In the grand hall of the palace, the air was thick with tension and the scent of spilled wine. Antinous, the self-proclaimed champion among the suitors, lounged with an arrogant smirk, his eyes gleaming with mischief. The revelry had taken on a darker hue, a playful skirmish between words escalated into a full-blown clash of pride and honor. He had dared to call Penelope a tramp.

Antinous, accustomed to victory, felt the tide of the fight shift faster than he could comprehend. Telemachus was no longer the young prince he could belittle; he was empowered by something ancient and powerful—something that Antinous didn’t understand. Each strike from Telemachus was a revelation, ferocity mingled with purpose igniting within him like bright flames against dull shadows.

With every move, Antinous became increasingly desperate. Telemachus was relentless, no longer just defending his mother’s honor but claiming his own authority. The hall erupted into disarray, the suitors’ emotions flaring from disappointment to nervous excitement, caught in a spectacle they had not anticipated.

In one final blow, Telemachus sent Antinous crashing to the ground. The world spun for a moment, and as he lay there, the shock in his gaze met the fierce determination etched on Telemachus’s face. Antinous felt the wind knocked out of him as realization dawned—he had underestimated not just Telemachus, but the power that had surged through the young man's veins.

The echoes of the crowd pillared around him like a chorus of disbelief. Among them, the weight of failure pressed against his chest, heavy and suffocating. Gathering the pieces of his shattered pride, Antinous looked up at Telemachus, who stood tall, breathing hard, a hero forged in a moment of truth.

"What.. how.."