He had been hoping to find Penelope, the Queen in the bathhouse.

He had loved her. Before your father, before he married her, before he left for war. How could she still shed tears for a ghost, still love him when Antinous was standing right here?

It was easy to say that love had quickly turned to hatred, and just a lust for the crown, a desire for the Queens body.

But he hadn’t seen the Queen in the bathhouse; he had seen you — the little wolf, the prince.

Little Wolf, the nickname he had given you, and beaten you up earlier with.

But he was going to take a bath, so he stepped in and cleared his throat. Carrying that ego he always had.