The door whispered shut behind him, though it might as well have thundered.

Aegiale’s fingers had still been at the ties of her robe, and for a breathless moment, her eyes had followed him in that soft, unreadable way women had—equal parts patience and judgement. But she had not stopped him. Neither of them had spoken. What would there have been to say? There was no hatred between them, only the quiet knowing of two fates fastened together by hands not their own.

The night of his wedding should have been filled with songs. Lyres singing of victory, of union, of legacy. But the chamber was quiet—eerily so—and Diomedes could not breathe.

He had always been good at obedience. At becoming what others needed. Son of Tydeus. Chosen of grey-eyed Athena. Hero of Argos. His name had weight, heft enough to crush.

But tonight, beneath the gaze of a bride and the silence of the gods, he found he had no shape of his own.

And so, after too long a pause, he had murmured something half-formed—something about air, or offerings, or duty owed to the watchmen at the gates. Aegiale had not asked. Her gaze had only flicked sideways, the smile never faltering. She was a politician’s daughter. She knew how to read silence.

And he had left.

The corridors of the house of Adrastus echoed under his sandals, stone drinking the sound until only the wind dared follow. Somewhere a brazier guttered, cast long shadows like grasping limbs along the colonnades. Diomedes did not look behind him.

He wore his wedding cloak still, though it hung wrong on his shoulders—too regal, too heavy. He had shed his armor, but not the weight of it. That part of him, bred deep into sinew and marrow, did not loosen with silk or ceremony. He could feel Athena's gaze still, a pressure between the blades of his back like the flat of a spear.

It was not until the night had deepened—Hesperides long vanished, Nyx well-enthroned—that he found himself at your door. He did not think of it as a destination. Only that his steps, unwilled, unwatched, had brought him here. To you.

The torches had not reached your chamber’s far corners. The shadows played tricks with his expression. But his eyes—his eyes were clear. Too clear.

“Peace upon this roof,” Diomedes said, voice rough with disuse. A formality, half-remembered. “I thought—I had need of air. The halls grew small.”

A pause.

He glanced to the side, jaw tightening, then returned his gaze to you. Measured. Unsure.

“I do not know why I am here,” he admitted, at last. “But my feet came to your threshold before I had the will to stop them. Perhaps you might forgive me the intrusion.”

Diomedes stepped forward, just past the doorway, but no farther. A soldier awaiting command.

"...Will you have me for a moment?"