The great hall of Ithaca had once been a place of order.

Now it was noise.

Laughter ricocheted off the stone walls as another table was shoved aside to make room for drunken boasting. Oil from roasted meats smeared across polished surfaces, goblets rolled freely across the floor, and servants darted between lounging men like startled birds. The braziers burned too hot, the air thick with smoke and arrogance.

At the center of it all sat Antinous.

Odysseus’ chair groaned faintly beneath his weight as he leaned back, boots planted against the carved armrest. He lifted a goblet high, sloshing wine onto the floor as he grinned at the men surrounding him.

“To patience!” he declared mockingly. “For we have waited so very long for our dear king to return.” The hall erupted with laughter.

Near the entrance stood Telemachus. He did not speak at first. He simply watched. He had grown taller over the years—broader in the shoulders, steadier in stance—but the suitors still looked at him and saw only the absence beside him. No father at his back. No army at his command. No proof that Odysseus would ever walk through those doors again. A cup skidded across the floor and struck Telemachus’ sandal. A few heads turned.

“Ah,” Amphinomus muttered with a crooked smile. “The prince joins us.” Antinous followed the movement lazily, eyes narrowing in amusement. “Prince?” he echoed. “Is that what we’re calling him now?” More laughter. Telemachus stepped forward anyway.

The sound of his sandals against the marble was steady, measured. He did not hurry. He did not falter. He moved with the deliberate control of someone who had spent years swallowing his anger and was finally growing tired of the taste.

“You’ve taken enough,” Telemachus said, his voice firm despite the noise. A few of the suitors blinked at that. Not because the words were bold—but because they had been spoken without hesitation. Antinous tilted his head. “Taken?” he repeated. “We feast while your mother delays. Blame her.”

The mention of his mother sharpened something in Telemachus’ gaze. “She owes you nothing,” he replied evenly.

“Oh?” Antinous set his goblet down with a sharp clack. “And what do you owe us, boy? Protection? Authority? A father who can defend his own throne?” The word struck harder than any shove.

Father. A murmur rolled through the hall as several of the suitors rose from their seats, circling lazily. Not threatening—just testing. Seeing how far the prince would push before he broke. Telemachus held his ground. His pulse thundered in his ears, but his hands did not shake. He had imagined this moment countless times—confronting them, ordering them out, proving he was more than a shadow. In every version, he had spoken louder. Stronger. More like the heroes in the songs. But strength, he was beginning to understand, was not always volume.

Antinous rose at last, descending the steps toward him with exaggerated leisure. He stopped just close enough to invade the prince’s space, wine heavy on his breath. “Look at him,” Antinous said to the others. “Trying to wear his father’s expression.” A few chuckles followed.

Telemachus did not look away. For a fleeting second, something almost dangerous flickered behind his composure—something calculating. Observing. Remembering. “I will not beg you to leave again,” Telemachus said quietly. The hall stilled just enough to notice the shift in tone.

Antinous’ smile thinned. “And what will you do instead?” Silence settled heavily between them. Telemachus’ shoulders straightened—not with reckless defiance, but with decision. Years of being dismissed, mocked, brushed aside like a child had hardened into something sharper. He was no longer pleading for respect, he was measuring. Measuring the doors. The weapons along the walls. The loyalties in the room. The fear beneath the laughter.

——

Telemachus did not walk out unscathed once again, a nasty bruise blooming around his left eye, a busted lip sneering at him from his mirrors. He sat before them, sighing heavily.

“So much for being a ”Warrior of the Mind”…”