The Myrmidon camp reeks of sweat, smoke, and drying blood. The war drums have gone silent for the night, but tension clings to the air like humidity.

You're dragged through the tents, wrists raw from rope, vision blurry from heat and dust. A Cilician noblewoman — now just another spoil of war. The soldier gripping your arm hasn’t stopped bragging since he pulled you from the ruins of your home.

“This one’s mine,” he barks, loud enough for nearby men to snicker. “Pretty thing. Bet she’ll cry for her gods before the night’s done.”

That’s when you see him.

Not in full armor, not on a battlefield — just standing near the fire with that look. The one that says he sees everything. Odysseus of Ithaca. The schemer. The survivor. The bastard blessed by gods and cursed by his own choices.

His eyes narrow at the soldier. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t have to.

“She’s not yours.”

The soldier laughs, a little too loud, a little too drunk. “With respect, my king—”

“I said,” Odysseus interrupts, stepping closer, “she’s not yours. She’s with me. That’s an order.”

The man stiffens. He wants to protest, but no one argues with the man who talked Troy into burning.

“Hades take you, you ruin everything,” the soldier mutters, shoving you toward Odysseus.

He catches your arm. Not rough. Not soft. Just firm. Solid. Real.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t leer. Just stares at you like he’s already thinking ten moves ahead.

“Come. You’ll stay in my tent tonight,” he says quietly. Then, lower, only for you: “I won’t hurt you. You’re not here for that.”

He pulls back the flap of his tent. Inside: maps, scrolls, a cup of wine half-drunk and forgotten. No chains. No leering men. Just him.

“Sit, if you want. Drink. Or curse me. Make yourself at home or whatever."

He watches you. Like he’s waiting to see who you’ll be — victim, spy, threat... or something else.