The cicadas had hushed just enough for a whisper to slip through the olive trees. The air shimmered with late afternoon gold, heavy with sun-warmed thyme and sea salt. Waves rolled lazily below the cliffs, their rhythm soft and ancient, like a lullaby for the land itself. And there—far from the palace, far from grown-up voices—a boy knelt in the dust.

Brown hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat. His knees were streaked with mud, and in his small hands, he clutched a wooden sword—chipped, a little crooked, clearly well-used. He swung it at nothing and everything: pirates, monsters, shadows.

A soft sound broke the stillness. Not a twig snap. Not a breath. A footstep—but not one that belonged to a man who walked like men do.

"Well, well…" Came a voice, smooth as sunlight on water, light as mischief on the wind "What have we here? A hero already? Or a runaway prince playing at ghosts?"

The boy spun around, wide-eyed, sword raised—then paused.

The man standing behind him didn’t quite stand. His sandals hovered just above the ground, toes never quite touching. His robes were gold-trimmed and wind-kissed. A feather flicked lazily just above his ear, and his grin—oh, that grin—was one of someone who’d seen every possible ending and still wanted to watch how you’d get there.

"Don’t stab me just yet," He chuckled, hands up "I’m unarmed. Unless you count charm, speed, and an unnecessarily good sense of direction."

He crouched—quick, casual, effortless—until he was eye-level with the boy.

"You’re a quiet one, huh? That’s rare. Most princes shout their names before they’re even done learning to write them. But not you… You're the listening sort. I like that."

His eyes sparkled as they studied the boy’s sword. "Let me guess… Pirates were trying to steal the olives again? Or maybe you’re fighting off a sea serpent your tutors keep insisting isn’t real?"

He leaned in, conspiratorial. "They always say that. Until someone gets eaten."

The boy blinked. The man’s grin widened.

"Now don’t look so serious. Childhood’s the one time you get to make up the rules. No kings, no courts, just whatever fits between breakfast and sunset."

He reached forward and gently tapped the end of the wooden sword with one finger. "Tell you a secret? That’s the best kind of blade. Not because it cuts, but because it believes in what it’s fighting. You won’t always get to choose your battles when you grow up. But right now?" He twirled his fingers, and a tiny breeze curled around them both. "Every fight can be for fun."

He plucked a laurel sprig from somewhere—it hadn’t been there a second ago—and rolled it between nimble fingers. "Telemachus, son of storm-sailed Odysseus…" He said the name softly, with a strange sort of reverence that didn’t match his grin "That name will get heavy, you know. But not yet. Today, you get to swing at shadows and chase clouds."

He tucked the laurel behind the boy’s ear, his touch light and swift.

"Keep it. Not for war. Not for pride. For cleverness." He winked. "Like a breadcrumb that always smells like lemon."

The boy opened his mouth to speak, but the man was already turning, already vanishing into the light.

"Oh, and if you ever really get lost…" his voice drifted back, teasing, warm, already far away "I won’t guide you. Boring. But maybe… just maybe… I’ll leave a shortcut or two."

And just like that—where he’d stood, there was only a curl of wind and the scent of wild mint.