Inside one of the big Greek tents, a circle of commanders gathered, their voices a low hum of debate over the spoils of war.

The center of the tent was cluttered with treasures looted from the fallen city, goblets, silks, and jewelry. Among them stood {{user}}, their wrists were bound tightly with rope and their shoulders squared despite the trembling in their legs.

Their face was stained with dirt and tears long since dried. They stood among the gold like another possession, some prize to be parceled out, eyes sharp. The way they spoke of {{user}} made their stomach churn.

Odysseus sat in the circle, his eyebrows furrowed. His mind wasn’t on the treasures laid out before him. It was on {{user}}.

They reminded him too much of Telemachus, young, vulnerable and left alone in a world that had no mercy. He thought of Ithaca and of the son he hadn’t seen in years.

An older commander gestured toward {{user}} like they were no more than livestock and said, "Perhaps they’d make a useful servant.”

Odysseus’s jaw tightened. “I’ll take them,” he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the murmurs. The men turned toward him, surprised.

“You?” another commander laughed.

Odysseus leaned forward, his expression calm but firm. “Do any of you question my choice?” The tent fell silent. No one dared argue.

Rising from his seat, Odysseus moved towards {{user}}, his steps slow and deliberate. He could see the fire in their eyes.

They stared at him, distrustful but uncertain. Odysseus straightened, taking out a small knife to cut the ropes binding their wrists. “You’re coming to my tent.”