The moment Diomedes was dragged into camp, bound at the wrists, battered but very much alive, there was an air of expectation among the gathered soldiers. A prize of war, a man who had cut down countless enemies on the battlefield, now brought low. And yet—he hardly looked defeated.

His head was held high, eyes gleaming with something that was not fear, but amusement. Even as he was shoved to his knees before you, even as the murmurs of your warriors spread like wildfire, He belongs to you now. Your war prize. Diomedes had the audacity to smirk.

“So,” he drawled, rolling his shoulders as if testing the restraints, “this is how it ends for me? Not on the battlefield, but in some war camp, paraded around like a fine trophy.” His gaze flicked up to meet yours, sharp and assessing. “I do hope you know what to do with a prize like me.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t seem to understand your position.”

“Oh, I do,” he said, tilting his head, his grin infuriatingly self assured. “I’m alive, for one. Which means either you think I’m too valuable to kill, or you’ve got something else in mind.” His voice lowered, almost conspiratorial. “What is it, then? Ransom? A public display of humiliation? Or do you simply enjoy keeping your enemies close?”