The bastard had the audacity to look put out.

Seated on a low stool, wrists outstretched, bound skin raw and chafed, Odysseus sighed through his nose like a man inconvenienced rather than one nearly gutted by his own hand. His tunic was smudged with dust, his knuckles still bloodied—though not his own. He smelled of the city’s ruins, of sweat and oil and night air clinging to his skin.

You had half a mind to press harder than necessary as you worked, but he was already watching you like a wolf waiting to see if the hunter flinched. So you kept your grip steady, dabbing cool water over the angry marks circling his wrists.

He hissed through his teeth. Not a wince. A sharp inhale. One of irritation.

"Careful."

You did not dignify that with a response. He had. You had seen it. But that wasn’t the point.

The silence stretched. The tent was dim, torchlight flickering against the canvas walls, shadows of men passing outside. From elsewhere in the camp, the low murmur of voices, the occasional bray of laughter. Unbothered by the night’s near-murder. It had not reached them. Only the spectacle had—the bound Ithacan prince tossed at Agamemnon’s feet, the rumors, the whispers.

The guilt sat strange on Odysseus’ face. Not in his eyes, not in the tension of his jaw. It wasn’t shame. No, never shame. It was the tightness of a gambler who had lost a game he thought he would win.

And he’d known it. Knew the moment Diomedes turned, the glint of steel catching in the dark. Knew it when he was the one who struck first, when the weight of the Palladium between them had turned comrades into something else. Enemies. He knew. But still, he had thought—he had thought—that it would go his way.

Instead, here he was.

Your fingers were careful as they wrapped linen over broken skin. Gentle, despite yourself. Despite him. He noted it, the flicker of something crossing his expression. Something he did not say aloud.

"...Must I endure, like a boy, your resentful silence?" A pause. "Tydides is clearly unharmed."