothed once more in what I had worn to sleep that night. He reached for me just the same as he always had, even if now every part of me save for my eyes and hair would feel different under his touch. His hand brushed over the edge of my arm as a silent promise that this separation was only temporary.

I, now fully Kleio, moved forward, every step deliberate and careful, Hecate’s whispers guiding me through the room. The fog outside the windows was beginning to lose thickness, no longer hiding them from sight, a loosening of the protective shroud that gave us these precious hours.

Go. Move. Briseis waits.

I nodded, even though Hecate could see the lingering ache in his chest. 

“I’ll return soon,” I tell Achilles, and I don’t know if I mean my presence or my body.

Just keep him safe, Hecate. Keep him safe.

The goddess’ reply was quiet, almost sorrowful. I will. But you must walk this path carefully, child. So much rests on your restraint.

Together, we left—hearts still tethered, yet hidden from each other by gaze—prepared to reenter the world outside, each cloaked in disguises, our shared secret pressing like fire beneath our skin.

~V~

The hallways still shimmered faintly with Hecate’s thinning fog, guiding me with a quiet insistence. Achilles—Pyrrha now—kept just a step behind, her presence a steady warmth even though she was forced into the role of shadow instead of partner.

“What will you tell her?” Pyrrha murmured, voice pitched low so only I could hear.

My mouth curved, humorless, eyes fixed ahead. “What I always have. Lies, since the day I met her.” I paused, a trace of guilt crossing my features before hardening again. “It bothers me, but it won’t matter. I can calm her down easily enough.”

We turned the corner, and the sound of hushed, urgent voices reached us. Briseis stood in a small knot of servants, her tone clipped with worry as she pressed them for answers. The instant her eyes found mine, her whole demeanor shifted. She broke from the circle without hesitation, skirts swishing, and rushed forward to wrap me tightly in her arms.

The force of the embrace startled me, but I returned it quickly, holding her close. Briseis exhaled against my shoulder, a heavy, trembling sigh of relief. When she pulled back, her hands still rested on my arms as if to reassure herself I was real.

“Where have you been?” Briseis demanded, though her voice trembled more with worry than anger. “I went to your chambers this morning, and you were simply gone. Vanished.”

I ducked my head, letting sheepishness soften my expression. “I—went to Pyrrha’s room,” I said carefully, glancing briefly toward Pyrrha, who lingered a few respectful steps away, gaze lowered. “We… worked out our differences, finally. It was late, and I lost track of time in our talking.”

Briseis blinked, surprise flickering across her features. Her eyes shifted toward Pyrrha, measuring, though the other girl kept her place, quiet and distant, making no move to intrude. Slowly, Briseis turned back, the lines in her forehead easing as she reached up to smooth back a strand of my hair, her thumb lingering gently at my temple.

“Well,” she said, softening. “I suppose I can forgive that. But, Kleio, next time—please. Let a servant, or even a guard, know where you’re going. So they can tell me. Do you know how it felt, to think you’d been taken?”

My heart pinched, though my face showed only remorse. I gave a small nod, voice low. “I’m sorry, Briseis. Truly. I’ll remember, next time.”

Briseis let out another breath, not quite a sigh this time, and her grip on me gentled before she stepped back, though she kept her hand linked loosely with mine as though unwilling to let me vanish again.

Behind us, Pyrrha inclined her head slightly, eyes unreadable, and remained silent.

Briseis didn’t release my hand. Instead, with a soft but insistent tug, she drew me away from the servants’ circle. Even Pyrrha, who lingered at the edge with a carefully impassive face, was left behind. I risked a quick glance over my shoulder, eyes finding Pyrrha’s for only a heartbeat—an unspoken apology, quiet and swift, before Briseis steered me through an archway into the quieter stretch of a columned hall.

Here, with the echoes of footsteps muted and the fog thinning further, Briseis turned, her hands rising again to frame my face, thumbs brushing lightly across my cheeks. “Tell me the truth now,” she said softly, urgently. “Not what you told them. Not what you tell others. You vanished, Kleio. I don’t care about appearances—I need to know that you are safe.”

My lashes lowered, and I exhaled slowly, fingers folding together before I dared to answer. “I am safe,” I began, voice careful, measured. “But it was not as simple as I said. Last night, when I went to Pyrrha’s room, it was because…” I faltered, considering how much I could say, before pressing on. “Because Deidamia had been there. And she—she was trying to hurt Pyrrha. Irrevocably.”

Briseis’s brows knitted sharply. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t name how,” I said quickly, my tone firmer now, not evasive but protective. “It isn’t mine to tell. But it was real, and it was cruel. I went because I wanted to mend things with Pyrrha, to speak honestly at last. And when I entered, Deidamia…” My breath hitched, hands tightening into fists. “She turned on me. She charged—threatened to strike me. I had no choice but to trip her, to push her back into the hall before she could reach me.”

Briseis’s eyes widened, her hand sliding from my cheek to grip my wrist tightly, as though anchoring me. “She raised her hand to you?”

“She meant to.” I nodded once, solemn, letting the weight of it settle between us.

Briseis’s face darkened, a flush of anger threading through her worry. Her thumb brushed sharply against my pulse, as though to feel for any lingering tremor of fear. “And no one else saw this?” she asked, lowering her voice, though it trembled with the urge to act.

“No,” I admitted, voice quiet. “Only Pyrrha. And I’ve no doubt Deidamia will twist her version if she speaks of it. But what I’ve told you is the truth.”

Briseis studied my face for a long, searching moment, then pulled me into a fiercer, almost desperate embrace. “Then you are not to be near her again,” she whispered against my hair. “Not alone. Not where she can lay a hand on you. Do you hear me?”

I closed my eyes, allowing myself to lean into the warmth, voice just above a breath. “I hear you.”

Briseis held me for longer than I expected, as if something in her own chest was unspooling at last. When she finally pulled back, it was only far enough to search my face again, fingers smoothing at the line of my jaw as though she could brush away the memory of danger.

“I knew she was poisonous,” Briseis murmured, eyes narrowing, “but not like this. Not with teeth bared, not striking out at you. She has always been sharp with words, yes, but I thought—” She cut herself short, her mouth twisting with a bitterness she rarely allowed to surface. “I thought I could keep her poison from spreading. That it would be mine to endure, not yours.”

I shifted uneasily, touched by the possessive weight in Briseis’s voice. “You couldn’t have known.”

“No,” Briseis said, firm, not accepting the excuse. Her hands found my shoulders, grounding. “It should have been me. If she was to lash out, it should never have been at you. She is cruel because she believes no one will stand in her way. That ends now.”

I blinked at her, startled by the conviction, by the rare heat in Briseis’s normally careful, deliberate tone. “You would oppose her openly?”

Briseis’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded once, sharply. “If I must. Let her scorn me—I do not care. But you—” Her grip on my shoulders softened, then slid lower until her hands clasped around my own, warm and firm. “You are not for her cruelty. Not for her sport. I won’t let her have you that way.”

My throat tightened, the words both a balm and a burden. I leaned my head down slightly, meeting Briseis’s gaze with a flicker of something guilty and tender all at once. “You’ve already done so much for me. More than anyone has. I don’t want to cause you more trouble.”

“You are not trouble,” Briseis said swiftly, cutting through my protest like a blade. Her tone softened after, gentler, intimate in a way that felt only for us. “You are the only part of this life that makes sense. If it costs me a quarrel with her, so be it. I’d quarrel with all of Scyros before I let her lay a hand on you again.”

I swallowed, caught between relief and a flicker of shame at the lies woven into my explanation. Still, the way Briseis’s voice wrapped around me left no room for doubt—Briseis’s fear and devotion were wholly, piercingly real.

Briseis’s eyes softened, the sharpness fading into something far more fragile, as if her guard had finally slipped. She drew in a quiet breath, her hands still warm around mine.

“We speak often of our husbands,” she began, her tone low, hesitant, “but I must tell you something I have hidden even from myself. I have been far too lenient with mine. In the last years, he has grown… bitter, soured by war, by loss, by his own pride. And what is left for me in him is nothing. He cares nothing for me anymore.” She swallowed, voice wavering, though her gaze held steady. “I can do nothing of it, for I reign still as his queen. I came here, Kleio, not only to evade Troy and the war—but to evade him as well.”

I blinked rapidly, caught unprepared for the admission, my lips parting without words to answer.

Briseis pressed on, a kind of desperate courage in her tone. “You are precious to me. More than you know. And yet—I am no fool. You are married, and I would never dare to threaten that. I would not dream of it. But I have this selfish hope.” Her hands tightened around mine, a faint tremor in them. “That when I help you back to your husband, you will still allow me—allow me to be your lady. To remain near you, even if never closer than that.”

The turmoil in my chest swelled, then softened into something like clarity. I lifted Briseis’s hands, pressing them against my own chest, holding them close, as though that nearness might steady us both.

“You are right,” I said gently, my voice touched with sadness and fondness both. “I could not accept you as a lover. My heart belongs only in that way to my husband. But I will not deny you still as my lady, nor as my confidant. For I have grown too fond, too attached to you to ever wish you gone from my side.”

Briseis let out a breath she had been holding, the faintest flicker of wounded pride shadowing her features—yet far more relief than pain remained. Her shoulders eased, her gaze soft and bright with gratitude.

“Then I swear it,” she said quietly, resolutely. “I will never wedge myself between you and your husband. Whatever place you give me, I will keep it with honor.”

Briseis bowed her head, her auburn hair slipping forward as she lifted my hands higher between us. With a tenderness that felt ceremonial, vow-like, she pressed her lips to the tops of my fingers. The kiss lingered, not in desire but in devotion, sealing the promise she had just spoken.

My breath caught, chest tightening at the solemnity of it.

But movement at the far end of the corridor tugged my attention. Pyrrha had rounded the corner, her steps slowing as her eyes caught on the gesture—a queen bent over my hands, lips brushing reverently against them.

For a heartbeat, the world went still.

My gaze lifted from Briseis and found Pyrrha’s. A subtle tilt of my chin, a softening of my expression, a silent message that said: trust me.

Pyrrha’s brow furrowed faintly, the briefest storm of thought flickering across her face. And then, more quickly than I had dared hope, Pyrrha gave a small, quiet nod. A gesture of trust—firm, unshaken, and with more certainty than I could have expected.

Briseis, still bent over my hands, hadn’t yet noticed the silent exchange.

Briseis’ lips lifted from my hands just as the soft tread of Pyrrha’s steps drew closer, stepping fully into our circle. Briseis turned her head only slightly, eyes flicking to Pyrrha with a brief, protective sharpness—a queen’s warning, quick as a blade.

But the edge melted almost immediately, her mouth curving into a sly smile.

“And when was the last time you had someone kissing your hands, Pyrrha?” Briseis asked, her tone feather-light, teasing to cover the vow she had just sealed.

Pyrrha didn’t so much as flinch under the change of tone. She cocked a brow, her confidence slipping on like armor, and gave her answer with a lilt of pride.

“Whenever and wherever I please,” she replied smoothly, her grin as unshaken as her stance.

I couldn’t help the soft chuckle that escaped me at Pyrrha’s retort, my hand now free to brush against my lips to hide it. The sound was enough for Briseis to glance between us, her expression easing with quiet certainty.

Yes—whatever storm had passed between these two, Kleio and Pyrrha, it had been mended.

Briseis let her gaze linger on my softened smile and then back to Pyrrha, her teasing energy coiling easily around us both. She straightened, still holding one of my hands as though it were her prize, and tilted her head with an exaggerated sigh.

“Well,” she said, voice full of mock gravity, “at least one princess on Scyros can manage to be nice to our Kleio. I suppose that honor falls to me.”

I flushed and shook my head lightly, though the curve of my mouth betrayed my amusement.

Pyrrha gave a quick scoff, flicking her braid over her shoulder as she stepped closer, her own smirk tugging sharply at her lips. “Nice? Briseis, you mistake me. I’ve no talent for being nice. But I do have talent for keeping Kleio laughing, which is far more useful.”

“That it is,” I murmured, warmth slipping through my chest as I looked between them—my confidante and my companion, circling one another with light barbs that barely concealed the care beneath.

Briseis released my hand at last, only to gesture magnanimously between the two of them. “Then it seems Kleio is well-guarded from sourness, if both of us have claimed our own duties.”

Pyrrha gave a sharp little nod, satisfied with the agreement, though the corner of her mouth stayed quirked as though already preparing her next jab.

I lifted my brows as though caught between two rival jesters, though my chest eased with relief at how easily they had fallen into this. “Well, if you two insist on dividing duties, I fear I’ll be dreadfully spoiled.”

“Not spoiled,” Pyrrha corrected at once, tapping a finger against my arm with mock sternness, “balanced. Someone must keep your feet on the ground while Briseis here raises you like some untouchable idol.”

Briseis gave an affronted gasp, hand fluttering to her chest. “An idol? Hardly. I simply give her the dignity she deserves. If others neglect her, that’s no fault of mine.”

Pyrrha’s eyes glittered, sharp and amused. “And what of me, then? Shall I play the villain in your story?”

“You?” Briseis said sweetly, almost too sweetly. “You’ll play the mischief-maker. Saints preserve us if Kleio ever grows tired of your antics.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to smother a laugh, but it slipped out anyway, bright and uncontained. That laugh—unwitting, genuine—made both Briseis and Pyrrha glance my way at the same time, and in that twin glance lingered something unspoken, a quiet tether of agreement neither would name aloud.

Pyrrha tilted her head with a grin that bordered on daring. “So long as Kleio keeps laughing, I’ll take that role gladly.”

“And I,” Briseis added smoothly, “will see she never forgets her worth.”

I exhaled, soft but steady, feeling the storm that had threatened to pull us apart only last night dissolve into this banter that, beneath its bite, was steadier than I dared to hope.

The sound of footsteps and chatter from the lower hall crept nearer, the hush of the garden corner giving way to the pulse of the palace returning to life. The fog of Hecate’s night, so heavy and strange, seemed at last to have retreated fully—no mist in the air, no weight pressing against thoughts. Only sunlight on marble and the chorus of voices reminding us that the day had claimed us again.

Briseis smoothed her skirts with a little flourish, the queen slipping back over the confidante like a veil. “If we linger any longer, I’ll be accused of monopolizing you, Kleio. Which, of course, is true.”

“Accused?” Pyrrha echoed, quick on the draw. “I’d say you’ve just confessed.”

I chuckled, caught in their rhythm, letting myself be nudged into the flow of the morning bustle as the three of us fell into step. Servants glanced our way, eyes quick with curiosity, but Briseis carried herself with such unbothered poise that the attention rolled harmlessly past.

“And you, Pyrrha,” Briseis said smoothly, “ought to thank me. At least one princess on Scyros is nothing like any of her spoiled sisters.”

Pyrrha made a show of groaning. “There it is again. You think too highly of her.” She darted me a sly smile. “If you’re not careful, you’ll have her believing she deserves better than both of us.”

“Perhaps she does,” Briseis returned, light but pointed, only the faintest glimmer of meaning threading the tease.

I glanced between them, lips curved, the ache in my chest from the night before finally softened into something else—something steadier, almost buoyant. I let my voice match their banter, but my eyes carried the gratitude I could not say aloud.

“Then it’s settled,” I said. “I shall keep you both, since it seems neither of you intends to let me go.”

Their laughter, woven together, lifted into the growing hum of the day, carrying us out from the shadows of last night’s troubles and into the warmth of morning.

~V~

It didn’t take long for my to feel it—that prickle of eyes following, sharp as burrs caught in a hem. Deidamia’s servants had taken to haunting the edges of corridors and thresholds, their hands folded, their faces docile, but their gazes too intent. They watched me with bated breath, as though waiting for some crack to show, some slip of strangeness that would explain the change in me—the girl who had walked one way into a bedchamber one night and returned another.

I wondered what Deidamia had told them. That she had been tossed out by her hair? That she had been struck? Or that I had done something monstrous, something unspeakable? Lies twisted so easily in Deidamia’s mouth that there was no telling how they had landed. Each stolen glance I caught felt like the echo of a different story, none I could control.

So I held myself carefully, never far from Briseis’s side. The queen’s presence was a shield, her poise too untouchable for gossip to dare breach. On the uncommon occasion Briseis could not take me along, Pyrrha was almost always there, sharp-eyed and quick, to hook me by the wrist and tug me away before the servants’ stares could tighten into words.

Most often, Pyrrha carried me to the garden, where several of the other daughters gathered in idleness—chatting over embroidered cloth, strumming melodies, or bickering over some petty diversion. Here, under the green light and the soft hush of fountains, I could almost breathe again.

I watched Pyrrha return to something like her truer self, in glimpses. The princess would pluck the lyre with nimble fingers, the tune never solemn for long, breaking halfway into something playful just to draw laughter from me. She juggled figs when the music failed, tossing them up until one inevitably smacked her shoulder and she cursed, grinning despite herself. And when the others sparred with wooden spears, Pyrrha joined in with a mock-serious air, tilting her strikes deliberately out of alignment—pretending, for appearances’ sake, to lose ground.

For me, the moments blurred between performance and reality: Pyrrha pretending to falter so the others would not notice her strength, and I pretending ease while servants’ eyes dug at my back. Yet in the space between those acts, in the laugh that broke too suddenly or the glance that lingered too long, truth breathed again.

~V~

The days drifted onward, each one layered with careful measures. I moved through Scyros like a shadow tethered to Briseis or Pyrrha, careful not to give Deidamia’s servants—or the princess herself—any excuse to whisper. Even in the sunlit garden, I felt the weight of their gaze, the subtle shift in posture, the fleeting glance that lingered a second too long. Hecate’s quiet voice threaded through my thoughts at these times, soft but insistent.

Keep to the periphery, the goddess urged, watch, but be seen only as you wish. Your presence must remain a whisper, not a signal.

I obeyed, ducking behind columns, bending slightly to meet only Briseis’s eye, letting Pyrrha’s laughter draw attention where it could. Still, Hecate’s warnings carried a sharper edge each day.

There is a crest in the path, Hecate murmured one evening as the sun waned over Scyros, a swell that cannot be ignored. Thetis will soon learn of Deidamia’s fury. When she does, she will demand answers from Achilles.

I shivered at the thought. Hecate continued, her voice now more like the wind brushing through leaves than a whisper.

He will speak, as humans do when pressed, that he slept with another girl—Kleio—to spite his mother. And Thetis… she will toil the seas, make the waters impassable, ensuring that Patroclus cannot cross, that you cannot reach him. The oceans themselves will rise against you.

A chill ran along my spine, and I pressed my hands together as if bracing for an unseen wave. Then… what can I do? I asked, though I knew Hecate’s answer would be measured and vague.

The wave is not the end, Hecate replied. There is another turn in fate, one that cuts across the sea regardless of Thetis’ will. That is what you must wait for. Patience, Kleio. Wait, move unseen, and trust that the tide you cannot still will yet carry what must come.

My heart thudded in quiet rhythm with the waves I could not see, with the servants whose eyes tracked like currents under the sun. Each careful step became more deliberate, each smile at Briseis and Pyrrha measured yet warm. I walked among the shadows of rumor, whispers, and waiting, every motion honed by Hecate’s guidance.

And in the quiet hours, when the palace hushed and only the wind dared to wander through the corridors, I imagined the sea beyond the island, the waves bristling under Thetis’ fury—and the turn of fate that no tide could stop. I waited, as I had been taught, poised on the cusp between disguise and truth, breath coiled like a spring ready to release when the moment came.

~V~

The days after Hecate’s warning began to carry an undercurrent I could feel in my bones. Deidamia’s unseen hand tightened subtly, weaving through the palace in whispers, ordering glances, questions, and tests that sought to unmask me. Servants who once ignored me now lingered at corners, their eyes sharp, ears straining for any misstep. Every gesture, every smile, every careful laugh with Briseis or Pyrrha was measured against invisible rules.

Hecate’s guidance remained constant. Move like the wind through reeds. Watch their patterns, anticipate their shifts, but do not strike unless you must. Your presence must remain unbroken, undetected, until the crest arrives.

I adapted quickly, letting Pyrrha or Briseis carry me through spaces where I could not safely move. Pyrrha, ever observant, would shift the crowd’s focus, creating distractions while I flitted unseen. Briseis’s vigilance was more deliberate—her hand subtly brushing my arm as she passed, eyes narrowing at anyone whose stare lingered too long.

Yet even with Hecate’s fog lifted, the island seemed smaller, the air tighter. Hecate’s voice was sharp in my mind one evening: Thetis knows Deidamia’s anger. She will demand answers from Achilles soon. The sea will stir in her wrath, and all crossings will be blocked. You must be ready to move, to conceal, to endure.

I pressed myself against a wall as I watched a group of Deidamia’s servants whisper amongst themselves. A chill ran along my spine. They were testing me, perhaps to see if the figure they assumed was a harmless servant girl would crumble. Every instinct told me to retreat, yet I held my ground, aware that any panic would signal the deception’s collapse.

Briseis’s voice came quietly beside me, a tether and shield both, “Kleio, do not let them see fear. Even a blink too long draws eyes you cannot afford.”

Pyrrha’s shadow fell beside her, subtle and deliberate. She did not touch me, but her presence alone was reassurance, a moving shield, a redirection of intent. I glimpsed her eyes, and in them saw the effort to restrain, to guard, to remain unseen.

Hecate’s warning threaded through my mind once more: The turn of fate is coming. Thetis will strike first, but it will not prevent what is meant to be. Hold fast, Kleio. Wait. Move. Survive.

Every moment became a delicate negotiation: where to step, when to speak, how to smile without revealing the shadow beneath my movements. And all the while, the knowledge lingered in my chest—the sea would rise in fury, Achilles would be forced to speak truths meant to wound, and Thetis would attempt to sever the connection that bound us. Yet I would endure, guided by Hecate, shielded by Briseis, observed yet protected by Pyrrha.

The crest loomed, distant yet inevitable, and my breath drew tighter in anticipation.

~V~

The tension of the sea clung to the palace like a living thing, restless and dark against the edges of Scyros. I watched through the lattice windows as the waves rose unnaturally, rolling and crashing as if a storm had claimed the waters, yet the sky above remained a calm, unyielding blue. Pyrrha appeared at my side, voice low and determined.

“I’m going outside,” she said, glancing briefly at the churning horizon. “I need to speak with Thetis. Do not follow me, Kleio.”

I nodded, a sinking weight pressing into my stomach, but I obeyed. The palace threshold was a boundary I could not cross; the less I exposed myself to the furious sea, the better. I watched Pyrrha vanish into the stormlike spray, her form a single defiant shadow against the chaos of the waves.

An hour passed in quiet dread. My eyes never left the horizon, feeling each towering wave like a threat pressed against my chest. Then, silently, Pyrrha returned. She moved through the palace doors, soaked from head to toe, salt tangling in her hair and clinging to her clothes, the storm of the sea mirrored in the darkness of her expression.

I rushed to her side, guiding her into a nearby linen closet. “Here,” I said softly, closing the door behind us. I took warm cloths in hand, gently dabbing Pyrrha’s face to dry the water, my fingers brushing against her skin with careful attention. Then, moving down to her hair, I pressed and squeezed the damp strands until most of the saltwater was gone.

Suddenly, Pyrrha surged forward, lips capturing mine in a rough, urgent kiss. Her hand clutched the back of my head, steadying me against the sudden force. A tiny, startled noise escaped my throat, but I did not resist. When Pyrrha finally broke the kiss, her thumb lingered over my lips, and she exhaled heavily, as if she had been holding her breath too long.

I placed my hand over Pyrrha’s wrist, grounding her gently. “It’s alright,” I murmured, soft and steady.

Pyrrha’s voice was low, urgent. “Thetis… she was furious. If I hadn’t been aware of what she tried to do before, seeing me… used by Deidamia… I would have been utterly blindsided today.”

Achilles’ hand pressed against the back of my head, tracing gently into my long hair as he spoke, voice calm but edged with tension. “She swore she’d break apart any ship that held Patroclus. If you dare walk the edges of the island where the ocean spray can reach, Thetis will try to lure you into the sea. She will try to drown you.”

Hecate’s voice pierced my mind like a whip. I will not let her touch you.

“I know,” I murmured to him, voice firm, “Hecate would protect me from something so gruesome.”

Achilles pressed closer, voice low and fierce. “I trust Hecate, but I do not want you risking it. Not for anything.”

I leaned into him, letting myself be held, the fear softening into the warmth of Achilles’ embrace. “I won’t,” I whispered, feeling the steady strength of Achilles at my side, the storm outside held at bay by the quiet sanctuary of our shared presence.

The tension of the sea lingered beyond the walls, but inside the linen closet, amid the salt-scented dampness and whispered promises, I found a fragile, unwavering calm.

~V~

The palace was alive with a nervous energy that hummed under every footstep. Word of the rough waters had spread like wildfire: ships grounded or capsized near Scyros’ jagged edges, sails shredded by unseen gusts, and fishermen murmuring of curses along the shoreline. King Lycomedes himself had been seen pacing the halls, frowning at the horizon, muttering to his advisors that some god had been angered in his domain.

Among the servants, whispers slithered through corridors, curling around corners, mouths moving in urgent, clipped tones. Fear and speculation intertwined. Who had provoked the sea? Who had called down the wrath of a god? And, inevitably, a finger was pointed.

It was quick, almost too quick, for Deidamia’s servants to attach blame to me. Whether they truly believed me culpable hardly mattered—the explanation fit too neatly into my sudden change in demeanor, the air of urgency that had followed me ever since that fateful night. Deidamia’s fury, long smoldering and restrained, now had a justification for release.

Briseis was the first to hear the rumors, carried on the breathless lips of a servant as she passed the hall. Her brow furrowed, heart leaping, and she did not pause to confirm the truth. She darted through the corridors, her skirts barely brushing the marble floor, eyes scanning every turn for me.

She found me before any guard could intercept, tucked in a quiet corridor just off the eastern wing. I had been trying to steady myself, aware of the mounting tension but hoping my careful steps had gone unnoticed.

“Kleio!” Briseis’ voice rang sharply, yet underneath it carried an urgency that made my chest constrict. I turned to find Briseis striding toward me, eyes alight with protective fire. Without another word, Briseis reached me, seizing my hand and pulling me close.

“They’re saying you’ve angered a god,” Briseis hissed, her grip tightening slightly as if the mere act of holding me could shield me from the storm of rumors. “Deidamia’s servants have pinned this on you. They’re looking for you, and if anyone—anyone—tries to touch you before I get you to safety…”

My lips parted, but no words came. The weight of the accusation pressed like a stone against my chest. Briseis felt it, too, and leaned closer, pressing a hand against my back in grounding reassurance.

“We’ll fix this,” Briseis said, low and firm, eyes sweeping the hall for any signs of movement. “I won’t let them take you. Not now, not ever.”

I felt the edges of my panic soften, if only briefly, the frantic thrum of fear quieted slightly by Briseis’ unwavering presence. Yet the tightening knot in my stomach reminded me—Deidamia’s reach, and the wrath of the gods, were very real, and very close.

Pyrrha rounded the corner soon after, cautiously, the sound of her light steps barely carrying over the hush of the corridor, and froze when she saw me firmly held by Briseis. Relief swept across her face, her usual composure giving way to the faintest flicker of worry. She moved closer, slipping her hand alongside Briseis’ as if to anchor herself in the solidarity of the moment.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” Pyrrha murmured, her voice quiet but steady, meant only for me and Briseis. “If anyone tries to call this to action… I may be able to intervene. A little sway, at least, being a princess.”

I let out a small, tense exhale, comforted by the closeness of them both, the weight of Briseis’ protective insistence matched by Pyrrha’s poised presence. Still, a glance between me and Pyrrha carried the unspoken truth: the sway Pyrrha could claim was precarious at best, fragile as a reed in the wind; she is not a true daughter of Lycomedes. Pyrrha’s lips pressed together briefly, acknowledging the limits with a subtle nod, but her eyes glimmered with determination nonetheless.

My heart tightened in response, a small but fierce hope blossoming that, together, the three of us could weather whatever schemes had been set in motion. Even if the day ahead promised tension and peril, I felt fortified by the silent, steadfast promise of protection around me.

For a long beat, we stood like that, hands lightly intertwined, breaths shared in quiet synchrony. The palace outside continued its murmuring chaos, but in that small circle of trust, I felt an almost tangible line of defense—a wall made not of stone, but of loyalty, care, and unspoken understanding.

~V~

The tension came to a peak when a single ship made it through the dangerous waters to Scyros, calling everyone’s attention to the docks. Word spreads fast that it was a merchant ship, coming to bear gifts and treasures to King Lycomedes and his daughters. 

The arrival of such a ship was immediately suspicious to me, not only for having crossed the waters when all other ships failed, but for its purpose.

The crest has arrived.

Hecate spoke it like an omen, undeniable, and it was.

“You must be incredibly wary of whatever those merchants try to offer; do not make yourself recognizable, not by interest, not by the lure of the treasure that could be a test from the gods themselves,” I warn Pyrrha sternly.

Her gaze flicked toward the dock, where the merchant ship’s sails strained against the restless winds, its timbers creaking ominously as it fought the waves. The air seemed to thrum with purpose, as if the sea itself had conspired to deliver this arrival with intent.

Pyrrha crossed her arms, eyes narrowing at the ship. “You sound like you expect the worst,” she murmured, more worried than teasing. “And I don’t doubt the warnings, but—” Her words faltered as she watched my expression, the calculated focus in her eyes.

“I don’t expect it,” I corrected softly, voice steady though my chest tightened. “I know it. Hecate has said the crest has arrived. I can feel it. Whatever comes off that ship is bound to be more than simple gifts or treasures. You must be wary, Pyrrha. Avoid drawing attention. Choose nothing that might betray you.”

Pyrrha tilted her head, lips pursed. “And what do you think it is? A trap?”

I exhaled slowly, hands pressing lightly against Pyrrha’s shoulders. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Hecate warns me not with certainty, but with preparation. Whatever is aboard that ship… there may be no easy escape. But if trouble comes, I will do everything I can to protect you. You will not face it unaware.”

Pyrrha bristled, stepping back just slightly. “Not everything you do should be for my sake. You can’t run yourself ragged worrying about every shadow, every rumor, every ship that dares appear in these cursed waters. You must care for yourself, too.”

My eyes softened slightly, though the tension never left my shoulders. “I am caring for myself,” I said gently, “by caring for you. I would go mad if anything were to befall you. I cannot let that happen.”

Pyrrha grumbled under her breath, half exasperated, half affectionate, but her hand found my wrist, squeezing it. “You stubborn fool,” she muttered. “Promise me, you won’t put yourself in unavoidable danger. No weaving yourself into webs that even Hecate can’t untangle.”

My lips curved faintly, though not without strain. “I promise,” I said, tone firm, unwavering. And for a moment, the two of us stood in silence, hearts heavy with the knowledge that the sea had delivered a new threat, yet anchored by the fragile, mutual trust we clung to amidst the uncertainty.

Outside, the merchant ship creaked and moaned against the waves, each sway a reminder that the crest had arrived—and with it, the tension that could no longer be ignored.

~V~

The day had carried itself with the uneasy pulse of expectation, but none could have anticipated how quickly it would spiral.

I walked alongside Briseis through the marble halls, trying to remain composed as servants whispered and glanced nervously toward the docks. The merchant ship had docked, and the daughters of Lycomedes—Pyrrha among them—were gathered with attendants to witness its arrival, each one curious, fearful, or both.

It happened suddenly. Guards materialized on either side of us, flanking our path with precise coordination. Briseis stiffened immediately, placing herself slightly in front of me, eyes blazing. “Move aside,” she demanded, voice sharp and commanding. “Let us pass.”

Then Deidamia appeared. She moved with a calculated, cold elegance, though the strain of fury and weariness was evident at the edges of her face. Her eyes locked on me with a lethal clarity. “Seize her,” she ordered.

The guards did not hesitate. Strong hands gripped my arms, restraining me mid-step. I gasped, instinctively struggling, but they were quick and unyielding. Then Deidamia’s hand found my braid, yanking my head back so forcefully my body nearly toppled to the floor. My scalp burned with the pressure.

Briseis roared, fury igniting. “Release her! I am her queen—her protector!” She lunged, only to be restrained by two other guards, pinned as effectively as myself.

Deidamia’s gaze flicked between us with venom. “You are nothing here, Queen of another city. You wield no immunity. Your servant’s actions—your insolence—have threatened my people. And now, she will answer for it.”

My chest heaved with anger. “You are wicked,” I spat back, voice trembling with heat. “Cursed to chase that which will never satisfy you. Your deeds are hollow; your attempts to destroy me or him—Achilles—will cost you more than any offense I could commit.”

Deidamia’s face twisted in fury at the defiance, her nails tightening around my braid one last time before she dropped my head. “Take her,” she commanded. “To the cage beneath the island. Let the tide claim her and appease Thetis. Let her drowning be her penance.”

Briseis’ scream echoed across the courtyard. “No! You cannot!”

Deidamia turned her glare upon Briseis, her voice cutting like a knife. “Be silent. Consider yourself lucky that I do not end you with her. I will not spark war with Lyrnessus.”

Briseis’ chest heaved as she fought against the guards restraining her. “If you let her die, I will lay waste to Scyros by the hand of my husband’s army!”

A cruel, chilling smile crossed Deidamia’s face. “Then you will depart,” she hissed. “To the docks. Return home. You will never set foot on this island again.”

Briseis screamed as the guards began to drag her away, her hands clawing toward me. My tears fell freely, hot and blinding, as I strained against the captors. The walls of the palace seemed to close in, the noise of the courtyard and the ocean beyond merging into a deafening roar. Briseis’ hands reached for mine one last time before the distance between us was forced, a physical wedge that could not be bridged.

My sobs tore through my throat, wild and raw, as the guards marched me through the palace halls, past servants who dared not intervene. Every step carried me closer to the dungeon, the incoming tide, and the cruel justice Deidamia had decreed.

Even through the tears and the fear, a small, fierce spark ignited within my chest. Hecate’s whisper reached my mind, calm and certain: This is not the end. Wait. There is another turn in fate. You must endure, and the sea will be crossed.

But in that moment, the dungeon doors loomed, the scent of salt and the sound of thrashing waves seeping through the cracks. My heart thudded, raw and desperate, the world narrowing to the hands that restrained, the tide waiting below, and the knowledge that only cunning and courage could see me through what was to come.

~V~

The great hall of Scyros was alive with the shimmer of gold and the clatter of anticipation. Pyrrha stood near the rear of the gathered daughters, her posture disciplined, her hands folded before her as the merchants laid out their treasures with great flourish. Jewels glimmered under the sunlight streaming through the windows, armor shone polished to impossible brilliance, and goblets reflected the girls’ wide-eyed awe.

The head merchant, a man with olive skin, dark wavy hair cropped just above the collar, and a booming voice, stepped forward, gesturing grandly. “Behold, the finest wares from all corners of the known world! Gold, silver, jewels, and craftsmanship fit for kings and queens alike!”

One by one, the daughters moved forward, displaying the elegance of avarice. They selected their prizes with careful hands and beaming smiles, the clink of treasure echoing like music through the hall. Pyrrha watched them, a measured amusement on her lips, though her mind was half elsewhere.

By the time the selections narrowed to her, the mound of offerings had been sifted through, yet her eyes caught something extraordinary. A sword lay before her, its hilt encrusted with a single sunlit gem, the blade engraved with suns that seemed to shimmer as if alive. She drew closer, but then her gaze shifted, almost magnetically, to a diadem. White gold set with green, purple, and black stones, engraved with moons along its dipped peak—it was impossible to ignore. Her chest tightened.

She reached out instinctively, imagining the way the diadem might rest atop hair like Kleio’s, the gems echoing the sparkle she had seen only in her companion’s strands. Her eyes scanned the crowd, searching first for Kleio. Nothing. Not even a shadow of her. Her stomach dropped.

Desperation flared as she searched for Briseis, only to find her absent as well. Reason argued for Pyrrha—the girls were cautious, avoiding attention—but every instinct in her told her that Kleio would not have come unprotected, would never have left her side in such a setting without vigilance.

Then Deidamia entered. Her presence cut across the room with a chill of precision. Extra guards flanked her, and her face held that sharp, cold satisfaction of someone who believed they had control. Pyrrha’s chest tightened, a simmering fire sparking in her stomach.

She called aloud, voice clear and cutting: “Where is Briseis? Surely the queen would wish to see a gift in her honor!”

The crowd shifted, murmurs rippling as the daughters and attendants alike glanced around. Some searched, some whispered, but no one announced her presence.

Pyrrha’s voice sharpened. “Is my servant amongst you? Can anyone answer for her absence?”

Still, the silence held, thick and suffocating.

Her gaze locked on Deidamia. “And you,” Pyrrha said, voice low but carrying, “have you seen either of them?”

Deidamia’s smile was thin and venomous. “Briseis has taken Kleio to return to Lyrnessus,” she said smoothly.

The words struck Pyrrha like a blade across her arm. Every instinct she had screamed the lie. She could feel it deep in her bones—the deceit threaded in the calm of Deidamia’s tone. The hall seemed to shrink around her, the clamor of treasure and chatter fading beneath the weight of the knowledge that Kleio had been taken against her will.

Her hands clenched at her sides, knuckles white. Pyrrha’s mind raced, heart hammering. She could not let it stand. She would not allow Kleio to be carried away so easily. The diadem in her hand felt impossibly heavy now, a mockery of beauty against the injustice unfolding before her eyes.

“Lies,” she whispered through gritted teeth, barely audible over the murmurs, but enough to carry her resolve. Her gaze sharpened on Deidamia, the simmering fire within her rising into controlled, focused fury. Something had to be done—and Pyrrha, whether the palace knew it or not, would be the one to see it through.

An occurrence that had never happened before suddenly came as vitalizing as fresh spring water.

Reveal yourself, son of Thetis. The island surges beneath your feet. The merchants will help if only they see what they have come looking for.

Pyrrha immediately set the diadem aside, forgoing all of her disguise; she tore the braid free from its shape, tossed off all jewelry, and grabbed the sword, creating a hum as if it had finally reached its proper purpose.

The hall fell silent, the noise of chattering and clinking treasure fading to an almost reverent hush. Pyrrha’s transformation had been sudden but complete: hair cascading freely around his shoulders, all ornaments shed, and the sword in his hand gleaming like a promise of reckoning. The shift in posture, in presence, drew every gaze, and in that instant, the energy of the hall felt like it bent toward him.

“I am the Aristos Achaion, Achilles, Prince of Pithia, son of Peleus!” His voice rang out, sharp and uncompromising, echoing off the walls. “Where are Briseis and my servant, Kleio?”

A ripple went through the crowd. Some gasped, others froze mid-motion, and all eyes were drawn to the figure standing tall and unyielding, a sword in hand that glinted with authority. The merchants stiffened, their prior cheer and showmanship evaporating, replaced by the tension of men realizing they had miscalculated the audience entirely.

Achilles’ gaze locked on the head merchant, unwavering, every line of his body radiating the certainty of someone who would not be denied. “Speak your name and your profession,” he demanded.

The head merchant hesitated, knowing the weight of the moment, before finally nodding. “I am Odysseus, King of Ithaca,” he admitted, voice tight, controlled, but carrying the edge of a man caught unprepared.

Achilles’ eyes narrowed. He spun on the man like an arrow striking true, the point of the blade aligned with the weight of his demand. “I know your tricks,” he said, low, each word deliberate. “I know why you are here, what you seek. You have come for Troy, yes? I will go—but only if you speak the truth and help me find the two women I seek, Briseis and Kleio. No deceit, no games.”

Odysseus’ posture stiffened further, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he recognized the gravity in Achilles’ tone. He had anticipated cunning and perhaps even resistance, but not this—this full revelation, this power pressed into command, that left no room for pretense.

“I… understand,” Odysseus said carefully, choosing his words like stones across a river.

The crowd remained tense, all murmuring and movement frozen, as Achilles’ chest rose and fell with controlled rage and urgency. He did not lower the sword, did not falter. The head merchant, Odysseus, had no choice but to obey.

Hecate’s whisper threaded through Achilles’ mind like silk over steel: Go. They are beneath the island. Do not linger. Now.

Achilles spun on his heel, muscles coiled like a spring, and surged forward toward Deidamia. The daughter of Lycomedes froze as alarm rippled through her, her lips parting in a hiss of disbelief and fear. She had expected defiance, but not this—this raw, searing fury unleashed in a prince who had shed every pretense.

King Lycomedes descended the palace steps quickly, stepping directly into Achilles’ path. “Stop!” he barked, voice heavy with authority, though the tremor of unease betrayed him.

Achilles did not slow. His blade came up with unerring precision, the tip hovering just at the edge of Lycomedes’ neck and Deidamia’s at the same time. “You will know suffering for what she’s done,” Achilles hissed, eyes dark as obsidian, his words slicing through the hall. “If Kleio is harmed in this cruel gamble—your games with Thetis—everything you stand on, everything you think safe, I will tear apart. I will make you nameless, faceless, and cast to the wolves of men!”

Deidamia’s eyes widened, her cruel façade trembling as she saw the depth of Achilles’ fury. Lycomedes remained unmoving, but the tension in his shoulders was palpable.

Achilles shifted his focus to the King, pressing the tip of the blade ever closer. “Tell me the path to the cage beneath the island,” he demanded, voice low, dangerous, and unyielding. “Where have you cast Kleio?”

Lycomedes’ jaw tightened. He had been patient with Achilles’ disguise as Pyrrha, but this threat left him weighing the consequences of action versus inaction. “I… I cannot,” he stammered. “If Kleio is freed, the sea—the waters around this island—will rise and destroy Scyros. I cannot risk the wrath of the storm.”

Achilles’ eyes narrowed, slits of black moonlight sharpened by rage. “The storm is my mother’s doing, not mine,” he growled, voice a low rumble of warning. “And she, too, will feel my wrath if Kleio is harmed. I will retrieve her from your cage, and by the might of another goddess, I will undo your storm!”

The King’s hands shook slightly, but he remained rooted. Achilles pressed the tip of the blade closer, his voice now carrying the edge of inevitability. “If you refuse me again, I will cut your head from your shoulders, King of Scyros… but only after I watch your daughters’ deaths first.”

A heavy silence fell over the hall. The crowd, frozen in fear, dared not breathe. Even Deidamia’s confident mask was gone in the face of Achilles’ unrelenting fury.

Lycomedes’ throat worked, swallowing hard as he weighed the impossible: the threat before him, and the potential destruction that defying Achilles could bring. Finally, with a defeated tilt of his head, he spoke, his voice tight and brittle with fear. “The path… beneath the northern hall. Down the spiral steps that lead to the dungeons. The tide will be incoming soon, but…” His words faltered. “Follow it, and you will find the cell where she has been taken.”

Achilles’ grip on the sword did not waver, though the slightest shift in his stance suggested the tiniest of breaths, as if allowing the King to live another second for compliance. He finally spoke, a dark promise lacing each word: “Lead me, and mark this well—do not stand in my way again, or the consequences will be heavier than any man, king, or god can bear.”

Lycomedes nodded quickly, gesturing toward the northern hall. The crowd parted like water before a current as Achilles advanced, the weight of inevitability hanging in the air, his steps carrying the fury of a storm and the single-minded drive to reclaim Kleio from the tide that threatened to consume her.

Hecate’s whisper slid through his mind, calm yet urgent: Now, Achilles. Go. Protect her. Nothing will stop you.

Achilles’ gaze hardened, his hand tightening on the hilt of the sword. The path to the dungeon awaited, and with it, the reckoning for all who had dared touch what was his.

~V~

The dungeon was a black void, save for the faint glimmer of light from the grate far above. I sat on the cold stone floor, knees drawn up, feeling the chill bite at skin no longer protected by the delicate clothing of a servant. I had reached for the guards even as they tore themselves away, sobs spilling from me unchecked. The door had clanged shut behind me with a screeching resonance, leaving me in complete darkness, and the only torchlight snuffed, leaving silence and the looming threat of the rising tide.

Hecate’s presence wrapped around me instantly, warm and solid against the panic clawing at my chest. She held me close, tilting hmy chin upward so I could just see the tiny square of sky through the grate above. 

The water is coming, she whispered, her voice calm but edged with urgency. It will rise, and it will bite like a mother scorned, but I will hold you. You will float. You will not drown. Not yet.

My eyes widened at the warning, the sound of the tide already lapping somewhere beyond the stone walls, threatening to surge over me. 

You must cry, Hecate pressed on, or Achilles will stumble blind in the dark. Silence will not carry him quickly enough.

I swallowed hard, the panic tightening my throat, but I obeyed. I let out a ragged, heart-shaking cry, a sound that echoed across the stone, reverberating through the tunnel and spilling upward toward the grate above. The echo carried the fear, the despair, and the desperate call for help; it was enough to carve a path through the darkness.

Now, Hecate murmured, and the edges of the illusion that kept me as Kleio dissolved. My hair fell free, my form shifted back to the true Patroclus that only Achilles could love. I felt the weight of the disguise and the charade peel away, leaving me raw, exposed, and wholly myself.

Thetis may hear you, Hecate whispered again, but her cruelty will not claim you. She will know. She will see, and it changes nothing. It brings her nowhere. Trust me, Patroclus.

The dungeon trembled beneath me as the tide’s first waves swirled against the stone. I gripped the bars of the cell, pressing my forehead against the cold iron as another cry tore from me, higher, more urgent: Achilles!

Somewhere in the darkened tunnels, water began to slosh at my feet, crawling higher with every second, cold and biting. But Hecate’s hold remained firm, her strength holding me just above its grasp. My lungs burned with each wailing call, each cry sent echoing through the labyrinth, a beacon that could not be ignored.

And somewhere, beyond the darkness and tide, Achilles was moving. Step by careful step of sloshing water, drawn by the sound of my—his beloved’s—voice, guided by the certainty that I was there. The water rose, the dungeon walls groaned, and the moment teetered on the knife-edge between fear and salvation.

My hands never let go of the bars, eyes straining toward the grate, cries tearing through the dungeon: Achilles, please!

The first faint sound of steel on stone echoed back from the tunnels—the promise that Achilles was coming, that nothing, not even Thetis’ fury, could deny him.

The water churned and swirled around my hips now, so cold it felt like fire biting into skin. I clung tighter to Hecate’s presence at my back, her arms steadying me even as my breath came short and quick. The sound of Achilles’ voice—so close, so achingly near—was enough to banish all thought but him.

“Achilles!” I cried, hand trembling, arm stretched blindly through the bars. What I grabbed was not flesh but something cold and sharp that instantly bit into my hand. I gasped, recoiling, feeling the sharp sting of a wound. Hecate’s own urgency flared, and it feels very much like she grabs my wounded hand to hold in hers.

 The darkness has swallowed us both, but the answering surge of motion on the other side was unmistakable.

Metal screeched, and for one dreadful heartbeat, I thought Achilles had slipped away. Then—flesh. Warm, solid, unyielding. Achilles’ hand clamped around my arm.

“Patroclus—” His voice broke, raw with relief and rage all at once. “I have you.”

My sob was swallowed by the rush of water around us, by the thrum of terror in my chest. “The door—it’s rusted through, it won’t move—”

“Then I’ll tear it from its hinges,” Achilles snarled, his grip like iron as if to anchor me to the living world. The sound of his blade being sheathed echoed in the black, followed by the scrape of his shoulder slamming against the bars.

I pressed my forehead against the cold iron, lips trembling. “It won’t yield—”

“It will,” Achilles cut me off, his breath ragged, fury boiling in every word. “No cage forged by cowards will keep me from you.”

The bars shuddered as Achilles slammed into them again, muscles straining, the iron groaning in protest. The water was up to my ribs now, sloshing and swirling, the cold gnawing deep into my bones.

Hecate’s hand squeezed my wounded one, her voice steady at my ear: Hold fast, little one. He is the storm. The cage was never made to outlast him.

My tears mixed with the icy spray, my other hand still clutched at Achilles through the bars. “Hurry—Achilles, please—”

“Always,” Achilles hissed, and with a final roar, he wrenched the door. The hinges screamed, metal snapping and warping.

The door gave with a shriek like a wounded thing, iron snapping and folding under the wrath of Achilles’ shoulder. Before the twisted frame could crash fully open, his arm was already lashing through the gap, a leash of flesh and bone that found me and bound me close.

There was no pause, no embrace, no breath spared. Achilles dragged me into the rushing dark with the force of a tide. The water swallowed our thighs, our waists, our chests. I coughed as the cold closed around me, but Achilles surged forward, cutting through the black like he had been born of it, every movement sharp and sure, his grip unyielding.

I fought to match him, but it was as though the water itself knew who I was, sought to drown me—each step a grapple, each motion resisted by unseen hands. My limbs felt heavy, the current pulling me backward, away, away. My lungs burned already with the effort of keeping pace.

“Don’t let go!” Achilles barked, his voice a ragged blade in the dark. The fingers around my wrist only tightened, promising bone-deep bruises before surrender.

Behind, Hecate’s presence pushed against my shoulders, shoving me forward each time my legs faltered, her voice like flint struck in my ear: Follow him. Do not give the water what it wants.

My teeth chattered with cold, with fear, but I clung harder, my free hand grasping Achilles’ arm when the current threatened to wrench me away. Achilles moved like a predator through the depths, all violence and certainty, every kick and lunge tearing him closer to air, to light—wherever the way out might lie.

The water rose faster still, slamming against our ribs, against our throats, surging with a malice of its own. I choked, half-dragged, half-carried, the world nothing but black rushing current and the unbreakable tether of Achilles’ hand.

~

The flood surged higher, battering against them with a fury that felt alive. The weight of it pressed at Patroclus’ throat, rushing in cold waves, slamming his chest with every lunge forward Achilles made. Achilles moved like a beast meant for this place—sure, brutal, unyielding—but Patroclus felt every drag, every snare of the water clawing at his ankles and waist, trying to keep him for itself. His lungs burned; his muscles trembled. Still, he clung to the hand that led him, that promise of survival in the black.

Then, with a wrench so violent Patroclus thought for a moment his wrist had been broken, the grip was gone. Something—someone—had pried Achilles’ fingers apart, bent them back with a force impossible to resist. The tether was gone.

Patroclus went under.

The world disappeared into black, icy silence, the roar of water above him severed like a curtain. Salt stabbed his eyes and throat, his scream swallowed into bubbles that broke uselessly around his lips. The cold struck deep, bone-deep, crushing the breath from his lungs as if the sea itself meant to strangle him.

Above, Achilles’ roar tore through the darkness, raw and desperate, the kind of sound that split stone. He lunged to dive, fury and terror surging through his veins like fire against the ice—only for Hecate to seize him, unseen arms shoving him hard toward the flicker of pale light ahead.

“Out!” her command cracked like thunder, even in the drowning rush.

Achilles fought her, teeth bared, trying to throw himself backward into the black, into the place where Patroclus had vanished. But then—something tugged him. A sharp, burning bind at his wrist, jerking him forward as if a chain had been fastened without his knowing.

He glanced down—and saw, soaked and tight, the red-knotted belt. Patroclus’ belt, the one he had always worn with the disguise of Kleio, its cords wound fast to his own wrist.

There was no undoing it. No breaking it.

Hecate shoved once more, and Achilles stumbled through the last press of dark water. Air cracked open above him—light and space—and he fell forward, gasping as the salt tore at his throat. The belt burned against his skin, yanking taut—dragging with it the body caught beneath the black.

Patroclus burst upward, sputtering, choking, the water clawing free from his chest in heaving coughs. His hair was plastered to his face, his eyes red and streaming from the salt, but he was there. Alive.

Achilles hauled him close with a snarl of relief, clutching him so fiercely the belt between them cut deeper into their skin. The roar of the sea was behind them now. Ahead was breath, was light.

But they were free.

~

I hacked seawater from my lungs, every cough tearing through my chest like a blade, salt burning down to the pit of me. My hands scrabbled instinctively at Achilles’ shoulders, my nails biting flesh as if to be sure this was not another shadow, not another trick of the dark. My body shook, shivers wracking me even in Achilles’ iron grip.

Achilles’ arms locked around me so tightly that it felt we might fuse into one body. He crushed me against him, cheek pressed to my wet hair, breath coming in ragged, furious gasps that carried more rage than relief. His voice was a rasp, half-choked.

“Never—never again—”

The words snapped, torn apart by his panting. He couldn’t even hold me still; his hands kept roaming—my back, arms, jaw—checking, assuring, proving I was real, alive, not pulled under.

I tried to speak but only coughed harder, spitting seawater, my chest convulsing against Achilles. My mouth opened, desperate to answer, to reassure, but nothing came but raw sound. My head dropped forward against Achilles’ throat, breath shuddering, my body trembling too violently to manage more.

Achilles pressed his face into my hair, his whole body trembling with the violence of what almost was. The red belt cut tight between us, binding us wrist to wrist, digging into our skin as though the gods themselves meant to carve into our flesh the truth of it: together, or not at all.

The sea thundered behind us still, but Achilles only clutched tighter, dragging me farther into the light, away from its grasp. He breathed against me like a vow, jagged and raw:

“I’ll tear the world apart before I let it take you again.”

My lungs seized with another cough, seawater forcing its way up until I gagged on it. My hand trembled as I dragged it to my chest, pressing against the shallow slices that still bled from where I’d grasped at Achilles’ sword. I cradled it there as though holding myself together, as though the pressure might keep me upright when my body felt hollowed by the sea.

Achilles’ arm banded across my ribs, near crushing, his own chest heaving with fury and terror. He half-carried, half-dragged me back from the water’s edge, every muscle in him shaking as if he could not bear to loosen his grip even an inch.

I forced sound past his throat, raw and broken, “Y-you came—”

Achilles’ breath tore through his teeth, his words as jagged as the tide we’d escaped. “Of course I came. Gods, Patroclus, you think I’d ever—” He broke off, voice shattering. His forehead pressed hard to my temple, salt-stung lips moving against my wet hair. “I thought—I thought I’d lost you.”

My knees buckled where I had tried to crawl, and Achilles caught me tighter, bearing my weight without falter. My own words came in gasps, staggered between the desperate rhythm of my breathing. “I couldn’t—see you—only hear—” I swallowed down a sob, chest hitching against Achilles’. “I reached—and it—took me—”

“I’ve got you.” Achilles’ voice was hoarse, breaking under the vow. He shifted us so I leaned fully against him, his grip crushing, as if the pressure itself would keep me anchored. “I’ve got you. It won’t touch you again.”

My hand pressed harder to my chest, over the cut, but it was Achilles’ strength that held me steady, that moved me when my legs could not, every staggered step pulled from me by sheer will and the iron clutch of the man who refused to let me go.

The rush of water faded behind us, its roar dimming until only the hammer of our breath filled the open air. Salt still clung to our throats, each inhale sharp, but the frantic drag forward slowed—stilled—until they were at last in a place where the stone was dry beneath our feet, where the air was not filled with the drowning dark.

Achilles did not let go. His hands remained locked around my arms, around my waist, as though testing and retesting the truth of my presence. But when his eyes adjusted, when the high sun caught the trembling shape of me pressed against him, he froze. His gaze snagged on the way I clutched my own hand close, fingers curled protectively around the wound.

“Let me see,” Achilles breathed, raw and low, his voice still breaking against the edges of panic. He lifted one hand, not daring to force, but the plea in him trembled like a bowstring. “Please—Patroclus, let me see.”

For a heartbeat, I held it tighter, as if hiding it were easier than revealing it. But then I loosened my grip, lips parting with the shudder of another cough, and slowly turned my palm outward into the light.

The wounds were stark against my skin—two harsh slashes, one running straight across the flat of my palm, the other cleaving through the middle of my fingers—the marks of desperation, of a hand closing unthinking around steel. Blood still slicked the lines, running thin in the saltwater that had not yet dried.

Achilles’ breath caught. His own hand hovered over the wound, trembling as though afraid his touch would deepen it. His eyes burned, not with salt but with the raw ache of what I had endured.

“You held on.” His voice cracked, reverent and horrified all at once. “Gods, you held on even when it cut you.”

My gaze faltered to the side, wet lashes lowering. My voice came out soft, thinned by the water still in my lungs, “I thought—it was you. I wouldn’t—let go.”

Achilles’ chest heaved still with the remnants of the fight, but his hands were steady when he reached for my wrist. He turned it gently, careful as though he feared the skin itself might splinter. His jaw worked hard, a muscle ticking there, before he tugged at the hem of his tunic with his teeth and tore a strip free. The sound of fabric ripping was sharp in the silence.

“Here,” he murmured, though the word broke halfway through, splintered between his breath and the rawness in his throat. He wrapped the cloth around my palm, the crimson staining through almost immediately, but he bound it tight, firm enough to press back the flow. His fingers lingered at every pass of the cloth, brushing the backs of my fingers as though the act of touching alone might anchor him.

I watched him, breath shallow, lips parted as I wanted to speak but hadn’t the strength. When Achilles knotted the cloth off and finally lifted his gaze, our eyes caught, and it was like all the words unsaid crowded between us, too heavy to break open yet.

Achilles raised the bound hand, cradled it against his chest as if to keep it near his heart. His voice was low, a rasp worn thin, “I’ve got you now. I won’t let go again.”

My lashes lowered, body leaning into Achilles as though drawn by gravity alone. My breath stuttered against Achilles’ shoulder, all I could manage in reply, but it was enough.

The open air breathed around them, the echo of rushing water still alive below, but here—just beyond the mouth where the stone broke open into pale light—there was stillness. Achilles had lowered us onto the slick ground, drawn me close into the shelter of his arms, the makeshift bandage darkening against my palm.

For a long moment, neither os us spoke. Achilles’ hand hovered at my cheek, brushing away strands of wet hair that clung stubbornly to my skin, his touch reverent, unbelieving. I let my eyes half-close,  head tipping forward until my brow pressed into the warm curve of Achilles’ shoulder. The rise and fall of my breath was uneven, ragged still, but each inhale came easier than the last.

Achilles bent slightly, his lips brushing the crown of my head without thought, without ceremony—only need. His grip around me eased and tightened in turn, as if some part of him feared I might still slip away, back into the black depths that had tried to claim me.

The silence lingered, raw and tender, until it shifted with the faintest crack of power. The air grew heavier, the stones beneath us thrumming like a struck chord. Hecate stepped forward from the lingering shadow, her eyes pale as stormlight. She regarded us both—out closeness, out trembling—and the restraint in her face was carved sharp.

When she spoke, her voice was the low roll of distant thunder, steady and inevitable.

“I will see to your mother, Achilles.”

The promise hung heavy in the air, thundercloud weight behind each word, not a threat but a certainty.

Achilles stiffened at Hecate’s words, his arms tightening reflexively around me as if the very mention of his mother threatened to reach between us. His jaw worked, his lips parting as though to throw some denial, some challenge into the space she had left heavy with storm. The flame in him—always so close to leaping to the surface—flared hot.

“I—” his voice broke off, raw from saltwater and from shouting, his breath jagged. He swallowed hard, eyes searing with a fury that was no longer wild but honed, deliberate. “I should be the one—” The words came ragged, but there was no mistaking the intent behind them. His mother’s name sat sharp on his tongue like a blade.

I shifted against him, not pulling away but leaning heavier, my bandaged hand clutched to my chest, the weight of me enough to steady Achilles’ rising storm. Still, Achilles trembled with it, the thought of Thetis—her chains, her machinations, the water that had nearly stolen me from him—gnawed at his chest until he thought it might split.

Hecate’s gaze didn’t waver. Her presence pressed in, dark and absolute, the air prickling with her authority. “Your anger is justice,” she said, each word deliberate, sharp enough to leave no room for question. “But you have already caused enough havoc by turning it upon her.”

Her hand lifted, not in threat, but in a finality that felt colder than any wave. “Leave Thetis to me.”

The thunder in her voice brooked no refusal. Achilles’ chest heaved, his mouth working, but his fury had no place to strike. It twisted instead into silence, his arms pulling me closer until the only sound he gave was the unsteady rasp of his breath, as though the only battle worth fighting now was keeping me safe and in his grasp.

Hecate’s shadowed form lingered a moment longer, her eyes like twin stormclouds ready to break. Then, without ceremony, she was gone, the air folding in on itself where she had stood—leaving no trace save for the echo of her thunder. Neither Achilles nor I could guess where she went, nor what wrath she carried with her. Only that she had claimed Thetis for herself.

Chapter Text

For the first time, the silence around them wasn’t the suffocation of the sea, but the heavy hush of walls and air that had not yet settled after the storm. Achilles sat with Patroclus half-curled into him, the boy’s weight a shivering constant in his arms. His mind, however, dragged elsewhere—back to the moment before he dove, to Odysseus and his men, their wary faces set in torchlight.

He had told them to follow. He had demanded it.

And they had balked.

Not when they heard his plan—when they learned who he meant to save. Odysseus’ voice came back to him, cold and pragmatic as ever, I will not send men to drown for a servant.

Achilles’ hand flexed where it pressed against Patroclus’ side. He could almost feel again the sharpness of his blade’s edge, could almost see the line of Odysseus’ throat—how near he had been to opening it in that single instant of rage. Only the crushing need to reach Patroclus, to tear him free before the waters closed, had stayed his hand.

Now the truth of it loomed: he had shown himself. No more shadows, no more disguises. He had revealed his name, his face, his fury. And in their refusal—Odysseus had turned their course, their eyes already bent toward Troy. 

He had set the war in motion with his own desperation.

Guilt tightened around his chest like the salt still clinging to his skin, like another current dragging him under. But then—he looked down.

Patroclus lay against him, shaking with cold, water dripping in rivulets from his hair and lashes, his lips still pale from near-drowning. Cold. Fragile. Alive.

Breathing.

In his arms.

Achilles exhaled a breath that was almost a sob, though no sound left him. His arms drew Patroclus tighter, every taut thread of rage and guilt collapsing inward to the one undeniable truth: he was here. He had been saved. Achilles would drown a thousand times more, damn himself, damn every oath to Troy, if only for this.

It was worth it.

Achilles bowed his head, the air between them still damp and tasting of iron. His voice came low, frayed around the edges, as though speaking cost him as much as tearing through the sea had.

“I have doomed us, Patroclus,” he murmured, thumb brushing the dripping strands from his temple. “I showed myself for you. I begged their help, and when they turned me away, I should have cut Odysseus’ throat for it. Instead, I left them free to run to Troy. To gather every king and soldier to the call. It is my fault they march. My fault the war begins now.”

Patroclus stirred weakly in his hold, head lolling until his cheek pressed against Achilles’ shoulder. His teeth chattered when he tried to form words, but he forced them out between shallow, ragged breaths.

“You didn’t… doom us,” he rasped, voice trembling like the rest of him. “You saved me.”

Achilles’ jaw clenched, a harsh breath breaking from him. “And for that, I may have set the world on fire.”

Patroclus’ fingers curled, unsteady but insistent, into the shred of cloth still binding his hand. He tugged until Achilles looked at him, eyes wild with the storm still coursing in his veins.

“You think I would trade this?” Patroclus whispered, the faintest smile, weary and broken, tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You think I would rather be a corpse at the bottom of the sea… so kings could sleep easier, so your mother could still play her games?”

Achilles swallowed hard, his throat working against the weight there.

Patroclus blinked up at him, lashes heavy, voice soft as breath. “Let the war come. Let them march. You chose me. That’s worth more than all their oaths to Troy.”

For a long moment, Achilles could only hold him tighter, as if sheer will could put warmth back into his bones. His fury, his guilt, his restless need for violence—none of it dissolved, but Patroclus’ words cut through them like light through a stormcloud, leaving only the raw truth behind.

“You are my oath,” Achilles said at last, almost desperate, forehead pressed to Patroclus’. “And I will not break it.”

Achilles adjusted his hold until Patroclus’ head rested more securely against his chest, his arms curling tight around him as if he could shield him from every draft along the stones. His own body was soaked, dripping trails of seawater onto the ground, but he tried to press what warmth he had left into Patroclus’ trembling frame, willing the chill to break. Every breath Patroclus drew seemed too thin, too shallow, and Achilles guarded it like a flame in a storm.

That was how Odysseus and his men found them. The scrape of sandals on stone, the muffled shuffle of soldiers entering the chamber. Achilles’ head snapped up, eyes alight with warning. His shoulders curved over Patroclus, an animal’s instinct in his stance—the promise that a single step too close would mean their death.

Odysseus did not falter. He strode forward, hands full—not with weapons, but with towels, blankets, and thick tunics. His gaze swept over the scene, sharp and unflinching, but not cruel.

“I thought you would drag them out cold,” Odysseus said, voice level, “or else not at all. I am glad, at least, it is the first, and not the second.”

Achilles’ glare sharpened, his voice a blade’s edge. “Coward.”

Odysseus raised a brow, unruffled. “A coward does not send his men to certain death for a servant he knows nothing of. I saved those men from drowning. That is no cowardice, but measure.”

“Death may still come for your men,” Achilles replied, the words low and haunted, threaded with rage. It was no threat—it was a truth, hanging heavy with all the weight of his wrath yet to come.

The air between them grew taut, thick with unspoken violence, until Patroclus stirred in his arms. His fingers tightened weakly against Achilles’ tunic, his voice soft but firm, threading through the haze of fury.

“You are not… to go killing anyone,” he murmured, breath trembling against Achilles’ skin.

Achilles bowed his head, only slightly, but enough—the subtlest bend, a yielding. Obedience, not missed by Odysseus, who regarded him a moment longer, sharp-eyed as ever, before shifting the towels in his arms.

Odysseus did not waste more words. He stepped closer—slowly, measured, as though crossing into the radius of a wild beast—and held the towels and blankets out in plain view. His men lingered behind him, uncertain, though their hands hovered nowhere near their weapons.

“Here,” Odysseus said, steady as stone. “Make use of them.”

Achilles did not thank him. His hand shot out and tore the bundle from Odysseus’ grasp, his eyes never leaving Patroclus’ pale, shivering face. He set to work at once, rough in his haste, pressing a towel against wet skin, against dark hair plastered to a too-cold forehead. His movements grew more frenzied the further he went, until he realized—the fabric of Patroclus’ own tunic clung sodden to him, pouring back the sea with every brush against. His own warmth was no warmth at all, only more chill, more salt.

The thought lanced through him, hot and merciless. He stopped short.

Slowly, Achilles raised his head. His gaze swept the line of men standing at Odysseus’ back. One glare—only one—and they flinched as though struck, some dropping their eyes, others stiffening like stone. No command left his lips, yet every soldier understood. One by one, backs turned, until the hall faced away from him.

Achilles bent again over Patroclus. His fingers shook as he stripped the wet cloth from his skin, every motion careful despite the urgency thrumming through his veins. The new tunic was thick, far too broad in the shoulders, but it was dry, and Achilles drew it down over Patroclus’ head, guiding weak arms through the sleeves as if dressing a child. He wrapped him then in the heaviest blanket, pulling it snug around him until only his face showed, still pale but no longer bare to the cold.

He held him closer still after that, chin bowed, his breath stirring the damp curls at Patroclus’ temple.

The silence stretched, heavy, broken only by the muffled rustle of fabric as Achilles drew the blanket tighter around Patroclus. The men still stood turned away, their leader alone braving the sight of Achilles cradling one boy as if the whole of Greece depended upon his breath.

“You act strangely,” Odysseus said at last, his tone measured, neither cruel nor cutting—simply observing, as was his way. “For one you called a servant.”

Achilles’ head snapped up, green eyes blazing. “He is not a servant.”

Odysseus’ brow lifted, but his voice remained calm. “Yet in the palace, before the crowd, that is what you called him.”

“That,” Achilles hissed, “is what I was forced to call him. Our disguises depended on it. Our lives depended on it.” He lowered his gaze again, but his grip on Patroclus only tightened, arms like a shield against all the world. His following words dropped low, almost reverent: “He is my Philatos. My most beloved.”

Odysseus’ brows rose higher at the declaration. For a heartbeat, surprise flickered across his face. But no scorn came, no jest, no cruel twist of the mouth. He gave nothing but silence and an unspoken acknowledgment.

After a pause, he asked, “Then tell me—did your beloved anger some god of the sea?”

Achilles’ jaw clenched, his teeth bared. “It was not a god. It was my mother.” His voice broke with restrained fury. “She tried to drown him, because he dared to save me from the worst fate.”

For the first time, Odysseus seemed struck still. His sharp, cunning eyes softened with understanding as he exhaled slowly through his nose. “Ah. Then it is no wonder you raged like a madman to reach him.”

Achilles frowned at that, anger quickening anew. “Do not speak as though you are superior to me. You would take no different action if it were someone you loved at the bottom of the sea.”

Odysseus’ gaze held his, steady as an oath. “You are right,” he said simply. “I would not.”

The air stilled again, taut between the two of them, broken only by the faint rasp of Patroclus’ unsteady breathing against Achilles’ chest. Achilles was content to sit in the silence, his chin lowered protectively, the blanket drawn close around his beloved as though he might lock out the whole world.

And then—

A sound tore through the night.

Low at first, then rising, a monstrous cry, like a hound’s howl stretched too far, distorted and echoing until it seemed to ring across the entire island. It carried something unnatural in its pitch, as though it was not merely heard but pressed into the bones of all who listened.

Patroclus startled in Achilles’ arms, his whole body shivering as if ice water had been poured down his spine. His lashes fluttered, his voice weak but urgent:

“…Hecate…”

Achilles’ grip closed tighter around him, fierce as a vow, green eyes narrowing as he turned toward the dark horizon. His teeth bared in defiance at whatever had dared stir his beloved’s fear. Then, slowly, he shifted, rising to his feet with Patroclus still held close, lifting him as though he weighed no more than a cloak.

“I’ll bring you inside,” he murmured, voice low but unyielding. “You’ll rest where you are warm, where you are safe.”

The howl lingered in the silence it left behind, but Achilles paid it no more heed than he would an enemy already marked for death. His only concern was the trembling boy in his arms.

Achilles had just adjusted Patroclus closer against him, intent on carrying him inside, when Odysseus shifted, his sharp eyes fixed on the dark horizon as if he might pierce through the mist itself. The sound still lingered in his ears, uncanny, stretched and echoing like no hound’s voice should. He had seen and heard enough in his life to know when something belonged not to mortal beasts, but to gods.

Patroclus’ faint breath of Hecate had not gone unheard.

Odysseus’ tone was low, thoughtful, edged with the weight of recognition.

“Black hounds are hers,” he said. “A symbol of Hecate. If they’re howling, it is not for nothing.”

Achilles’ arms flexed, gathering Patroclus closer as though to shield him from the very name. His eyes burned green fire, his jaw hard with defiance, but he did not answer Odysseus. He only adjusted his hold and moved toward the waiting shadows of the palace, carrying Patroclus as though no god, no omen, no howling from the dark would keep him from guarding what was most beloved.

The hallways of the palace seemed to bow before Achilles’ stride, his every step heavy with fury and resolve. Patroclus lay bundled close in his arms, his head tucked beneath Achilles’ chin, the soaked curls dripping down into Achilles’ shoulder. Every guard who might have raised a hand—or even a question—found themselves shoved aside without a touch, as though the storm in Achilles’ presence alone could clear the path. The illusion of a mere ‘girl’ was gone. They saw him now for what he was: a force, unmasked, unmovable, a son of gods.

Odysseus followed in the wake of that storm, at a distance, wise enough not to press closer. His gaze was quick, weighing, but not cruel. He watched the tight knot of Achilles’ arms around Patroclus, watched the way the younger man shivered in his hold, and knew better than to test the fragile line between them. Still, he did not turn away.

From the corner of his vision, Achilles’ head tilted just slightly, sharp green eyes catching the shape of the third man—broad-shouldered, towering, his stride unhurried. The man was cut from a warrior’s stone, dark-skinned like Patroclus, his dreadlocks hung heavy and gleaming with the gold cuffs looped into them, catching the pale torchlight. His dark eyes carried no softness, only the kind of measure found in one who had long seen battle. He kept behind Odysseus, making no move to encroach, no move to claim place nearer.

Achilles noted him instantly and instantly dismissed him. His warning glare had already told Odysseus enough; this stranger, this brawler-built shadow trailing behind, would get no greater acknowledgment than a narrowed eye. All Achilles’ focus remained on the fragile, living warmth in his arms.

From across the hall, King Lycomedes had turned, drawn by the movement. His eyes narrowed, searching—what was it Achilles bore? The pale, motionless form of another? A servant? A corpse? He moved half a step forward, hand hovering as if to halt or question.

Achilles did not spare him so much as a glance. It was mercy—mercy in the form of indifference. His fury did not touch Lycomedes; all of it was reserved for the sea and for those who had nearly cost him Patroclus.

Behind, Odysseus’ pace slowed as if waiting for the king to bar Achilles’ path. But Lycomedes faltered, struck still by what he saw in the son of Peleus’ eyes: a wrath that no mortal king could hope to restrain. So Achilles passed unhindered, carrying Patroclus into the deeper shadows of the palace, the storm following at his back.

~

The chamber welcomed him with stillness. Achilles’ steps slowed as the door closed behind them, and for the first time since the beach, the weight of the room pressed down on him. He knew this place too well. The shared quarters, the scent of cedar and faint oils, the cushions scattered by the hearth.

And the memory of Briseis. 

Her laughter had once threaded through these walls, softening their edges. Her absence now struck him like a knife, clean and unrelenting. For the briefest moment, his throat closed, as though grief meant to choke him in a room where two ghosts now lingered.

But then Patroclus shifted faintly in his arms, and that ache became secondary. Achilles pressed forward, deeper into the chamber.

The hearth flared before he even touched it. A burst of white fire, blinding in its purity, sprang to life as though it knew his need. It settled quickly into a softer orange, warmth blooming outward in a steady hum. The shadows pulled back, retreating to the corners, leaving the room softened in firelight.

Achilles lowered himself onto the cushions, pulling Patroclus with him so his back rested against his chest. With one hand, he drew the blanket away from Patroclus’ head, freeing the damp curls to fall loose, glistening in the fire’s glow. He let them spread over his fingers, drying slowly in the heat.

Patroclus stirred at the warmth, his lashes lifting. His eyes, dulled by exhaustion, traced the familiar shape of the room, the firelight, Achilles’ arm looped across him. He sighed, a sound heavy as stone, carrying with it too many meanings.

Achilles did not ask what it meant. He only tightened his embrace slightly, his chin lowering toward the crown of Patroclus’ head, and let silence be the offering. If words came, they would have space. If not, he would hold him until sleep drew him down again.

The fire cracked once, softly, as though sealing the moment.

~

The fire’s glow leaked faintly into the hall through the crack in the door. Odysseus, pausing as if by chance, saw the two within: Achilles seated on the floor cushions, Patroclus resting against him, the blanket drawn aside so damp curls might dry in the hearth’s warmth. The sight was tender in its simplicity—Achilles’ great frame curved not in pride or defiance, but in shelter.

Odysseus’ eyes narrowed, then softened. He gave the scene only a heartbeat before he drew back, pulling the door gently closer to the frame. “Come,” he murmured, not toward the room, but away from it.

Diomedes followed, his shadow long against the stone wall, until the two men stood several paces down the hall. Odysseus leaned lightly on the cool stone, folding his arms. Diomedes lingered, gaze angled still toward the closed door, his face drawn in thought.

“You see something,” Odysseus prompted without prompting.

Diomedes’ voice came low, carrying the weight of forests at dusk and the hollow ring of stone caverns. “My vision is crossed when I look upon that one. Achilles’ companion. Mortal and divine both—and neither. It flickers, like a torch seen through water. A trick of the eye, or a truth yet unsettled.”

Odysseus studied him, expression unreadable. “Athena has said nothing to me of it.” He tapped his forefinger absently against his arm. “Which means even she holds her tongue—or her caution. That is rare enough.”

“Does it trouble you?” Diomedes asked, his brow set in a line that spoke of more than idle concern.

Odysseus’ mouth curved faintly, the familiar half-smile he wore when weighing scales invisible to all but himself. “Not if he stays as he is now. I saw the way Achilles’ will bent to his word. To command a demigod without lifting a hand—that is power enough to make allies wary, or enemies foolish. So long as his ire is not turned upon us, I am content.”

Diomedes hummed, deep in his throat. “And how do we keep from drawing that ire, if he will not let us close?”

“That,” Odysseus said, pushing himself off the wall with easy grace, “is simpler than you think. He strikes me as one of reason, of measure. Even from a single statement, I could hear it. Any man who can stall the fury of Peleus’ son is a man we may bargain with. Compromise is far easier when one knows the price of temper.”

Diomedes’ mouth curved then, a slow smirk tugging at the corner. “You are ever the gambler, Odysseus. Playing games that run risk higher than any soldier would choose.”

Odysseus answered without missing a step, cheek sharp and glinting: “And yet I’ve won every game I’ve played. So tell me, friend—does that not make my point stronger still?”

The faintest laugh echoed in the hall, dry and quiet, before both men fell into thoughtful silence, leaving the crack of fire from behind the door as the only sound.

~

Achilles bent his mouth to the crown of his head, murmuring softly as if not to disturb the fire’s song. “Sleep, if it pains you not to.”

But Patroclus’ voice came rasping, thin though no longer seized by saltwater. He spoke of Briseis. How they had been torn apart—he to the sea, she to absence—and how, if Deidamia’s words bore truth, Briseis would now believe him drowned, lost forever. Achilles’ jaw set against his hair, his scowl unseen. “She lied to me,” he said, voice low and bitter. “Said Briseis carried you back to Lyrnessus. I would have crossed the sea only to learn you were already gone—your body abandoned beneath this island.”

The breath Patroclus gave in answer was jagged, hitched not with pain of flesh but of spirit, and Achilles startled at it. His hands moved urgently, searching him for hidden hurts until Patroclus caught them still. “It is not a wound,” he said, weary but clear. “It is despair I thought of, nothing more.”

Achilles’ touch softened at once, curving instead around Patroclus’ bound hand. The cloth of his own tunic, torn and tied, had gone dark with blood that was now dry, the bleeding stilled. He held it gently, thumb brushing the seam. “I will cast the sword back to fire,” he muttered. “Let it be nothing but scraps.”

Patroclus shook his head faintly. “You will do no such thing.”

“It hurt you,” Achilles growled, still raw.

“You hurt yourself,” Patroclus answered. “The sword is no more cruel than you are. Likely it weeps the same as you did, learning it cut me.”

Achilles scoffed, though the sound lacked force. “You demean yourself, to gift your sorrow to a blade.”

“Not a mere blade,” Patroclus insisted, voice gaining an edge of conviction despite the weight of his exhaustion. “Look at it—the stone in its hilt. Hecate told me once: every gem, every crystal, was birthed from the underworld, from Erebus’ darkness and riches. Such things carry meaning, names, more than men give them. And the engravings—the suns along the steel—they are not carved for nothing. It was made to hold more than edge and point.”

Achilles’ lips twitched, caught between protest and some ache too close to fear. “You have grown too poetic,” he said, meaning it for jest, though the worry in his voice drowned it.

Patroclus let his head rest back against Achilles’ shoulder, eyes already slipping shut. “Then let me rest,” he murmured. “But do not blame yourself, or the sword. Not any longer.”

The fire cracked, spilling its light across them, and Achilles’ arms tightened—not in refusal, but in a silent vow to hold against the pull of that sea, against despair, against everything.

Patroclus’ words dwindled into silence, leaving only the crackle of the fire and the faint whisper of the sea carried through the stone walls. The weight of his body softened gradually against Achilles, all the sharp edges of tension easing as though the warmth at last coaxed them from him. His hand slackened in Achilles’ own, fingers curled faintly still around the blood-stained cloth, unwilling to let it go even in surrender to rest.

Achilles felt it when the lashes of Patroclus’ eyes grew too heavy to lift again, the flutter against his arm ceasing until only the steady breath remained—slow, uneven at first, but lengthening into something near peace. His curls had begun to dry in the hearth’s glow, loose strands brushing Achilles’ jaw where he bent protectively over him.

For the first time in what felt like years—though it had been only hours—Achilles allowed himself to be still, arms fastened around the man who had been nearly torn from him. He pressed his lips gently to Patroclus’ hairline, a vow as much as a kiss, and whispered so low it might have been mistaken for the fire’s sigh:

“Rest, my heart. I’ll not let you slip from me again.”

Patroclus did not stir, but a soft exhale escaped him, as though somewhere within sleep he had heard. Achilles kept his hold firm, watching the shadows bend across the walls, and did not close his own eyes. The world could burn or rise again, and still he would keep his vigil—because now, finally, Patroclus slept.

~

The morning light did not creep through windows—there were none here—but the air was lighter, the weight of night dispersed when the air stirred open. It was Hecate who entered, her presence more shadow than sound, carrying a folded bundle in each arm. The faint perfume of myrrh and earth followed her, a reminder of the gods’ nearness even in mortal chambers.

Her luminous eyes shifted from the low-burning fire to where Achilles still sat against the wall, Patroclus resting limply in his arms. She inclined her head, voice low and steady, as if not to disturb the hush of the room.

“You’ll need these,” she said simply, and set the bundles down upon the table.

The garments were fine, but not overbearing. Patroclus’ were the deeper hues of purple and white, with red edging the folds—a quiet richness. Yet it was the detail that revealed Hecate’s hand: golden thread looping hidden along the inside seams of the sleeves, traced with faint sigils Achilles did not know. His own were green with gold trim, strong and proud, though plainer by comparison.

Achilles’ jaw shifted, though he accepted them with a small nod. He cast a glance at Patroclus, whose lashes flickered faintly with waking. 

~

Achilles bent closer, voice soft.

“Can you manage?”

My voice was rasped by sleep, but came sure enough, “I think I can.”

So Achilles set aside his own bundle and moved with slow care, drawing the blanket back. The too-large tunic Odysseus had found for me hung loose and heavy, the fabric damp at the collar where sea salt had not yet faded. Achilles eased it away, folding it neatly by reflex, though his focus never left my form.

“Lift,” he murmured, and I obeyed, though my arms noticeably trembled with the effort. Achilles steadied me with a hand at my back, sliding the purple cloth across my shoulders, guiding my arms into the sleeves one by one. The fabric fell with surprising grace, settling over my frame as if it had been cut to me alone.

Achilles smoothed it across my chest, fingers lingering where the golden thread glimmered faintly in the low light. His brow furrowed, but he said nothing of it. Instead, he crouched to fasten the folds near my waist, his head bowed like a knight at prayer.

I, weary though I was, gave a ghost of a smile at Achilles’ diligence. “I can dress myself, you know,” I said, though my voice still carried weak.

Achilles huffed softly, a sound somewhere between laugh and scold. “I know. But let me.”

And he did, fastening each piece as if it were armor. Only when he was certain it sat comfortably did he step back to look at me—his Patroclus, worn but alive, clothed now not as a prisoner but as something restored.

Achilles’ movements were deliberate, steady, as he dressed himself before the hearth’s fading glow. The green fabric caught the light, each fold speaking of dignity and strength, though he wore it with little thought for appearance—his hands worked only to ready himself for what was to come.

I had shifted to the floor cushion again, body leaning in the tired ease of someone whose strength had not fully returned but whose mind would not rest still. My eyes followed Achilles, softened with the warmth of familiarity. When Achilles bent to tie the last fastening at his side, my hand reached out, fingertips brushing the cloth.

“It makes your eyes brighter,” I said, quietly, almost as if I hadn’t meant to speak it aloud.

Achilles stilled. The words struck him deeper than he expected. He turned, meeting my gaze with a softness rare for him, and his hand closed gently around mine. He sank to a kneel before me, gathering my hand as though it were a relic.

Without a word, Achilles began to unwind the strip of rust-colored cloth he had bound the night before. The fabric fell away, revealing the palm beneath, no longer raw with blood and torn skin, but healed into pale scars that marked what had been; far too soon, likely by Hecate’s will. Achilles’ lips trembled against restraint, and then he bent his head, pressing his mouth to each scar with a reverence that bordered on worship.

I let him. I knew—this was no simple gesture. This was Achilles’ penance, his silent vow. He needed this moment of atonement before forgiveness could even be spoken.

“Achilles,” I murmured, low and steady, “what has happened is done. We must move forward.”

Achilles’ brow knit as though the words wounded, and yet he only clutched my hand tighter, eyes closed. “Then I will ask for forgiveness every day forward,” he said, voice unshaking though thick with conviction. “No matter how long it has been. So I know I have never fallen from the worth of belonging to you.”

A weary smile curved my mouth, fond and exasperated all at once. I tilted my head, leaned closer, and whispered, “You stubborn fool.”

My free hand slid to Achilles’ jaw, lifting his face upward. Achilles’ eyes opened, bright and fierce in their vulnerability, and before he could speak again, I kissed him—slow, grounding, an answer given without condition.

Hecate did not intrude at first. She stood by the open threshold, shadow framed as if by an unseen cool morning light. Her presence was felt more than seen—a silence that pressed against the air, waiting with patience older than the stones of Scyros.

Only when our kiss had eased, when Achilles’ thumb lingered across my jaw in something that looked like prayer, did her voice cut the quiet.

“The men from the ship await your departure.”

Achilles startled faintly, half-turning toward her, though I did not let go of his hand. His brows drew together, suspicion already flaring behind his green eyes. He rose with measured grace, gaze steady upon her.

“Tell me,” he said, voice low and edged, “can Odysseus and his men be trusted?”

The question was not simple—it was thick with the weight of all that lingered beneath. Could he trust them to share a battlefield with him? To sleep under the same stars without blades turned in the night? Could he trust them near me, with counsel, with war, with the very thread of destiny we were now weaving?

Hecate tilted her head, the faintest curve of amusement touching her lips, as though she saw every layer beneath his words. “You ask with both your heart and your pride,” she said. “And the answers differ.”

I, still seated, shifted and looked up between them. My voice was softer, but my words struck like a stone thrown in still water.

“Then let me ask instead,” I said, “can I trust myself in the challenge of facing them?”

The goddess’ eyes flickered, dark and endless, but warmed at that. A smile tugged at her mouth—quiet, almost proud. “Yes,” she said, voice carrying an almost maternal lilt. “Yes, Patroclus. You may always trust yourself. You delight me most when you act as the vessel I foresaw in you.”

I lowered my gaze, cheeks touched with warmth at her praise. Achilles looked between us both—his suspicion unbroken, but tempered now with something else: the steadying knowledge that I, his companion, stood not behind him, but beside him.

~

Hecate led them in shadow down the worn steps, her pace unhurried, robes brushing the stone as though the path itself moved to clear for her. Achilles walked at her side, steady and protective, but not hovering—I now matched their strides.

I moved carefully at first, testing the strength of my body after long stillness, but it was not weakness that marked me now. It was measure, the kind of measured pace that made clear I chose each step. And when I straightened, when the morning sun caught on the purple and white of these new garments and the faint threads of gold stitched within, my frame seemed fuller, more commanding. Hecate’s form dissolved into mist as we neared the docks, leaving for now.

A man, broad and towering even among warriors, took my notice first. I saw him falter for a moment in his study of me. He had perhaps expected a shadow, a weakened thing at Achilles’ side, not a man who carried himself with such quiet dignity.

Odysseus, as Achilles had growled to me most disdainfully, of course, did not miss it. His dark eyes gleamed, lips already curved with the sting of humor. “You look well,” he said lightly, “for a half-drowned body dragged up from the sea only last night.”

Achilles’ shoulders tensed, the breath in his chest already sharpening into words edged like a blade—but before he could speak, I let out a short huff of laughter.

“Then I must apologize,” I said, tone playfully self-deprecating, “for giving the impression of a drowned rat, rather than the man I am.”

The clever twist of it drew Odysseus’ full grin, bright and quick, laughter spilling free. He pointed at me with a sweeping hand, turning to the man beside him with exaggerated triumph.

“You see? I told you so!” he crowed, delight cutting sharp through the morning air.

His companion only shook his head, though a faint smile tugged the corner of his mouth despite himself.

Achilles’ bristle did not wholly ease, but when his gaze slid to me—upright, alive, smiling—it softened into something steadier, pride mixing with the possessive edge of his wariness.

The dock smelled of salt and ship-tar, morning mist still clinging to the air.

Odysseus straightened, arms loosely folded, his grin still warm with the humor of moments past. The man beside him inclined his head in respectful greeting, though his eyes studied them sharply, measuring.

“Odysseus of Ithaca,” the trickster said, voice smooth, “and Diomedes of Argos. We stand as comrades, so it is only fitting you know us by proper name.”

Achilles’ jaw shifted, unreadable but for the faint tension at his temple. His arm brushed mine as if to steady me, though I no longer needed the support.

“I am Patroclus,” I answered, voice calm but carrying. “And—” The words came unbidden, slipping from my tongue before thought could restrain them, “—I serve as vessel to Hecate.”

For an instant, my heart thudded in my chest, panic flickering at the boldness of such truth. Yet no rebuke followed, no cold dread, only the faintest brush of reassurance—Hecate herself, nudging me forward.

Odysseus’ brows rose, not in disbelief but in satisfaction, the way a puzzle-seeker delights when the last piece falls into place. “So,” he said softly, “that answers much I had been speculating.”

Before he could twist it further, Achilles’ voice cut through, low and edged. “Do not attempt to use him. He is not a compass for you to follow, nor an oracle to demand answers from.”

Odysseus’ gaze flicked to Achilles, unruffled. “I would never,” he replied smoothly. “I trust my own wit, my own decisions, before I would the word of any goddess.”

My eyes sharpened at that, though my voice stayed polite. “Tempting as it is to let pride speak louder than reason, no goddess enjoys being dismissed. Trust or no trust, it is a dangerous habit.”

A silence fell, thoughtful rather than tense. Then Diomedes, who had been quiet until now, stepped closer. His size cast a shadow over me, yet his manner was frank rather than imposing.

“And the goddess?” he asked, studying me as one might a blade newly forged. “Is she angered by Odysseus’ dismissal?”

I met his gaze without flinching. “No,” I said simply. “But I am. I do not care for her word to be tossed aside.”

The statement landed heavier than even I expected, the authority of it ringing with something more than mortal weight.

Hecate said nothing in my mind—yet I could imagine a faint curl of a smile touched her lips.

Odysseus’ grin thinned, the brightness of it cooling into something closer to respect. He dipped his chin—not an empty gesture, but a small concession of dignity offered toward me.

“I meant no offense to you, vessel,” he said, words carefully chosen. “Only understand: a man cannot place his trust wholly in any god. Not even one who shelters him. A mortal must make his own decisions, else he is no more than a shadow cast by another hand.”

Achilles shifted, ready to speak, but I steadied first, tone clear and without hesitation. “I accept your apology,” I said. “But know this—Hecate guides me, yes, yet she does not make my every choice for me. My will is mine. Only when life hangs in the balance—mine, or another’s—then I yield. For the preservation of life is a duty she laid upon me, and I bend to her wisdom when it is needed.”

Diomedes tilted his head slightly, considering, while Odysseus leaned on one hip, his smile curling again, this time more fox than man. “Preservation of life,” he mused. “I had not thought the goddess of secrets and crossroads to trouble herself with such things. Chaos runs hand in hand with death, does it not? It flows more freely there.”

Before I could shape a reply, I felt it—a soft brush against the mind, like a shadow slipping past candlelight. Do not be fooled, little vessel, Hecate whispered within. This one is not harmful, but he will chew and chew at you until you give him pieces he was not meant to have. That is his way.

The touch lingered, cool and wry. Do not answer him unless you wish to. If you do—play with him. Wrap your words in silk instead of stone. I would not mind watching such a show.

Her withdrawal left a faint pressure behind, like a hand resting at the back of my neck.

Across from me, Odysseus’ eyes gleamed with curiosity, sharp as flint yet cloaked in charm. Diomedes’ silence pressed like an anchor at his side, leaving the weight of reply, or refusal, entirely in my hands.

I felt Hecate’s amusement lacing the back of my mind, like smoke curling through a doorway, and let it steady me. I met Odysseus’ eyes, not with defiance, but with a level calm that tasted faintly of mischief.

“You speak well, Odysseus,” I said, voice even, “but your thought cuts shallow. Death has no need of chaos—it comes on its own. What chaos loves is the living, for only in life can a choice be spoiled, a path disrupted, a heart undone.”

Odysseus’ brows rose, interest brightening in his foxlike grin. “Ah, so you say the goddess tends the living not from mercy, but because the game lies there.”

I allowed the corner of my mouth to twitch, neither confirming nor denying, a baited silence that gave Odysseus nothing firm to seize.

The Ithacan chuckled low in his throat, folding his arms. “A clever answer. Almost too clever. I cannot decide if you’ve just agreed with me or refuted me entirely.”

“Then it seems I’ve done my part well,” I replied smoothly, “for a crossroads has no single turn, Odysseus. Which path you think I’ve pointed toward is only the one you’ve chosen to walk.”

The laughter that broke from Odysseus was bright and genuine this time, quick as kindling catching flame. He tipped his head in acknowledgment, delighted not only at the cleverness but at being so neatly caught in his own net.

Diomedes gave a quiet snort, arms folded across his chest, though even he seemed faintly amused at the exchange. Achilles, by contrast, watched with narrowed eyes, his arm tightening subtly around mt waist, not out of jealousy but from a protective wariness, as though he might cut in should Odysseus press too far.

But the Ithacan only shook his head with a rueful grin, as though savoring a spar of words far more than any victory. “Well struck, Patroclus. I see now why she chose you. You’ve a tongue fit for a fox’s den.”

“And you’ve the patience of a coyote circling it,” I answered lightly, the faintest smile curving my lips.

The two of us regarded each other for a long moment, rascals both, circling the same unseen morsel—not to consume it, but for the sheer thrill of the dance.

Achilles’ patience finally broke, his voice cutting in sharp and quick as a drawn blade. “Enough of this,” he muttered, his arm tightening. His gaze flicked between Odysseus and me with equal irritation, though the words were aimed only at the latter. “I’d much rather see you fight with a sword than dance around with words that stink of diplomats drinking their wine.”

I startled, then laughed, the sound warm in contrast to Achilles’ edge. “And I’d rather you learned to sharpen your tongue as well as your blade—you might avoid a few fights that way.”

Achilles’ eyes narrowed, the deadpan retort rolling out without pause, “I would sooner swallow my sword whole than stomach another man’s attempt to wound my pride with cleverness.”

I swatted his arm, a light, exasperated slap that landed against iron muscle. It made no dent, did nothing to shift Achilles away, though it hadn’t truly been meant to. “Achilles, you’re impossible. Odysseus could undo me with a single argument.”

“That,” Achilles countered flatly, “is why I prefer actions over words. Men like him talk too much.”

Diomedes, who had been leaning idly against a pillar, chuckled at their back-and-forth. “They say the Aristos Achaion is unmatched in battle. Seems the rumors were right to leave wit out of the list.”

Achilles turned his head slowly, green eyes raking Diomedes up and down. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t smirk, didn’t even break stride in thought. The insult came like a thrown spear, sudden and sharp.

“At least my wit isn’t spent patching Odysseus’ shadow wherever he goes.”

The words cut with surgical precision, aimed to sting without needing flourish. Then, as if nothing had been said, Achilles turned back to me, wholly unbothered, his hand resettling at my side.

Odysseus gave a short laugh, smooth as a reed flute breaking the silence. “Come now, Diomedes, no need to bleed over a word. You know Achilles—his tongue is as straight as his spear, never curved.” His eyes glinted, sly but conciliatory, a fox soothing the hen before the bite could sink deeper.

I, however, had already turned my gaze on Achilles. My expression alone was sharp enough—eyebrows lifted, lips pressed thin in disbelief. I didn’t need to say a word; the look itself called Achilles petulant, childish even.

Achilles caught it at once, frowning, a slight flare at his nostrils. Yet he did not speak, nor did he let the weight of apology cross his lips. Silence was its own stubborn shield.

I sighed, the sound weary but threaded with affection, as if I were tired of scolding the same boy again and again. “You had better keep a better attitude on the ship,” I said, voice low but firm.

Achilles’ frown deepened, though his hand curled lightly at my side, possessive, unwilling to be pushed away. “We’ll see,” he muttered, too proud to promise, but already yielding by not pulling further into sulk.

The tension of the air seemed to cling to Achilles’ shoulders as we left, though the sound of Odysseus’ easy voice and Diomedes’ rumbling steps behind softened the air. The scent struck—salt, tar, the musk of wet rope and oiled wood. The air itself was wider here, unpinned by stone walls, carrying gull cries and the long hush of waves against the hulls. Men moved in purposeful rhythm, loading jugs and weapons, ropes snapping taut. The ships rose and settled, alive, as if breathing with the tide.

Achilles slowed at the gangplank, his frown still set, though his eyes had softened to the restless gray of sea-foam. I lingered beside him, watching, my earlier exasperation dimmed by the strange solemnity of the moment. For all my scolding, my heart never strayed from Achilles.

“You’ll hate the days at sea if you cling to that mood,” I murmured, quiet so only Achilles would hear.

Achilles turned his head, meeting my gaze in the waning light. “And if I do?” His tone was flat, but not hard—more the sound of someone testing if he’d be forgiven even for refusing to bend.

I gave him the smallest smile, tired and fond. “Then I’ll sit beside you and match it, until you’re forced to laugh at how foolish we look.”

For the first time since the quarrel, Achilles’ mouth tugged at one corner, though he covered it quickly, stepping up the plank as if retreating into the ship’s belly could hide it. I followed, close enough that our shoulders brushed.

Behind us, Odysseus watched the small exchange with his sharp fox-eyes, a curl of thought already forming. Diomedes only adjusted, the sea-breeze tugging his hair as though it too were eager for the voyage.

~VI~

The ship creaked softly under the evening tide, sails puffed with wind that carried a briny tang and the distant calls of gulls returning to roost. Torches had been lit along the deck, though their glow was low, flickering, enough to warm the shadows without banishing them entirely.

Achilles sat against the mast, I at his side, leaning just enough for the warmth of Achilles’ shoulder to seep through. The sea rolled beneath us with a constant pulse, a rhythm that seemed to coax out the tension still knotting our bodies. Neither of us spoke at first, letting the gentle sway of the ship and the quiet murmur of the crew be the music of our company.

Finally, I shifted, brushing wet curls from my forehead, hand lingering just on Achilles’ arm. “You always look like you carry the weight of the world,” I said softly, almost teasing, almost serious. “Even when it’s just the sea beneath your feet.”

Achilles let a small exhale, a sound of relief rather than annoyance, and leaned his head lightly against mine. “And you,” he murmured, “like the world might burn if I didn’t notice you were here.”

My lips curved, tired but gentle. “I’ll forgive you for the fire, if you promise to forgive me for mocking you this morning.”

A faint laugh, almost hidden in the night wind, escaped Achilles. It was small, but it carried, bouncing across the deck in a way that eased the last sharp edges of anger. “You’ll do as you please,” he said, voice low, “but you’ll never get off easy.”

I leaned closer, our shoulders and knees brushing, and whispered, “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

The two of us remained here in the quiet hum of the ship, letting the small movements of the waves and the faint creak of rigging be our lullaby. For the first time in what felt like days, the world narrowed to just the warmth of each other, the safety of proximity, and the soft, unspoken promise that we would face whatever came next together.

I shivered slightly, though the chill had nothing to do with the night air. I glanced out over the dark water, its surface catching pale moonlight in restless waves, and muttered, almost to myself, “I was terrified to board the ship… open sea, the smell of salt, getting wet… even with Hecate correcting your mother’s fury, I still…” My voice faltered, the memory of last night’s drowning sticking to my chest like a tangle of heavy rope.

Achilles reached out, tilting my chin gently, forcing me to meet his gaze. “I would fight the sea, if need be,” he said quietly, the intensity of his words grounding and unyielding, “or any body of water my mother tries to slink through to reach you. I would face it all.”

I let out a soft chuckle, though it trembled at the edges, shaking my head. “You… couldn’t fight water itself,” I said, voice teasing but with a hint of disbelief.

Achilles’ eyes darkened, a storm contained behind the calm. “I have,” he said, his grip tightening slightly, “and I will again. Believe me.”

The rawness in that simple plea made my smile falter, amusement melting into something softer, more certain. 

Achilles’ hands lingered at the sides of my face, thumbs brushing lightly over my cheekbones, the salt air tangling in both of our hair. The laughter of others had faded, leaving a soft quiet between us, punctuated only by the gentle sway of the ship and the distant slap of waves against the hull.

“You’ve no reason to doubt me,” Achilles murmured, voice low, almost a growl against the wind. “If the sea itself rose to swallow you, I would carve a path through it. Every tide, every wave, every curse my mother could muster—I would stand against it.”

I blinked slowly, letting the words sink in, letting the firmness behind them settle over my lingering fear. The memory of the black water, the sharp bite of salt against my lungs, and the desperate darkness of the dungeon—the images still gnawed at me—but Achilles’ presence, strong and unwavering, began to anchor.

“I…” I faltered, another shiver running down my spine, though this time from the weight of relief. “I believe you. I believe you will do the impossible… for me.”

Achilles pressed his forehead to mine, letting the movement be both grounding and claiming, a silent promise that needed no words beyond what hung between us. “Then rest, Philatos,” he murmured. Most beloved, slipping like a caress, “and let the world wait.”

I leaned against him, chest rising and falling with a rhythm slower now, calmer, as though my own heartbeat had learned to trust Achilles’ strength as much as his arms. 

The lanterns on the deck flickered, painting our intertwined shadows on the wooden planks, and for the first time since the chaos of Scyros, I felt the dark corners of my fear ease, soothed by a presence as certain as the tide itself—but this tide, I knew, would not harm me. Not with Achilles guarding, not ever.

The gentle hum of the ship carried us toward night, and the two of us leaned together, bodies warm, hearts slow, the first fragile sense of peace since the dungeon folding over like a memory best left behind.

~V~

The days at sea settled into a rhythm, though I never quite shed the tension from my shoulders when I stepped out onto the open deck. The endless water seemed to breathe around us, the smell of salt filling my lungs whether I wished it or not. Achilles was always close—sometimes brushing shoulders with me at the rail, sometimes stretched languidly beside me with the sun on my bronze skin, sometimes standing behind me like a shadow. Rarely was there a moment when Achilles did not reach out—an idle hand at my wrist, a finger tangled through the braid in my hair, or simply the press of a knee against mine beneath the small table where we ate.

Odysseus, of course, would not allow silence to reign too long. He prowled the deck like a fox with a clever tongue, always looking for a thread to pull loose, a remark to test, a game of words to set spinning. His companion, Diomedes, the tall brawler, lingered nearby but rarely spoke unless spoken to—content, it seemed, to let Odysseus tug at others while he simply kept watch.

I, at first hesitant, found myself gradually drawn into Odysseus’ web. The older man’s riddling speech and sly humor were not so far from my own childhood games with Achilles, and often I answered with wit in kind. Our conversations would spin like dice on a board—half-play, half-measured test, fox circling hound, both of us knowing it was less about winning than about the thrill of the chase. Diomedes would sometimes smirk, sometimes roll his eyes, but never interfered.

Achilles, however, tolerated it poorly. His patience frayed quickly each time Odysseus’ talk drew me too long from him. He would whine—sometimes with childish dramatics, sometimes with a single pointed look, sometimes by throwing himself into my lap as though to reclaim me bodily from the wiles of Ithaca’s trickster.

More often than not, I laughed at this, though sometimes I sighed, exasperated but fond. “Must I leave every word unsaid because you cannot bear to share?” I would ask, but still, at Achilles’ insistence, I let the conversations dwindle sooner than they might have. Odysseus, ever perceptive, recognized the push and pull but did not press too hard. If anything, he seemed amused, as though watching some delicate play between lion and cub, curious to see which of us ruled the other.

And so the days slipped by—I, drawn between the clever tongue of Odysseus and the needy gravity of Achilles, the sea ever restless beneath us, until I began to wonder if I would always feel stretched between fear of the water and the warmth of the boy who promised to fight even the tide for me.

~VI~

The afternoon sea was still, the water lying flat as hammered bronze beneath the sun. The ship creaked in the quiet, sailors moving about their work with slow steadiness, voices muted in the heat. I sat near the stern rail with Achilles sprawled beside me, his head pillowed lazily on my thigh, one hand curled like a boy’s around my knee.

Odysseus came striding toward us, Diomedes in his long shadow as always. He smiled the way he always did—sharp, knowing, as if already privy to the ending of a story yet to be told.

“Patroclus,” he greeted first, as was his habit. Never Achilles. “Tell me, do you think our golden prince would find it more unbearable to endure silence, or to endure my company?”

I huffed a soft laugh, smoothing absent fingers through Achilles’ hair. I caught the subtle stiffening beneath my hand, Achilles shifting just enough to turn his face away, jaw set.

“You risk both at once,” I answered, amused despite myself.

Odysseus leaned easily on the rail, eyes flicking toward Achilles with deliberate slowness. “Ah, but that’s the art of it. If I can get him to snap a word, even one, then I’ve proven silence was never his choice. If I cannot—then I’ve won in patience.”

Achilles’ voice, when it came, was a low growl. “If you want a contest, Ithacan, choose one worth blood. Patroclus isn’t a stake to wager with.”

“Oh, not a stake,” Odysseus replied smoothly, holding up a placating hand, though his grin never faltered. “More like—what’s the word? A lure. One does not hunt clever fish with empty hooks.”

I gave him a look—half warning, half reluctant amusement—and Odysseus dipped his head as if in apology. “See? He understands. You, Achilles, should be grateful he spares you from being outplayed entirely. Without him, you’d give me nothing but scowls.”

“Because that’s all you’re worth,” Achilles snapped, sitting up at last, the sudden loss of weight from my lap making the air cooler.

Diomedes shifted at Odysseus’ shoulder, but said nothing. Odysseus only chuckled, eyes bright like a fox who’d found the henhouse door unlatched.

“Scowls, insults, and threats—yes, yes, but now we’re talking. Already I’ve pried words from him. Wouldn’t you say that’s a victory, Patroclus?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, stifling the smile tugging at me despite the tension. “You’re going to get yourself tossed overboard if you keep poking at him.”

“And I trust,” Odysseus said slyly, “you’d leap in after me?”

Achilles bristled visibly, but I let the corner of my mouth twitch, answering, “No. But perhaps the sea would enjoy your company.”

That earned a bark of laughter from Diomedes at last, startling in its brevity. Odysseus bowed theatrically, delighted. “Ah, see? The quiet one strikes truest of all. You’d better keep him close, Achilles, or I may steal him for my crew.”

Achilles’ eyes flashed, but my hand caught his wrist before he could rise. “Peace,” I murmured, low enough for him alone. Achilles did not relax, but he stayed seated, smoldering in silence.

Odysseus took the warning for what it was and retreated a step, still grinning as though the whole game had gone just as he’d planned.

Achilles was still scowling long after Odysseus and Diomedes had gone, the creak of the ship and the hiss of the sea filling the gap where his growled retorts might have been. He sat beside me stiff-backed, arms folded like a sulking boy. Finally, with a frustrated huff, he muttered, “Why do you let him do it? Why do you let Odysseus use you like a pawn in his games?”

I glanced at him, calm, almost amused, fingers brushing Achilles’ arm in a quiet reminder. “Because you fear too much from a man with a barbed tongue. You cannot look past the words to what he’s actually doing.”

Achilles turned on me, quick and demanding. “Then tell me—what is he doing, if not mocking you?”

I placed a finger lightly to Achilles’ lips, shushing him before the volume could rise. My eyes softened, but my tone was firm. “Careful, love. It is your attitude he prods at most. He does not yet know which of us is more dangerous.”

That brought Achilles up short. He blinked, lowering his chin, confusion flickering beneath his pride. His mouth pressed into a pout. “Everyone knows I am the most dangerous.”

I sighed with patient fondness. “Everyone knows who the Aristos Achaion is. They sing it in their halls, in their training yards, even in their sleep. But no one has ever heard of the Seer of Hecate.” I let the words hang, heavy but steady. “In war, Odysseus must weigh which of us he would rather misstep with—who is quickest to anger, and who is most devastating with it.”

Achilles frowned, the sulk deepening. “He has seen me angry. He knows.”

“Exactly,” I said gently. “You’ve shown him already: swift, fierce, dangerous. But me? He has never seen my anger. Not once. That line he’s tracing with his words—those games—it is his way of testing where my wrath lies, and how it differs from yours. He does not jab only to provoke you, Achilles. He jabs to measure me.”

Achilles chewed that in silence, his shoulders curling, his lips pushing further into their pout. He shifted, leaning his head against my shoulder, muttering sulkily, “I don’t like it. I don’t like him using you that way.”

My hand came up to card slowly through his hair, a soothing rhythm. “He can try, but he will not find the end of me so easily. And he will never find it without your temper shielding me first.”

Achilles made a small, dissatisfied noise in his throat, but the pout remained, lingering in the tilt of his mouth, his eyes sliding shut against my shoulder like a child refusing to yield a game he’s already lost.

~

Odysseus had leaned his elbows along the ship’s railing, watching the sea slip past in long, endless folds of gray-blue. His companion stood beside him, calm as ever, the lines of Diomedes’ jaw steady against the salt wind.

Odysseus’ mouth twisted with a smile, thin and knowing, but faintly unsatisfied. “He does not give it up easily.”

Diomedes raised a brow. “Who?”

“The boy,” Odysseus said, and when Diomedes looked at him, he corrected, “Not the golden one. The other.”

“Patroclus,” Diomedes supplied. His tone carried no weight, just the name, like a coin set gently on a table.

“Yes.” Odysseus drummed his fingers against the wood. “I prick and prod, and he yields so smoothly it is near infuriating. He will play the game but never stumble. Never quite enough for me to see where the bottom lies.”

“You mean to say you can’t find what makes him burn.”

Odysseus turned his smile toward Diomedes, sharp with approval. “Exactly. The Aristos Achaion flares like kindling. His temper is a thing to behold, but easy enough to summon. The other… it is as though he keeps it folded, pressed flat under his ribs. I cannot yet tell if he has no flame at all, or if he hides a fire that could consume us all.”

Diomedes considered this in silence, his eyes on the rolling horizon. “And why would you need to know?”

“Because,” Odysseus said simply, “if we are to stand in war, I must know whether he is the shield or the dagger. One I can work beside. The other I must guard my back against. Achilles’ wrath I can count on. Patroclus’… I cannot even measure.”

He let out a low breath, fingers tapping a rhythm of thought. His eyes flicked back toward where the pair sat, Achilles’ head leaned against Patroclus’ shoulder like a lion cub feigning wounded pride. The sight almost made him laugh. Almost.

“I fear,” Odysseus murmured, “that his anger may be the rarer sort—the kind that does not burst, but breaks. And I would not be the fool to find out which of us it would break first.”

Diomedes said nothing, only watching the waves. But his silence held weight, as though he too understood that there was something far more dangerous aboard this ship than the son of Peleus.

~

The day had fallen to that quiet rhythm the ship sometimes found—sails full, sea smooth, the men scattered in their small routines. Odysseus drifted toward where Patroclus sat, a low stool at the edge of the deck, polishing the haft of a spear Achilles had abandoned carelessly. Achilles himself lay stretched nearby, half asleep in the sun, hair blazing against the boards like a spill of flame.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Odysseus began, his tone light, conversational. “To think, the world has never seen one like him. Half the men here are drunk on the sight of him, and he does nothing more than breathe.”

Patroclus glanced up, cautious at first. Odysseus saw the calculation—the weighing of whether to engage. Then, slowly, Patroclus’ hand stilled on the cloth, his mouth curving faintly. “It isn’t strange to me. I’ve always known what he was.”

“Oh?” Odysseus tilted his head, as if curious rather than probing. “And what is he, then, to your eyes? Not the ‘best of the Greeks,’ not the war-song everyone shouts. To you.”

Patroclus’ gaze softened, shifting briefly toward Achilles, who pretended still to doze, though Odysseus was certain he was listening. “He’s… himself,” Patroclus said at last. “Fierce, yes, and restless. But also softer than anyone believes. He would rather laugh than rage, if the world would let him.”

Odysseus let the silence sit a moment before nudging, “And you? What are you beside him? The anchor, perhaps? Or the one who keeps his fire from burning too far?”

Patroclus smiled again, but this time the curve of it was measured. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I only stand near enough to keep warm.”

There it was—the shift. Openness when speaking of Achilles, warmth blooming like sunlight. But when the edge of the question tilted toward himself, Patroclus closed his hands around the answer, tucking it neatly away. Odysseus recognized it instantly: the art of not lying, but not yielding truth.

He leaned against the railing, pretending to be casual. “Others have heard the whispers,” he said softly, “that the lady Hecate favors you. That she has marked you for her own.”

Patroclus’ eyes flicked up, sharp, though his expression smoothed a heartbeat later. “Whispers run like rats on any ship. You should know that.”

“And do they gnaw at truth, or only scraps of it?”

Patroclus returned to his work, cloth dragging over wood. “Scraps are enough for most men.”

Odysseus smiled, slow and foxlike, though he bowed his head as if conceding. He had not been denied, not exactly, but neither had he been given what he wanted. Still—he had learned something. Achilles could be coaxed, sparked, made to blaze. Patroclus, though… Patroclus spoke freely only when it was love, when it was Achilles. About himself, about Hecate—his tongue wove silk, but gave away nothing.

Diomedes passed by then, giving Odysseus a look that said plainly, Well? Odysseus only shrugged. 

The boy is a net with no holes. And I’m beginning to think it was the goddess who tied the knots herself.

~

Achilles’ lashes flickered, though he kept his body loose, feigning sleep while Odysseus’ words curled like hooks in the air. Patroclus’ voice was steady, careful, every syllable threaded with that gentleness he reserved for sparing others. Odysseus pressed and pressed, and still Patroclus gave only what he chose.

Achilles knew that dance well—he had seen Patroclus bend words, like reeds, never breaking them, never quite yielding. But it was the mention of Hecate, the probing toward the shadows Patroclus carried in silence, that made Achilles’ jaw tighten against the wood.

He had glimpsed Patroclus’ anger before. Only glimpses. A flash when someone had struck him thoughtlessly, when a man in Phthia had laughed too freely at his mother’s name. A sudden, low heat in Patroclus’ eyes, as if a fire had cracked open beneath calm water. But always—always—it was drowned again, swallowed in sorrow, or in that unbearable tenderness that Patroclus seemed unable to keep from offering the world.

Achilles had never seen him stay angry. Never seen him burn.

And now Odysseus was testing for that spark, as though it were a game. The thought made Achilles’ blood coil. He shifted, no longer content to play at sleep, pushing himself up onto his elbows.

“What are you after?” he demanded, his voice low but edged.

Odysseus only lifted a brow, lips quirking. “Conversation. Nothing more.”

Achilles’ eyes flashed. “You bait him. You prod, like some child with a stick and a coiled snake, waiting to see how it strikes. Why would you want that from him?”

Patroclus stilled, cloth paused on the spear. “Achilles—” he began, a warning in his tone.

But Achilles was already bristling forward. “Why should I let you make sport of him? Why should he suffer your tongue like a plaything?”

Patroclus turned his gaze to him then, calm as the sea at dusk. “Because you fear too much from words, Achilles. Odysseus’ tongue is barbed, yes—but you hear only the sting, not what lies beneath it.”

Achilles scowled, confused and unsatisfied. 

Patroclus’ eyes flicked, brief and sharp, to Odysseus, who—remarkably—kept silent, as though waiting. Then Patroclus exhaled softly and leaned nearer, voice lowering. “He does not yet know which of us is more dangerous. That’s what he’s after, as I’ve said.”

Achilles blinked, almost offended. “Dangerous.”

“Yes,” Patroclus agreed gently. “Allies in war are chosen by temper as much as by strength. Odysseus tests the line. He knows your anger—he has seen how quick, how sharp it can be. But he has never seen mine. That is the game he plays. Respectfully, carefully. To see if I burn.”

Achilles frowned, chest rising and falling. The words unsettled him—not because they weren’t true, but because he had never thought of Patroclus that way. Dangerous. More dangerous than he.

He reached for Patroclus’ wrist without quite realizing, holding him as though to anchor himself. “But I’ve never seen it either,” Achilles said quietly. “Never for long. Your anger always… goes. It washes away.”

Patroclus’ mouth softened, almost a smile. “Yes. It always does.” His free hand brushed Achilles’ knuckles, light as water. “And perhaps it always will. But Odysseus doesn’t know that. He only knows the line he’s trying to walk.”

Achilles pouted, stubborn and boyish, though his grip did not loosen. Odysseus, for once, had no clever reply—only the faintest, unreadable glimmer in his dark eyes.

~

Odysseus did not press the matter again that night. He laughed at something Diomedes muttered, let the tension bleed away as though he had never sought to stir it in the first place. But when he retreated to his own place on the lower deck for sleep, he did not close his eyes.

He had seen something then—something few men ever marked. Not in Achilles, no; the boy’s fury was writ large, bright as a torch. He burned at any slight, hot as dry grass set alight, devouring quickly, consuming all in his reach. Everyone knew that temper. They feared it and worshipped it.

Patroclus was different. His calm had always seemed unshakable, his voice soft, his hands careful. Too careful, Odysseus realized now. That kind of patience was not the absence of anger, but the shaping of it. Like steel drawn fine beneath a whetstone.

The restraint was the thing.

Odysseus’ clever tongue paused on that thought, rolling it over like a dice in his mind. Restraint did not lessen the anger—it deepened it. A man who swallowed his rage, day after day, was not a man without fury. He was a man aware of its reach. Aware that when he broke, he would either lose himself to it utterly, mad and wild, or else wield it as a weapon with surgical intent.

Where Achilles was the blaze, uncontrollable, raging, Patroclus would be the blade. Cold, sharpened, precise. One cut where Achilles would make ten. A single word, placed like an arrowhead, where Achilles would roar until the walls fell down.

The two of them together—Odysseus shivered, though the night air was warm. Fire and edge, fury and exactness. One overwhelming, the other unerring. What an awful, unstoppable pair they might be, should they ever choose to bare themselves fully.

He had sought to bait Achilles, to test Patroclus’ temper like a fisherman flicking his line. And instead, he found himself thinking of monsters that swam beneath calm waters, of still ponds that hid sudden depths.

Diomedes, half-drowsing nearby, cracked an eye at him. “You’re quiet,” he said.

Odysseus only smiled faintly into the dark. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

Odysseus’ gaze looked to the two figures across the lower deck, sharing a single hammock, Achilles curled close, almost possessive, Patroclus’ hand resting lightly on him as though gentling a restless flame.

“About what it takes,” Odysseus murmured, “to temper a god.”

Odysseus’ words drifted away on the air, his clever tongue running dry for once. He was still staring above when Diomedes’ voice broke the quiet, flat and edged with that plainness that so often irritated him.

“You overthink it,” Diomedes said, rolling onto his side, propping his head on one arm. His dark eyes found Odysseus’ with that maddening bluntness. “You’re fishing for cracks in the boy, when there aren’t any to catch.”

Odysseus arched a brow, feigning lightness. “A man without cracks? Come now, every wall has a fault line. You only need to find where it runs.”

Diomedes snorted. “Not with him. Not with Patroclus. Don’t you see? He isn’t guessing when he speaks, isn’t blundering when he steps. He already sees where the stones will fall.”

Odysseus tilted his head, curious despite himself. “You think him a prophet?”

“I think,” Diomedes said slowly, “that his goddess whispers close. He glimpses his choices ahead of time, like a man watching a board game from above instead of at the table. Any trap he walks into—it isn’t by mistake. It’s because it leads to the best outcome.”

Odysseus blinked. The words were so simple, so plain, they landed heavier than all his own elaborate webs. A truth so obvious he had danced right past it, trying to draw lines where none were hidden.

Across the deck, Achilles shifted, his hand sliding to grip Patroclus’ wrist as though even in sleep he feared he might vanish. Patroclus soothed him with the smallest touch, a motion soft and measured, almost absentminded, but Odysseus’ sharp eyes caught it. A man who carried fire at his back but never let it burn.

Odysseus chuckled softly, shaking his head. “A trap willingly sprung, then. That’s worse than a wall without cracks. That’s a wall that moves when you push it.”

Diomedes only grunted, closing his eyes. “You’ll waste your tongue trying to outpace him. He isn’t playing your game, Odysseus. He’s already ahead of it.”

And though Odysseus smiled, settling back against the hammock, his thoughts were restless. If Patroclus chose his snares willingly, then every word Odysseus had spoken, every barb, had been allowed. Permitted. The boy had decided what to show him—and what to keep veiled.

That was no prey. That was a man holding his leash.

~

The next day, Odysseus tried again. He could not help himself—curiosity was a hunger, and Patroclus was a mystery that did not fit in his neat boxes.

They were at the rail, the sea rolling green-black beneath them. Achilles had gone below deck, restless, leaving the two in a rare quiet. Odysseus leaned with practiced ease, letting the wind tousle his hair, and spoke with the air of a man idly passing time.

“You endure him well,” Odysseus said, watching the gulls wheel far above. “His moods, his sharpness. You never bite back. Tell me, do you fear him?”

Patroclus glanced at him, expression unreadable. “No.”

“So certain?” Odysseus’ mouth curled. “Even the greatest hero’s shadow has weight. Men have broken under less.”

Patroclus tilted his head, not offended, not even ruffled. “Achilles is not my shadow, nor I his. We walk beside each other.”

Odysseus smiled thinly. “That sounds like something you tell yourself so it does not sting.”

Patroclus turned his gaze back to the sea. “Or perhaps it sounds that way because you expect everyone to feel as you would.”

A neat thrust—too neat. Odysseus let out a chuckle, masking the way the barb slid under his ribs. “Clever. Yet still I wonder—what becomes of you, should his light burn too brightly? You speak calmly, but what you do not say often matters more.”

Patroclus’ lips curved faintly. He was quiet for a long while, letting the silence stretch until Odysseus almost broke it. Then he spoke, low and measured. “What I do not say… is usually what matters most. Perhaps you should consider why I allow you to speak as you do. Every word I answer, I’ve chosen to. Every question I let fall away, I’ve weighed and set aside.”

Odysseus’ hand froze on the rail. The words were soft, almost gentle, but they pressed like a knife’s flat against his throat.

Patroclus turned then, meeting his gaze with calm, steady eyes. “You play your games with nets and bait. I am not the fish in them, Odysseus. If I step into a snare, it is because I mean to see where it leads.”

For the first time, Odysseus felt the uncanny sense of being maneuvered. As if all his clever little paths, all his careful provocations, had never been his alone. As if Patroclus had been guiding his steps from the start, allowing the game, not playing it.

And when Achilles returned, flushed and impatient from below, Odysseus watched Patroclus rise to meet him, the softness in his voice unspooling like a balm. The warmth was real, no mask there—but the control, the restraint, the quiet edges beneath it—that was real too.

Odysseus found himself smiling despite the prick of it. So that is the Seer of Hecate, he thought. And I, fool that I am, have been allowed into his snare.

~VI~

Achilles noticed it first in a small thing.

Odysseus had always been brash in his teasing—sharp jabs, sly innuendo, the sort of taunts meant to spark flame. With Achilles, he still tried them, but his barbs landed softer now, his laugh looser, almost forced. He no longer needled Patroclus quite so deeply, and when he did, it was with a studied care—as though he had marked the borders of a dangerous field and meant not to trespass again.

Achilles hated it.

It made no sense. He was the half-divine, the one blessed by gods, the one men wrote songs of. Patroclus had no armor but his quiet, no boast but his silence. And yet Odysseus, wily as ever, seemed to step more carefully around him.

One evening, the three sat together with Diomedes, the deck golden in the setting sun. Achilles sprawled with his usual lack of grace, shoulder pressed against Patroclus’, while Odysseus traded remarks with Diomedes.

Then Odysseus turned, gave one of his sly questions meant to draw Patroclus into talk. And when Patroclus only tilted his head, answering in his quiet way, Odysseus smiled—almost respectfully—and let the matter drop.

Achilles’ mouth twisted. “Why do you speak like that with him?”

Odysseus blinked, feigning innocence. “Like what?”

“Careful.” Achilles’ tone was sharp with the frustration of a child not knowing why the toy was taken away. “Measured. Like he’s some oracle at Delphi and you’re afraid to tread wrong. You never do that with me.”

Patroclus shifted, about to interject, but Odysseus beat him to it, the grin tugging wider across his face. “Ah, but that is just it, Achilles. You burn too bright to be cautious with. You’d only take offense if I softened my words. With you, the only choice is to prod and poke and pray you don’t bite my hand off.”

Achilles scowled. “And with him?”

Odysseus leaned back, studying Patroclus with a tilt of his head. “With him… it is different. His fire does not come in sparks. It is the sort you do not notice until your hand rests too long on the iron and the skin is already seared.”

Achilles’ frown deepened, but this time he said nothing. Patroclus, ever steady, pressed a hand lightly to his arm. “Leave it,” he murmured.

And Odysseus, seeing that touch, the way Achilles softened instantly under it, only laughed. “Ah, there. You see? Even the wildest flame bows when he wills it.”

Achilles’ pout sharpened into a glare, but it was Patroclus who ended it, quietly redirecting the talk to the sea, the stars, anything else. Yet Achilles’ mood lingered the rest of the evening, sulking and restless, stealing glances at Odysseus as though the man had taken something from him he could not name.

~

That night the ship rocked softly, the sea a constant hush beneath us. Achilles had not spoken much since the sun set, and though I had grown used to his sulks, this one clung stubbornly, like a child refusing to surrender a grudge.

When we slipped into the narrow berth together, Achilles’ arms wound around me automatically, but the quiet pressed heavy. I lay still, feeling the restless breath against my shoulder. At last I turned, catching Achilles’ face in the faint wash of torchlight.

“You’re still brooding,” I murmured.

“I am not,” Achilles muttered, but the set of his jaw betrayed him.

I brushed back a stray wave of hair from his brow. “Then what would you call it? You’ve hardly said a word since Odysseus spoke.”

At the name, Achilles’ mouth twisted. “He looks at you differently than he looks at me. He treats you like—like you are something to be guarded. As if you are stronger than me in some way. It’s foolish.”

I almost laughed, but the frustration in Achilles’ eyes stilled me. I shifted closer, forehead resting against Achilles’. “It is not foolishness that makes Odysseus careful,” I said softly. “It is only that he knows words do not bite me unless I let them. I choose what to answer. That unsettles him more than any anger could.”

Achilles’ hand tightened against my back. “And I—what do I have, then? I am only fire and fury to them.”

“To me,” I corrected gently, “you are not only that. You are kind. You are thoughtless and tender in ways they cannot see. And I would rather be the one who sees it than let Odysseus or anyone else pretend to understand you better.”

Achilles blinked, caught off guard, his sulk faltering under the quiet force of the words. He leaned into me, his pout softening into something more vulnerable. “…You always know how to unmake me.”

I smiled faintly. “Then let me. Don’t waste your anger on Odysseus’ games. He cannot touch what is ours.”

For the first time all evening, Achilles’ tension loosened, his head dipping to rest against my shoulder, lips brushing the curve of my throat. The ship creaked around us, the sea steady beneath, and the silence between us now felt gentler, eased by trust.

~

The morning broke pale and soft over the water, the ship lurching with a steady rhythm. Achilles was already at the stern, his chin lifted into the wind, refusing to look at Odysseus as though the man’s very presence was an irritation. Diomedes muttered something wry under his breath, earning himself a crooked grin from the Ithacan, and I knew the game was about to begin again.

Before Odysseus could open his mouth, I stepped forward.

“Odysseus,” I said quietly, voice even, “a word.”

That caught him. Surprise flickered across the older man’s face—I had rarely been the one to approach—but he followed willingly, a fox drawn by the promise of an untasted bait. We leaned against the railing, the sea tossing below, Achilles a distance away and pretending not to glance over his shoulder.

I folded my arms. “No more,” I said simply.

Odysseus tilted his head. “No more…?”

“The games.” My eyes held his steadily, calm but firm. “You may banter with me. Trade wit, if that pleases you. But no more carving at what lies beneath. I know what you seek. Answers, truths, the pieces of me I’ve left unsaid. That ends here.”

The words were not harsh, yet their weight landed cleanly, undeniable. Odysseus’ smile thinned, though it did not vanish. “And why draw the line now? I thought you enjoyed the play.”

“I am patient,” I replied. “But if you must know what tests that patience, it is watching others wind Achilles tighter and tighter until he grows bitter and unhappy. I will not see him pulled apart to amuse you. That is where I draw my line.”

Odysseus regarded me for a long while, the sea breeze tugging at his cloak, his dark eyes sharp and measuring. Then, slowly, he let out a breath like a man conceding a game he might have lost the moment it began.

“At last, an answer,” he said, almost rueful. “I confess, Patroclus, you’ve given me what I sought without my needing to pry. Wisdom and patience both—more than most men would have spared me.” His smile returned, gentler now, not a weapon but a genuine curve of his mouth. He inclined his head slightly. “Very well. No more games. You have my thanks.”

I gave a small nod, nothing more, and returned to Achilles’ side. Odysseus did not follow with barbs or clever digs; he stood quiet at the railing, gaze far off, as though tasting the shape of restraint for once.

When I reached Achilles, I felt the tension still there in him, wound tight as a bowstring. But when Achilles looked down into my face, searching for what had passed, I only touched his wrist and said, “It’s done.”

Achilles exhaled, some of the storm in him softening, though he did not yet smile.

~

That evening, when the ship had grown quiet save for the creak of timbers and the soft lap of the sea, Diomedes found Odysseus perched alone near the stern. The Ithacan was staring out into the dark, fingers idly tapping against the rail as though searching for some rhythm to match his thoughts.

“You look like a man robbed of his favorite sport,” Diomedes said, dropping down beside him with the unceremonious ease of long friendship.

Odysseus huffed through his nose. “Perhaps I am.”

“You know,” Diomedes went on, “I half-expected Patroclus to ignore you until you grew bored, or else put a knife in you for your trouble. But instead—” He gave a dry chuckle. “—instead you may have ended your game by making a friend. A rare turn for you.”

That drew Odysseus’ laugh, warm and sharp, echoing just faintly over the water. “A friend? Oh, I’m not sure I’m that lucky, Diomedes. Patroclus is no man’s fool. He offered me a boundary, and I took it, because I’d be a greater fool not to. Friendship?” He shook his head, amused. “No, I suspect what he gave me is rarer still: patience. And patience, my friend, is more dangerous than any sword.”

Diomedes smirked, nudging his shoulder. “Perhaps. But I’ll wager this much—Achilles will remember you kept your word. That alone may spare your hide in the days to come.”

Odysseus gave a thoughtful hum, then leaned back, his eyes still on the horizon where the last silver threads of moonlight pulled across the water. “Perhaps that is luck enough.”

Chapter Text

I knew it first by the pins of ice prickling along my fingers, then the dull weight spreading to my feet as though I had stepped into snow. The rest of the deck tilted a little underneath, though I knew the sea was calm.

“Achilles,” I said, steady but quick. My voice carried a kind of urgency even I couldn’t quite rein in. “It’s starting—I think another vision.”

Achilles’ head whipped toward me, sharp and alarmed. He was close already, crouched by the railing, and in a breath, he was at my side. His hands closed tightly around my wrists, the grip fierce, as though he meant to anchor me against whatever unseen tide threatened.

I startled at the strength of it, shaking my head hard enough that my braid brushed my cheek. “No—don’t hold me still. Please.”

Achilles froze at the plea, green eyes searching my face, then slowly released me. The touch fell away reluctantly, as though leaving me unmoored. “Then—what should I do?” he asked, voice taut.

I tried to ground myself, to breathe, though my own body betrayed me, my feet already beginning a strange, halting step forward that was not my own choosing. “I don’t know what happens to me when they come,” I admitted, low and raw. “But—if I go to the edge of the boat—make sure I don’t go over it.”

The words seemed to cut Achilles down the middle. He nodded once, fierce, as if binding himself to the task. He hovered close, every line of him braced to catch, to guard, but his hands remained free, trembling just shy of touching. His restraint was almost painful.

I drew a breath that shuddered in my chest. “I’ll come back,” I said, though the numbness crept higher, pulling at me, tugging me toward some point unseen. My voice was already distant. “Just—just don’t let me fall.”

Achilles’ jaw worked, but his voice was steady when he answered, low and sure. “Never.”

The world tipped and thinned until the deck of the ship fell away entirely. I knew the feeling by now—my body no longer fully my own, the cold in my limbs dragging me forward. My eyes opened not to sea and sky, but to an expanse of earth I did not know. A continent unfamiliar, dry wind sharp against my cheek, dust rising thick as clouds.

Before me, an army roared. Shields slammed together, metal struck, the air splitting with the cries of the wounded. Panic clawed my throat—Troy, it must be Troy, had we come upon it so soon? I searched desperately for the curve of the city’s walls, for familiar standards, for some mark of Greek or Trojan ally.

Then I saw him. Achilles. Bright, terrible, a flame amid chaos. His spear gleamed, driving straight through the press of men, poised for a single strike. My breath caught as the point carved into the thigh of a man arrayed in unmistakable regalia. A king. The crest upon his helm, the weight of his armor, even his posture—all crowned him so, though the face would not resolve no matter how I strained to see it.

Fear jolted through, sharp and choking. Was it Priam? Someone else? I grasped for the banners, the flags that whipped ragged in the air, but they blurred, indistinct, lost to the smoke. And yet, I felt the certainty settle deep and heavy: this blow would turn the tide. The Greeks would win with this strike.

Before I could wrench more from the vision, something stronger seized me—not a goddess, not the current of foresight, but a physical force tearing me back with such violence it stole the air from my lungs.

I fell—no, I was pulled. My knees buckled as reality returned hard and fast, the ship’s boards thudding under me. My vision snapped clear, and with it the realization: it had not been the vision that cast me down.

It was Achilles.

Arms banded around me, iron-strong, hauling me bodily away from the railing where my body had been steering, where another step would have carried me into the dark sea. Achilles held me tight to his chest, breath ragged in my ear, as if he, too, had been fighting.

I gasped, wide-eyed, the echo of dust and blood still clinging. Achilles’ grip was fierce, almost shaking, though he said nothing yet. Only the tremor in his hands betrayed what might have happened had he been a heartbeat slower.

Achilles’ silence was a weight in itself. His arms pinned me as if he still expected to feel the lurch forward, the pull of some invisible tether dragging me over the rail. My breath stuttered against my chest, my own body uncertain if it belonged to me once more or to the vision still clawing at the edges of my sight.

It was not Achilles’ voice that broke through, but another. A shift of boots, a shadow falling across me. Odysseus knelt swiftly, crouching low until his sharp face was level with mine. Without a word, his hand closed firm around my chin, tilting my face upward.

I flinched, wrenching my head aside, but Odysseus followed the motion, holding my face steady, eyes narrowing as if he could peel back the layers of what had just claimed me. The stare was clinical, calculating, yet not without a strange thread of concern—one that came with the burden of command.

At last, Odysseus let out a long breath, the tension easing from his shoulders.

“He’s returned,” he said, voice pitched low, certainty threaded through it. Then, with a sharp glance over my shoulder, he added dryly, “So you may stop wrangling him like a bull, Achilles. He’ll not bolt now.”

Achilles’ arms tightened once, as if to test the truth of it, before loosening. I felt the shift—the restraint fading into mere touch. Still, Achilles said nothing, his breath steadying too slowly for me to miss.

Odysseus didn’t move away, crouched there still, his hand now loose against my chin but his eyes searching. “Tell me,” he said evenly, “do you know where you are?”

I swallowed, forcing my gaze to focus, to re-anchor on the swaying deck beneath, the ropes creaking overhead, the dark green sea breaking against the hull. My voice rasped when it came: “On the ship. With you. With Achilles.”

Odysseus gave a small nod, the tension in his brow easing—though not vanishing. Then, with the faintest curl of his mouth, he added, “Good. Then answer me this, for my peace of mind. What has an eye but cannot see?”

I stared at him, incredulous, then let out a long, weary sigh. “A needle.” I did not train for healing under Chiron to be taken for a fool.

Odysseus smiled, satisfied as if he’d unearthed something profound.

I leaned back against Achilles’ chest, the strength of my sigh threatening to shake the air itself. “If you mean to test my awareness with riddles, Odysseus, you might choose one with an answer less insultingly dumb.”

Odysseus chuckled, not the least bit wounded. “Ah, but if you’d fumbled even that, I would know you were still somewhere adrift. As it is—” He rose lightly to his feet, brushing the salt from his hands. “—I’ll take your scorn as proof you are entirely yourself again.”

Achilles’ arms, quiet around me, tightened minutely at those words.

Achilles’ arms shifted at last, loosening just enough for me to turn if I wished. His voice came low, almost reluctant, as though the words were heavier than the sea around us.

“I held you too roughly,” he said. “I thought—I thought it was Thetis again. That she was pulling you, trying to draw you over the edge. You were at the railing. One more step, and you would have gone into the sea.”

I blinked, stomach still tight from the memory of being yanked back, of salt stinging my face. I let my hand find Achilles’ wrist, the tension there iron-hard even now. “It wasn’t her,” I said softly. “But if you hadn’t stopped me, I would have gone over all the same.”

Achilles’ breath caught, and for a moment he said nothing, the muscles beneath my hand taut as a bowstring.

I tilted my head back, just enough to meet his eyes. “Don’t apologize,” I murmured. “You kept me here. That’s what matters. Thank you.”

The line of Achilles’ throat worked, and at last some of the steel in his grip gave way. He bowed his head forward, close enough that his hair brushed my temple, and simply breathed me in, like reassurance.

Odysseus stayed, watching their exchange with a narrowed gaze, then exhaled through his nose and shook his head.

“Well,” he said, voice pitched just light enough to break the tension, “I’ve seen men leap for wine, leap for women, leap for treasure—but never yet for a vision. Leave it to you, Patroclus, to invent something new for the bards to sing.”

I gave him a flat look, though it lacked real fire, still dulled by the shiver clinging to my limbs.

Odysseus’ grin faded a little, seriousness creeping in. “So. Tell me. What did you see that had you rushing headlong for the sea as though Poseidon himself called you down?”

Before I could answer, a shadow fell across us. Diomedes had stepped closer, peering down at me with his arms crossed, brow knit. He looked less like a warrior in that moment and more like a stern older brother, assessing for broken bones.

“Is he well?” Diomedes asked Achilles, though his eyes didn’t leave me. “Or is this some madness the gods have dropped on us again?”

The three of them loomed—Achilles holding me close, Odysseus sharp-eyed before me, Diomedes steady and suspicious over his shoulder.

I shifted where I sat, the weight of their nearness pressing in from every side. Diomedes loomed like a shadow of iron, Odysseus sharp as a hawk, and Achilles still wrapped me close as if to tether me by force. My breath snagged.

“Gods,” I muttered, voice tight. “A moment, if you will. I can’t think with all of you staring at me like I’ve lost my wits.”

That, at least, cracked the tension. Odysseus chuckled once, short and low, “Fair enough. You’d think we’d never seen a man stagger before.” He gave a light slap to Diomedes’ arm and motioned him away. With a grunt, Diomedes relented, the two of them stepping off together, their voices lowering as they put space between themselves and us.

Achilles loosened his grip at once, though his hands lingered—hesitant, unwilling to let go fully. His chin lowered to rest against my shoulder. I felt the weight of his gaze even if I could not see it, a heat against the side of my face.

“You said not to be stared at,” Achilles murmured, voice rough with restraint. He did not lift his head, did not force me to meet his eyes.

I drew in a long, steadying breath. My body began to quiet, though the images in my mind still surged like waves crashing against stone. I closed my eyes and tried to sort them—vision from fear, truth from dread.

And then she was there.

Hecate’s presence seeped into my mind like cool water down dry earth, her voice curling steady and deliberate. You fear what you saw was Troy.

My fingers curled against Achilles’ wrist. Yes, I thought back. I feared I saw Troy. That I saw Achilles… and the end of us all in the clash of men.

Did you see the walls of Troy? she asked, gentle but unyielding. Did you see their flags flying?

I searched the memory, combing through its details like a man piecing together a broken pot. No—the walls had not risen, no banners of Troy had flown. Only the unfamiliar sprawl of a land I could not name.

No, I admitted.

And you fear it will leave him wounded. Or your allies undone.

Yes. The answer rose too fast, too heavy.

Did he look wounded? she pressed. Did he falter, or fall? Did it seem the Greeks were undone?

My breath eased out, slower this time. I remembered Achilles poised with his spear, remembered the regality of the armor he struck, the sharp surety that rippled through me in that instant. Achilles had not fallen—he had been the one to strike.

No, I thought, the weight of the truth settling in me. He was unharmed. He was… terrible and certain. It felt as though the Greeks would win, or at the least, not fall.

There was a long silence. Then Hecate’s voice again, quiet as smoke. I cannot give you the bluntness you crave. That is not my purpose. If I told you where to step, your will would not be your own. I am only guide, not master. I ask only this—do you better understand what you saw?

I let the question rest in me. I sifted through the fragments once more, fear dulled now by reason. What had shaken me as an omen now steadied into knowledge. Not Troy. Not Achilles’ ruin. Something else—terrible, yes, but not what I most feared.

Yes, I thought at last. I understand.

And with that, she withdrew, leaving silence, leaving me.

I opened my eyes again, body still cradled lightly in Achilles’ arms, the quiet breath of the sea pressing around us.

~

Achilles felt it before Patroclus even opened his mouth.

The tautness in his shoulders eased, the sharpness in his breathing mellowed, and his eyes no longer darted like a hunted stag’s. Something had settled in him, or at least begun to. Achilles did not press, only watched with that still patience he could wield when it came to Patroclus.

At length, Patroclus spoke, voice low but sure.

“Hecate is not the goddess of prophecy. She does not lay things plain, nor with purpose. What she shows me…” He shook his head faintly. “It isn’t like Apollo’s riddles, nor like dreams that foretell. It is—choice.”

Achilles’ brow knit, but he waited.

“My only other vision was of Deidameia,” Patroclus went on, voice softening in old memory. “And even then, I knew not her name, nor her design. Only that she would bring you pain, and I—” his breath hitched faintly “—I wanted to stop her from doing it.” He let that truth hang in the air a moment, raw but steady.

Then, as though dawn broke within him, realization slid into place. His eyes widened, and he spoke with growing clarity, “Hecate offers me crossroads. She does not decide, only sets them before me. It is my step, mine alone, that matters. She gives me the choice of acting—or not.”

Achilles tilted his head, studying him. “And this vision? Was it one you are meant to let happen—or prevent?”

Patroclus’ lips pressed thin. He shook his head. “I don’t know yet. I hadn’t truly known with Deidameia either—not until the moment was upon us, and I saw her as I had before.”

Achilles leaned closer, the barest crease between his brows. “Then what did you see, this time?”

Patroclus met his eyes, hesitant, then firm. “That is the thing—I cannot tell you.”

Confusion flickered sharply across Achilles’ face. His grip on Patroclus tightened unconsciously.

“If Hecate hands me the choice,” Patroclus explained quickly, “then no one but me can make it. And if I share it—if I give word of what I saw—then the choices of others may warp it. The vision is a path, not fixed but fragile. If I speak of it, the knowing itself may change what is to come. I fear I will ruin its truth if I place it in anyone’s hands but my own.”

Achilles clicked his teeth softly, the sound sharp between them. Clearly unhappy, clearly restless with such secrecy. Yet he did not argue—he knew Patroclus well enough to understand he would not be moved.

Patroclus shifted suddenly, intent on rising. Achilles reacted before thought, catching him, arms firm around him like he feared the sea still reached for him.

Patroclus steadied him with a gentle hand, meeting his eyes. “The vision is over. I move of my own will now, not hers.”

For a heartbeat, Achilles held on. Then, slowly, he released him, though his body shadowed Patroclus as he stood.

Patroclus turned toward the prow, toward the endless horizon where sea and sky collided. The very place Achilles had dragged him back from. His gaze lingered, thoughtful, troubled yet calm in a way that unnerved Achilles more than panic ever could.

A low hum left Patroclus, thoughtful. “Exactly ahead…” he murmured. “That’s where she set me. How far ahead in time, I wonder, did she mean to show me?”

Achilles’ gaze never left him, sharp as a blade but softened only for Patroclus. He had caught the shift in his lover’s posture, the subtle lift of breath that told him something within had settled, if uneasily.

~

“Tell me,” Achilles said at last, low enough that only I could hear over the groan of the ship’s hull.

I hesitated, the words nearly on my tongue before I closed my mouth again.

Achilles leaned closer, his chin brushing my shoulder. “Then—just one thing.”

I waited, chest tight.

“Does continuing put you in harm’s way?”

I blinked at him, startled by the simplicity of the question. “I… I do not know.”

Achilles’ hand tightened against my arm. “Did you see anything—anything at all—that hinted you might be hurt?”

I searched my memory, the fog of the vision, Hecate’s patient voice. “No,” I said slowly. “To my best understanding, no. I was not in it.”

“Are you sure?” Achilles pressed, his voice threaded with urgency.

I exhaled heavily, recognizing the loop before it could tighten around Achilles’ mind. “As of now,” I said with as much firmness as I could muster, “I believe I will remain unharmed. What I saw was not of me. And if that should ever change—” I reached up and cupped Achilles’ jaw, guiding his eyes to me. “—I will decide when to tell you.”

“When?” Achilles repeated, like the word itself was a fragile thing.

“Yes,” I murmured, steadying him with touch more than tone. “When. If I see it, I will tell you. I will not hide it from you.”

Achilles searched me, green eyes dark with doubt and love both. Then, after a beat too long, he gave a single sharp nod, teeth clicking softly as though sealing a vow with himself.

I let my hand fall from Achilles’ jaw, though I still felt the warmth there as if it clung to my palm. I turned instead to the sea.

The horizon stretched clean and merciless, the line of water against sky endless and unknowable. It was the same direction in which Achilles had pulled me back, and I found my eyes narrowing as though staring hard enough might grant me the measure of time Hecate had shown. Was it days ahead? Weeks? A heartbeat? The goddess had not said. She never did. She opened doors, left me to choose which to step through, and the silence of her presence still clung about me like a shawl.

The deck beneath my feet swayed with the roll of the ship, but I stood still, waiting. Would I know the moment when it came? Or would it crash upon me without warning, leaving me only the choice of how to act in its wake?

From the corner of my gaze, movement caught my attention—Odysseus, standing a polite distance away, hand lifting in a small wave. It was no command, no intrusion, but a question written in gesture: Shall I?

I glanced at Achilles beside me, searching for any flicker of unease, any sign the he might yet be unready to share me. Achilles’ jaw was tight, his stance close, but he did not waver. That was enough.

I raised a hand and answered Odysseus with a beckoning wave.

The Ithacan approached with that same easy grace that always seemed practiced, though I knew better than to call it artifice—it was Odysseus’ nature to walk as if every deck, every council, every battlefield belonged to him. His eyes were keen, searching both of our faces even before his mouth opened.

“So,” Odysseus began lightly, though the spark in his gaze betrayed eagerness, “the vision.”

Odysseus stopped just short of us, letting the sea breeze tug at his cloak. His usual smirk was nowhere to be seen, only a sharp but softened gaze that settled on me.

“You’ve the look of a man who’s been pulled under and only just surfaced again,” he said quietly. “Tell me first—are you well?”

I blinked, caught off guard. From Odysseus I had expected some sly prod, some jest at my near-plunge into the waves. But there was none of that, no curve of irony to his mouth, no trap glinting in his eyes. Only a plain concern that asked nothing more of him than truth.

“I am,” I answered after a moment, the words feeling steadier than I expected. “A little unsettled, perhaps, but… whole.”

Odysseus nodded, as if that mattered more than anything else, and only then did he venture further. “And what was it that held you so tightly you would throw yourself to the sea? Was it some omen? A warning?”

I let my gaze slip back to the horizon. “Not an omen I can name…but—” I shook my head, recalling Hecate’s questions that cut through my fear. “I must keep this to my own council for now, unless I can be sure it would not alter the outcome.”

Odysseus tilted his head, listening without interruption.

I continued softly, “I cannot say when it lies ahead, nor where. Only that it waits.”

For a long moment, Odysseus was silent, the waves lapping at the hull. Then he let out a slow breath, almost a sigh. “That’s enough. Better a future with questions than with certain ruin.”

I glanced at him again, still surprised by the gentleness in his tone. There was no doubt in it, no trick. Just an understanding—rare, but real.

Odysseus’ eyes narrowed, not with suspicion but with the sharpness of thought, his mind already turning over my words like dice in his palm.

“If so, knowing such a shape could be more valuable than any prophecy of victory.” He turned toward Achilles then, his tone sharpening into strategy. “What would you do, if the ground ahead bore no sign of the enemy until the steel was already upon you?”

Achilles straightened, drawn into the question as though by instinct. “Few men, scattered close to the ground. Strike fast, not to destroy, but to stagger. Break the order before it’s formed. That way, the tide is ours before they know they’re drowning.” His hands gestured unconsciously as he spoke, as if he already stood in that unseen field, directing men toward its edges.

Odysseus’ smile returned faintly—not the sly curl I knew too well, but a glimmer of respect. “Then perhaps your vision is not curse but gift, Patroclus. Not doom waiting in the dark, but warning enough to light the way.”

Before I could reply, Diomedes approached, quiet but purposeful. His hand brushed my elbow, a subtle gesture urging me aside. I hesitated, glancing between them—Achilles, for once speaking with Odysseus not as rival but as comrade, trading measures of ambush and counter-move, neither spitting scorn nor pride; and Diomedes, waiting with calm patience, his gaze neither demanding nor unkind.

My chest tightened. Odysseus’ newfound sympathy still felt unsteady underfoot, and Achilles’ willingness to speak to him was rarer still. To step away from that fragile accord felt like abandoning a flame too newly lit.

But then Achilles leaned forward, eyes alight as he argued the ground of battle, Odysseus countering with feints and false retreats. The sight struck me—Achilles engaged without fury, Odysseus answering without deceit. It was the first time I had ever seen them speak so without venom, and for that alone, I could grant them space.

I stepped back, but not far. No more than three strides, always within reach. Close enough that Achilles’ voice still carried, but with room enough for Diomedes to draw me into his own quiet orbit.

“Come,” Diomedes said simply, and when I turned my gaze, I found no guile in it, only a calm steadiness, like the sea when the storm has passed.

I lingered at first, reluctant, but Diomedes did not tug me farther. He only shifted, just enough that the murmured trade of strategy between Odysseus and Achilles blurred into background sound, leaving the two of us in our own small span of deck.

For a long moment Diomedes said nothing. He only looked out toward the horizon where the sea burned with late light, his profile cut sharp against it. Then, quietly, he asked:

“You truly saw it?”

I hesitated, throat tightening. I had expected curiosity, even pressure—but the tone was not Odysseus’ edge or Achilles’ hungry urgency. Diomedes sounded… cautious. As though he did not wish to wound something fragile.

“I saw enough,” I said at last. My fingers curled against the railing. 

Diomedes nodded once, slowly, his jaw working. “I believe you.”

I turned to him then, startled. “You do?”

The faintest curve ghosted across Diomedes’ mouth, though it was not quite a smile. “I’ve fought beside men long enough to know when a man is lying to himself, and when he is not. Your eyes hold no lie.” He paused, then added, softer: “And it would be folly to doubt the sea’s gift, however cruel.”

I looked back at Achilles instinctively—Achilles with his hands moving as though already shaping the field of battle, Odysseus’ keen gaze sharp upon him. When I looked back, Diomedes was still watching me, steady as stone.

“What is it you want of me?” I asked at last.

Diomedes’ hand brushed the rail near my own—not touching, but close enough that the warmth of his skin could be felt. His voice dropped low, meant only for me.

“Only this: if you see more, tell me before you tell them. Odysseus will weigh it, Achilles will rage at it. But I will hear you plain. I will hold it with you.”

The words landed heavy, quiet. My breath caught, unsure if what stirred in my chest was relief or unease.

Diomedes did not press further. He only turned back to the horizon, his presence beside me solid, unmoving, as if he meant to prove that not all visions had to be borne alone.

I felt the weight of it settle into me—Diomedes’ words, the steadiness of his tone. I could not remember the last time someone had offered me that kind of sharing. Achilles always wanted to fight the vision, to tear it apart with his bare hands, to make the world bow until it left me untouched. Odysseus, for all his cleverness, could only ever twist a truth into use. But Diomedes… he had simply said I will hear you.

I turned it over in my mind like a stone worn smooth by the sea. To tell him first—it would feel like betrayal. I had lived too long at Achilles’ side not to know the sting my silence could give. Achilles, who trusted me with the deepest wound and highest triumph alike. Could I really place Diomedes in that space between?

My eyes drifted back to Achilles. The fire in him had been caught and channeled, now shaping tactics with Odysseus, every gesture a blade in motion. His hair caught the sea-wind, his shoulders gleamed in the last glow of day, and I thought: this is the man who would burn the world for me. I could not lie to him. Not in the end.

And yet, in the space before the end, was it so terrible to admit to myself that I was tired? That holding a vision alone left me brittle, too sharp at the edges for Achilles to grasp without cutting himself on it?

My fingers tapped the wood of the railing, quiet, uncertain. I did not answer Diomedes aloud. But in my heart I marked the offer, tucked it away like a hidden harbor. A place I might one day steer into when the storm grew too much, and when even Achilles’ love could not still my trembling.

Diomedes did not look at me, did not press. He only stood, broad-shouldered and silent, as if the promise needed no oath to bind it.

I let my gaze fall to the restless sea again, the horizon darkening with the oncoming night. The future was no less uncertain, no less merciless. But for the first time, I thought—perhaps I need not bear the sight of it alone.

Achilles’ voice cut across the wash of sea and strategy, sharper than he meant it to be.

“Patroclus.”

It was not a call of anger, nor command, but it was enough. I turned, finding those green-bright eyes on me, a look that said Achilles had realized only now how far I had drifted from his reach. Odysseus’ clever words dimmed, unfinished, as Achilles abandoned him mid-thought and closed the small gap in three strides. His hand found my wrist, not rough this time but decisive, anchoring me with the kind of touch that could be mistaken for jealousy, if not for the tremor of fear beneath it.

“You’re too far,” Achilles said low, though the distance had been hardly more than a few steps. “Come back.”

I let myself be guided, drawn in until I was shoulder to shoulder with him again, the heat of Achilles’ skin driving out the chill that had crept into my bones at the sea’s edge. I glanced once at Diomedes, who gave no protest, only dipped his chin in a silent acknowledgment—as though to say he had expected nothing less.

Achilles’ arm shifted, draped loosely across my back, pulling me nearer with a protectiveness that needed no explanation. To anyone watching it would look possessive, but I could feel the undercurrent in it: I thought you might slip away again.

“Forgive me,” I murmured, quiet enough that only Achilles could hear. “I wasn’t leaving. Only talking.”

Achilles huffed through his nose, something half a laugh, half a rebuke. “Talking,” he echoed, his gaze flicking briefly to Diomedes and back. “Next time, stay where I can reach you.”

I nodded, though inside I thought: You already can.

Odysseus’ mouth curved almost before he meant it to, his sharp eyes catching the way Achilles’ arm tightened across my back, as if he were afraid that even Diomedes’ low words might spirit me away. He leaned against the railing, arms folding with easy poise, letting the silence stretch just long enough to sharpen the effect of his grin.

“Well then,” he said, tone deceptively mild, “I see even strategy has its limits. A man might outmaneuver an army, Achilles, but not the reach of his own heart.”

Achilles flicked a glance at him, the kind that promised blood if they’d been alone, but Odysseus only raised his brows, all sly amusement.

“Don’t scowl at me. If it were anyone else, you would have let him go two steps, perhaps three. But Patroclus?” Odysseus’ grin widened. “He cannot breathe without you feeling it in your chest, can he?”

My ears warmed, though I made no attempt to move out from under Achilles’ arm. Achilles’ hand, instead of withdrawing in embarrassment, only pressed more firmly at my side.

“You waste words,” Achilles muttered.

“On the contrary,” Odysseus said lightly. “Every word has its weight. And now I know yours. Useful, in its way.”

Diomedes snorted from his place a pace away, though he kept his own counsel, not interfering. Odysseus let his gaze linger one heartbeat longer, then angled himself back to the sea as if nothing had been said, satisfied to have drawn both reaction and confirmation in one breath.

~

Diomedes’ lips twitched, though not quite into a smile. He had watched the exchange with the quiet, unhurried patience of a man who did not need to be part of it to understand it. Where Odysseus delighted in needling out truths, Diomedes preferred to let them reveal themselves by weight and silence.

Achilles’ sharpness—his hand tightening, his body shifting between Patroclus and himself—said far more than any words might. Odysseus crowed at it because he could, because he loved a secret made plain, but Diomedes did not. To him, it was not revelation but confirmation, a truth so obvious it barely needed speaking.

His eyes lingered on Patroclus, though, and in that look was something Odysseus did not voice aloud. 

Achilles’ anchor. Achilles’ temper. Achilles’ undoing. 

The boy who tempered the storm with a touch, who could draw the lion from his fury into thought—Diomedes knew enough of men to recognize the gravity of that bond. If Achilles feared losing him, he was right to.

But he also noted the way Patroclus allowed it—the way he leaned, not reluctantly but as though this weight had long since become natural. A choice made over and over, not a chain. That was what Odysseus missed in his teasing, what others too often overlooked: not just the claim Achilles laid, but the willingness Patroclus returned.

Diomedes turned his gaze back to the sea then, content not to interrupt the banter. Let Odysseus pick at threads and Achilles bristle at them. For his part, Diomedes filed the moment away, another measure in his quiet ledger of men and their fault lines.

~

I startled softly when Achilles’ hand tugged me suddenly, the suddenness of the pull catching me mid-thought. For a heartbeat—just a heartbeat—my gaze lingered on Diomedes, the man still half-turned toward me, still expectant in the quiet way of someone who would have listened. My intuition urged me there, toward that hushed space where words might have carried less weight yet meant more.

But then the line drew taut, and I was reeled back into the gravity I had known all my life. Achilles’ hand on me was not gentle, not rough either, but certain—the kind of certainty that left little room for hesitation. I let myself be turned, let myself be claimed again into the circle of my dearest heart, and in doing so felt the faint ache of leaving something unsaid fade.

I sank against him as we moved, the curve of Achilles’ shoulder familiar beneath my temple, the steadiness of his grip something I had leaned into since we were boys. To be wanted here, still, so wholly and without condition, was like breath filling the lungs, like the body yearning toward its soul after long absence. Whatever Diomedes might have meant, whatever curiosity had flickered there, it could wait. Achilles had wanted me close—and there was nowhere else in all the world I could imagine being.

~VII~

The day waned slowly, the sun sinking in burnished streaks across the horizon while the deck above filled with the sound of men laughing, sparring, sharing their rations, and trading rumors as the ship rocked steady beneath their feet. I found myself drawn along at Achilles’ side, as always—never more than a step behind, his shadow within reach.

But as dusk dimmed into evening and the sky turned the deep iron of twilight, Achilles pulled at my hand with unspoken urgency, guiding me away from the fresh air and voices, down the narrow stairs into the belly of the ship. His pace did not falter. There was no pause save for one sharp breath at the crossroads of the lower deck—the hammocks to the left, swaying like a field of pale cocoons, or the hold to the right where the air was thicker, heavy with resin and oil and the faint reek of salted hides.

For the barest moment Achilles hesitated, his grip tightening, and then he steered right without a word. Toward the hold.

I followed. I could have asked why—why the urgency, why this destination instead of the rest we’d long earned—but my tongue lay still. The confusion stirred only faintly in me, no greater than the prickle of questions beneath the skin. If Achilles wanted me here, there would be reason, and I had never once regretted the choice to trust in that. So I kept stride, steady and sure, faith enough to fill the silence between us.

As we descended, I felt it in Achilles’ stride first—brisk, intent, but not wild. Not the sharp edge of fear, nor the blood-quick pace of battle-readiness. It was eagerness, tightened and pulled taut like a bowstring at full draw. His shoulders rolled with it, his head angled forward just slightly, like a man fixed on something long withheld, at last ready to set it right.

I marked it carefully, watching the way Achilles’ hand flexed around my own as we passed beneath the swinging lanterns, shadows smearing across his cheekbones. There was no panic in him, but rather a current of decision finally loosed: something that could not have been done sooner, not in the daylight, not with the eyes of the men above. Something that had waited for night, for privacy, for me.

We reached the hold. The air was close, thick with wood, tar, and the salt of stored provisions. Achilles moved between crates stacked high and bound barrels pressed tight in their braces, until the lanternlight caught the gleam of a small bundle he had tucked out of sight, wedged where no casual glance would find it. He turned then, drawing it free, and I saw what it was.

A diadem—white-gold in its metal, catching even the dimmest light with a pale sheen. The crest dipped into a proud point, traced with designs of moons, and across it ran inlayed gems of violet, green, and deep onyx black.

Achilles held it out, not placing it but offering it, his voice softened to almost a whisper.
“I think it was Hecate,” he said, eyes locked on the diadem. “When Odysseus’ men piled the treasure before me, I reached first for the sword. The one I carry now—the one that struck you in the dark.” His jaw tightened, but his words did not falter. “But before I could take it, this caught my eye. I thought of you. Of giving it to you. And it was in that breath, when I looked away to imagine you wearing it, that I saw you were gone. You and Briseis both.”

I took the diadem delicately, as though it might vanish if handled too roughly. I turned it in my hands, marveling at the curve of the moons, the cool gleam of the metal, the way the gems seemed to echo those already threaded in my hair. A piece of kings, of princes—something not meant for mr.

And yet, when I looked up at Achilles, my smile was soft, near mischievous. “But I am already adorned with gems,” I murmured. “And crowns such as these are made for princes.”

I raised it carefully and set it upon Achilles’ head, adjusting the tangle of dark-gold hair until it sat rightly. Achilles did not move, did not even breathe too deeply, as though the weight of it froze him in place. His eyes widened, his stillness almost reverent.

My own expression broke into a proud, unguarded smile as I let my hand fall. “While you wear this, you will be protected threefold from all dangers that would threaten you.”

The hold was thick with the scent of cedarwood planks and salted ropes, the faint sway of the sea rocking the crates like slumbering giants around us. Achilles’ eyes had gone dark—not shadowed, but brimming, as though something immense had been drawn up from his depths and fixed wholly upon me. The weight of that look alone sent a shiver through me, subtle as a tremor beneath the skin.

“I have no need for such protections,” Achilles murmured, voice low but carrying, like the note of a string plucked in stillness. His hand hovered close, the heat of it brushing my wrist without quite touching. “Not when it is you guiding my fate.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding, my laugh faint, nearly frayed at the edges. “You could have all the protections in the world,” I said, “and I would still not be satisfied. It would never be enough.”

That was what drew Achilles to close the space between us, his hand sliding over my hip with a gentleness at odds with his intensity. His question came next, sudden but measured, as though waiting for the ground beneath them to still.

“What did Diomedes ask of you?”

The dim light of the hold caught the edges of the diadem crowning his hair, the gems glinting as though they held their own constellation. And I, looking at him, felt it then—I could never lie. Not to this boy who bore both sword and crown as though born with them. But truth did not always demand thunder; it could arrive as quietly as the tide.

“He worries,” I answered simply, voice steady. “In a way you do not, nor Odysseus. He sought to make sure I did not feel used between you.” I paused, softening as I leaned closer. “But I do not, Achilles. I never will, not by you. And Odysseus could only dream of that much sway.”

Something in Achilles’ shoulders eased at once, his grip softening, his eyes brightening like a storm breaking apart. He tilted forward, forehead angling toward mine—and I, remembering the diadem, drew back just slightly. The crown pressed cool and untouchable between us.

Achilles clicked his tongue at once, sharp in its dismissal, and plucked the diadem free from his head. “I’ve no use for a crown anyway,” he said, tossing it onto a crate with a disregard that belied the reverence he had moments ago.

A chuckle slipped out from me, helpless and warm, but it was stolen almost instantly—burned away by the searing kiss Achilles pressed to my lips. Fierce and sudden, like flame catching on dry tinder, it left me clinging to him in the dim-lit hold, the world narrowing until it was only the taste of salt, the crush of closeness, the impossible certainty that Achilles was both boy and god and entirely mine.

The kiss left me reeling, breathless and raw, as though something had been taken from me and replaced with fire. When Achilles finally broke away, I blinked at him, dazed, the world sluggish to fall back into shape. I watched with that slight, stunned delay as Achilles turned from me, moving with deliberate ease, gathering up the folded pelts and furs stacked neatly against the crates.

It wasn’t until Achilles spread them across the planks—layer upon layer, as though preparing a bed where none should be—that I caught the meaning. And by then, Achilles’ hand was already at my wrist, tugging me down, guiding me to recline upon the furs.

A laugh tore from me, breathless and half-helpless, even as Achilles leaned over me, bracing himself with arms caging my body. “I wondered,” I said, voice caught somewhere between tease and gasp, “how long you could let me live aboard this ship—with its crowded bunks and walls so thin—before you found a way to steal me for yourself.”

Achilles’ answering smile was sharper than joy, something primal flickering beneath. “I always had the need,” he admitted, voice pitched low. “But it clawed at me most when I saw Diomedes—towering over you, speaking close. My gut burned to make it plain that you belong to no one else. Only to me.”

I reached to cup the curve of his neck, fingers brushing damp strands of hair where the diadem had rested, my answer sure and steady. “It is impossible to mistake where I belong, Achilles. Truly.”

That certainty drew Achilles lower, his weight pressing firmly into me, grounding me against the furs as if pinning me to the truth of my own words. Achilles’ breath ghosted hot across my lips, eyes dark as the water outside. “And still,” he murmured, hunger curling sharp in the shape of his smile, “I will never be satisfied. Even if you walked this ship draped in my marks, bitten raw—like an animal half devoured by a lion.”

The image struck through like lightning, equal parts terrifying and intoxicating. I exhaled, trembling with a shudder that was not fear but surrender, my laugh frayed and helpless at the edges. Achilles’ mouth was already finding mine again, fiercer now, sealing me to that vow in the dim-lit hold, where the ship’s sway and the sea’s hush bore silent witness to the deepening night.

The ship swayed around us, ropes groaning faintly against the mast, but down in the hold, all I knew was the weight above me, the warmth and intensity pressed into my skin. Achilles kissed again, deeper, more consuming, and I gave way beneath it, laughter dissolving into breath caught sharp in my throat.

Achilles shifted, knees bracketing my hips, his body a solid cage that left no escape—not that I wanted one. Strong hands traced my chest, sides, finding every shiver, every startled catch of breath as if he were learning a new terrain. My fingers tangled in his hair, dragging him closer, desperate to hold him fast even as the kiss burned us both raw.

When Achilles pulled back again, only an inch, his eyes were fever-bright. “Say it again,” he whispered, his voice roughened, almost a growl. “Say you belong to me.”

My answer came without hesitation, firm and breaking in equal measure. “Always. I have never belonged anywhere else.”

A low sound rumbled from Achilles’ throat, half hunger, half relief, and then he bent to my throat. Teeth grazed skin, lips bruised it, claiming in the very way he had warned: bite after bite, as if devouring, leaving fire in their wake. I arched against him, the sting matched by the rush of heat that pooled low, unbearable, consuming. I could feel the smirk in Achilles’ mouth against my skin each time I gasped.

Clothes became a hindrance quickly undone—Achilles tugging at them with an urgency that made my pulse hammer. The cool air hit my skin for only a breath before Achilles’ hands were on me again, warm, insistent, reverent in their roughness. The furs beneath us softened the hard planks, but it was Achilles’ body, pressing down, that grounded me, anchoring me against the rocking of the ship.

I dragged my nails down Achilles’ back, feeling the flex of muscle, the shudder it drew from him. “Greedy,” I teased, though my voice was already unraveling.

Achilles only laughed, dark and low, before silencing me with another kiss, his hips pressing flush in a rhythm that spoke louder than words. My world narrowed to heat and breath, to the strength pinning me and the ferocity of the devotion poured into every touch, every mark.

The night deepened, the ship carried endlessly forward, and in the hold I yielded to him fully—heart, body, fate—knowing with every trembling exhale that Achilles would never be satisfied, and I myself would never want him to be.

Achilles’ hands mapped, memorized, dragged me closer still until I could wrap my legs around his waist, anchoring us together. The ship swayed, boards groaning, and the motion only deepened our rhythm, grinding us into one another until the world narrowed to fever and breath and the heat between our bodies.

My head fell back, mouth open on ragged gasps, every nerve aflame at Achilles’ relentless pace. I could hear myself, the desperate sounds torn loose, but could do nothing to stop them. Achilles’ voice cut through, low and commanding in my ear.

“Louder. Let them hear who you belong to.”

My cry came, unbidden, broken and honest. Nails raked down Achilles’ back, pulling him deeper, faster, until the world shattered at a peak. Achilles followed in the same instant, a rough groan pressed to my skin, weight driving us together as though he could brand the moment into both our bodies.

Silence came slowly, broken only by the wild cadence of our breathing. Achilles did not roll away. He collapsed against me, lips dragging over my throat, murmuring against the new bruises blooming there.

“Still not enough. It will never be enough.”

I laughed softly, dizzy with exhaustion and want, one hand threading through Achilles’ hair. “Then take more,” I whispered, smiling despite the tremor in my voice. “Always.”

~

Achilles did not loosen his hold when the trembling in my limbs began. Instead, he shifted, rolling with fluid strength until I found myself straddling him, forced upright by the iron grip at my hips. My thighs quivered, weak from the storm already spent, but Achilles kept me aloft, anchoring me with his own bent knees and the unyielding cage of his hands.

I let out a breathless laugh, ragged, almost a sob. “You are insatiable—my lover, and my tormentor both.”

The words made Achilles’ mouth curl into a dark smile. He pressed a kiss to my wrist where it shook, then dragged it slowly down the line of his jaw, his throat. “Tormentor?” he repeated, voice thick with amusement. “Then forgive me, beloved. I should stop. I should wait… until you can cling to me with all your strength, until you can hold on for dear life.”

The teasing was cruel in its tenderness, and I broke at it, a sound torn between laughter and weeping. My body shuddered with sensitivity, every brush of skin against skin sparking too bright, too much. Yet still I rocked forward, unwilling to give Achilles the satisfaction of my surrender.

“You bastard,” I whispered hoarsely, the curse trembling on my lips as Achilles’ grip guided me down again, dragging another gasp from me so sharp it bent into a moan. “Gods—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Achilles answered, steady as stone beneath me, voice a command disguised as a plea. His hands spread wider, pulling my hips to meet him, ignoring the way I as his lover writhed with every oversensitive jolt. “And if I am torment, then I am yours alone.”

My head fell back, throat bared, the sound of my broken laughter spilling into the airless dark of the hold. I shook with it, half destroyed by the pleasure, half clinging to the love buried inside Achilles’ merciless devotion.

Achilles’ strength was another merciless thing, his hold on my hips steady, dragging me down again and again into a pace that was less rhythm than hunger. My body quaked with it, every motion an overload, a spark that bit too sharp at my frayed nerves. The sounds wrenched from my throat were not soft but broken, half-formed curses spat between gasps.

“Gods—Achilles—curse you, you’ve no mercy,” I hissed, voice ragged, torn as my body trembled with the edge of too much.

Achilles’ mouth curved, teeth catching at the edge of a grin as he pushed harder, relentless. “Mercy?” he murmured, his tone like flame licking oil. “It is you who forges me into this. You who make the lion of me. Who else should I hunt so savagely, if not you?”

My answering noise was sharp, cut from a place where agony pressed too close to ecstasy. My breath hitched, nearly a cry, the sound dragging Achilles into a halt, as though tethered by the tremor of it. For the first time he yielded, letting my shaking body still, his hands still firm at my hips but unmoving, holding back the instinct to claim, to take.

I bowed over him, chest heaving, forehead damp, breaths like tearing cloth in my lungs. Yet I did not beg for release from it. Instead, my palms pressed hard against Achilles’ chest, against the unyielding iron of his body, holding myself upright, refusing to collapse into surrender.

“You—” My voice cracked, caught between laughter and a groan, “you will let me set the pace, Achilles. Or I’ll shriek loud enough to wake the whole ship and send them running to see what you’ve done to me.”

A laugh rumbled low from Achilles’ chest, dangerous in its delight, his eyes dark with want even as he lay still beneath my trembling weight. “Then tell me, Patroclus—” he purred, lifting his head just enough that his lips brushed my jaw, “—can you not do that anyway?”

I shifted, gathering what strength remained in my trembling limbs. My legs quaked where they straddled Achilles’ hips, but I forced steadiness into my movements, grinding down with a slow, deliberate rhythm that wrung a sharp sound from Achilles’ throat. The lion, caged now, had to suffer in turn.

Achilles’ hands tightened reflexively on my hips, his fingers digging hard enough to bruise, but he did not force the pace. His chest rose in great heaving breaths beneath my palms, each one straining to match the maddening slowness being drawn out above him.

I smirked through the sweat clinging to my lips, a ragged laugh breaking free as I watched Achilles’ restraint tremble on the edge of breaking. “Tell me,” I rasped, voice hoarse but laced with wicked delight, “how does it feel…to be the one tormented?”

Achilles’ head fell back against the pelts with something like a growl, eyes shutting tight as if to keep from losing himself in the pace forced upon him. His throat worked, words caught between a groan and a plea.

“You dare—” he hissed, though it came undone on another deep, shuddering breath when I rolled my hips with unhurried precision, dragging him through the burn of wanting and not receiving.

I leaned forward, laughter low, warm, the sound dripping into Achilles’ ear like a secret. “I dare. Because I know—” I pressed down again, slow enough to make Achilles’ muscles jerk in protest, “—that no lion can stand a chain if I pull it tight enough.”

Achilles’ body bowed upward against me, every taut line begging for release, but he forced himself still under the weight of my will. “You’ll ruin me,” he whispered, breath harsh, eyes blazing up through his lashes.

I smiled, a thing of exhausted triumph and aching love both, and ground another slow motion from us both until Achilles shuddered, teeth bared. “Then we’re even,” I murmured, my voice soft, merciless.

My body trembled with every movement, legs burning with the effort of holding myself upright, but I did not yield the reins back to Achilles. My palms pressed harder into the heat of Achilles’ chest, anchoring myself there as my body worked through the slow, deliberate rhythm I had forced upon ua. Each roll of hips dragged another sound from Achilles, ragged and impatient, so unlike the controlled hunter he always was.

“Patroclus,” Achilles groaned, head tipping back, the cords of his neck taut, “you’ll—break yourself.”

My breath came harsh, ragged, but my smile still ghosted across my lips. “Then I’ll break…with you.”

The words were almost lost under Achilles’ answering moan, a sound guttural, torn from deep in his chest. He bucked once, instinctive, but my weight, my will, bore down with stubbornness and turned the momentum back to my chosen pace. Slow. Drawing every nerve taut, stretching the tension into agony.

Achilles’ hands trembled where they held my hips, not with weakness but with restraint, as if the smallest slip would make him lose all control. He grit his teeth, chest heaving, the muscles of his stomach tight under my fingers. “Gods, you—” he hissed, cut off when I shifted my angle just so, grinding with precision that sent both of us jolting in unison.

I gasped, the sound nearly a cry, but still I did not relent. My thighs shook violently now, the edges of my vision threatening to blur with exhaustion, yet I clung to this pace as if it were the one power I possessed in the face of Achilles’ overwhelming force.

The torment turned in on me, body aflame with sensitivity, but I bit down on my lip and forced another roll of my hips. Another. Until Achilles’ breath broke on a sharp, desperate curse.

“Enough,” Achilles rasped, voice wrecked, but he did not seize control—he could not bring himself to take it from me, not when I burned with that stubborn brilliance above him.

My laughter came strained, wet with tears of effort and want. “No—” I managed between gasps, “—not until you…suffer with me.”

And I dragged us both over the edge with one final, drawn-out motion that wrung a guttural cry from Achilles and tore my own release from me like the last breath in my chest. My body buckled with it, collapsing forward, caught only by Achilles’ arms snapping around me before I could crumple completely.

We clung there in the aftermath, breathless, Achilles’ chest shaking with the force of his panting, my face pressed damp and trembling against his throat.

Achilles laughed once, hoarse and broken. “You—tormentor.”

I let out a weak huff of laughter, half-sob, half-relief, too spent to move. “Then we are both ruined.”

And Achilles, still shuddering from the force of it, kissed the crown of my hair and murmured, “Gladly.”

~

The storm of them ebbed slowly, leaving only the ragged hush of breath and the thrum of their hearts where they pressed together. Achilles shifted carefully, though his body still ached with trembling aftershocks, to lower Patroclus from his lap.

He moved him as if he were glass—yet Patroclus felt nothing like fragile marble in his hands. Instead, he felt like something molten, soft and pliant from the fire they had stoked between them. Achilles eased him back onto the spread of pelts, lowering his weight until Patroclus was laid out flat, boneless, his chest still rising fast but not frantically. His hair clung to his damp temples, his lips swollen with half-bitten gasps and laughter, and his eyes—half-lidded, heavy—seemed to burn even through exhaustion.

“Look at you,” Achilles whispered, brushing stray curls from his brow. His thumb traced gently across the heat of Patroclus’ cheek. “Limp as silk.”

Patroclus let out a breath that was nearly a laugh, too drained to hold shape. “Your doing,” he murmured, voice wrecked and low, “always…you.”

Achilles bent to press his lips to the corner of his mouth, soft where before he had been fierce. “Then I am glad to bear the blame.”

Patroclus’ eyes closed, not in sleep but in surrender to the tender touches: Achilles’ hand smoothing down his chest, his arm tucked beneath Patroclus’ shoulders to cradle him closer. The prince breathed him in, pressing his face into the curve of Patroclus’ throat as if he might anchor himself there.

“You glow,” Achilles said, words hushed against skin, reverent. “Even wrung dry, you glow.”

Patroclus chuckled faintly, though it broke in his throat, softened by weariness. “A tormentor, a lion-maker, and now a liar too.”

“Never,” Achilles replied at once, lifting his head enough to look at him, earnest and unwavering even through his own exhaustion. “Never to you. Not once.”

For a moment, Patroclus only breathed, steadying himself in the warmth of Achilles’ arms, his body humming faintly as though from within. Then, quietly, he whispered, “Then hold me. Just…hold me.”

Achilles did. He drew the furs higher around them, cocooning them in a heat that had nothing to do with fire or sweat. His arms wound tight but gentle around Patroclus’ frame, his lips finding the damp curls at his temple, planting kiss after kiss as if to press his vow deeper into him.

“I am here,” Achilles murmured between each one. “Always.”

Patroclus sighed, his body softening fully at last, safe and sated, a faint smile still curling at his lips even as sleep threatened to pull him under.

And Achilles lay awake longer, holding him as though the world outside the pelts could not touch them, watching the soft glow of his beloved’s face in the dim lantern-light, memorizing again and again the only sight that had ever truly undone him.

~VII~

The air had cooled overnight, though our bodies had kept each other warm, tangled as we were. Achilles stirred first, as he so often did, restless even in the comfort of our nest. His arm was still draped around my waist, his nose pressed into the curls at my crown, but his eyes blinked open, golden in the dim.

I made no such effort. My breath was steady, weight limp against Achilles’ chest, and when Achilles shifted even slightly, a soft groan rumbled from me.

Achilles smiled faintly, and whispered, “Lazy.”

I answered only with another groan, dragging the fur higher over my face. My voice came muffled, ragged with sleep. “Just a little longer.”

“No longer,” Achilles countered, brushing the fur back down to reveal my face, pressing a kiss to the line of my jaw. “We should rise.”

I turned my face into the pillow instead, mumbling, “Rise yourself. I’m staying here.”

Achilles laughed under his breath, a sound bright and irreverent after the heavy hush of the night before. He nipped gently at the skin of my shoulder, earning a twitch and another groan. “Coward. The sun is up, and you hide.”

“Coward?” I muttered, voice slurred with sleep, eyes refusing to open. “I faced a lion last night. You. No coward.”

That made Achilles grin wide, teeth flashing. “A lion? Then you’re still alive. More than alive.” He leaned closer, lips grazing the curve of my ear, his words low and warm. “You glow even now. I should be the one begging for a few more minutes.”

I cracked one eye open at last, squinting at him, my mouth tugged into a weak smirk. “Then beg. See where it gets you.”

Achilles chuckled, tilting his head down until our foreheads touched. “It gets me here,” he murmured, kissing the corner of my mouth. “Always here.”

I groaned again, but this time softer, arms winding up around Achilles’ neck as if to hold him still, to trap him there. “Then let me sleep,” I whispered, the words half-plea, half-command.

Achilles laughed again, but he settled, curling close, tucking me more firmly beneath his chin. “Very well. A few minutes more,” he said, though the gleam in his eyes betrayed him.

Because Achilles had never been good at patience—and the morning would not stay quiet for long.

I still refused to stir. My breathing remained heavy, feigning sleep, though Achilles could tell from the faint twitch at my lips that I was only pretending.

Achilles kissed the corner of my mouth again, speaking against it. “Open your eyes.”

A muffled, groaning protest. “No.”

“Patroclus,” Achilles teased, brushing a thumb along my temple. “I think you’re afraid.”

That earned him the faintest crack of an eyelid, brown flashing beneath heavy lashes. “Afraid of what?” I rasped.

“Of me,” Achilles said, grin sharp, boyish. “Of looking at me and remembering every moment of last night.”

I rolled my eyes, though the motion was small and weak with lingering exhaustion. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yet still you glow,” Achilles countered, brushing his nose against my cheek until I sighed, torn between annoyance and fondness. Slowly, my second eye opened, though the look I gave Achilles was equal parts weary and fondly exasperated.

Achilles’ triumphant smile had only just begun to spread when the creak of boots on the deck above ua shifted closer—then the hollow echo of footsteps reached the cargo hold. Achilles’ head snapped up. In a heartbeat he swept the furs up, covering me from crown to toe, shielding me beneath his arm and chest. 

His voice rang out, sharp and commanding, “Leave. Now.”

A low chuckle answered him from the shadows between crates. “Ah, forgive me,” came Odysseus’ sly tone, dripping with amusement. “I only wondered if the shrieks I heard last night were the wind or some sea nymphs making trouble.”

From deeper in the shadows, another laugh—Diomedes. “My money’s on the nymphs.”

Achilles bared his teeth, though they couldn’t see him. “I was searching for Patroclus’ diadem. Leave me be.”

A hum of mock belief from Odysseus. “Ah, a noble quest. Then we’ll go search for Patroclus ourselves, won’t we, Diomedes?”

Diomedes chuckled again. “Of course.”

Their laughter lingered in the air as their footsteps faded away. Only once the sound was gone did Achilles slowly peel the furs back from my face.

My cheeks were crimson, lips pressed into a mortified line.

“We are never doing this again,” I said flatly, refusing to look at him.

Achilles sulked immediately, lower lip jutting out in a boyish pout, though his eyes still gleamed with mischief. “But you liked it.”

I groaned and pressed the heels of my hands over my eyes. “Never again,” I repeated, though my voice was softer, already betraying me.

Achilles leaned down, smiling against my temple. “We’ll see.”