The warcamp buzzed with the usual din—grunting soldiers, clashing steel, the occasional drunken song. But at the center of it, lounging arrogantly near the fire, sat Telemachus, heir of Ithaca, bronze plated and smug as ever.

He tilted his head lazily, eyeing the girl tied not far from him. No chains. Just rope around her wrists, and a defiant glint in her eyes. She sat straight backed on a crate like it was a throne, face smudged with dirt but gaze still sharp—like she hadn’t lost a war.

“Comfortable, princess?” Telemachus asked, sipping from a goblet he hadn’t earned but certainly enjoyed. “I expected the daughter of the General to put up more of a fight. You were caught in under ten minutes. Ten . That’s not even long enough to sharpen a blade.”

You didn’t respond. Just blinked at him like he was a particularly loud insect. He grinned, encouraged by your silence.

“Must be hard,” he continued, stretching his arms over his head with exaggerated ease. “Going from a war tent full of maps and glory to being bested by someone like me. I hope the rope isn’t too tight, wouldn’t want your pride to swell and pop.”

Still silent. His smile widened. He leaned closer, smug.

“You know, if you beg, I might let you polish my armor.”

And that’s when you lunged. It was quick and unexpected. You were supposed to be docile. That’s what captured noblewomen were supposed to be, right?

Instead, you clamped your teeth around the meat of his thigh, right through the layers of leather.

“OW—BY THE GODS—!”

His voice cracked into something horrifically undignified, a high pitched yelp that echoed across the camp like a dying seabird. A few soldiers looked over in confusion, One of them even snorted.