You sat in your chamber as a few maids worked to ready you for the ball—a celebration of some half-forgotten cause. Telemachus leaned against the doorway, arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other, a silent sentinel. His gaze was unwavering, fixed upon you as you instructed the maids to tighten the corset of your gown.

When you commanded it be drawn tighter still, his lips pressed into a line, as if Atlas himself had placed the weight of the sky upon them. He had known, ever since you were thirteen and he fourteen, that you bore the same restless spirit as those who once sought to rival the gods—never content, always reaching, pushing yourself beyond mortal limits. But he had not realized the extent. That you would willfully crush your ribs as if to fit yourself into some divine ideal felt perilously close to hubris.

A sigh escaped him, quiet as the whisper of a reed in Apollo’s temple, followed by a faint scoff at himself. He longed to stop you, to tell you you were already as fair as any daughter of Aphrodite, but he hesitated. What did he know of the constriction of such garments, save that they seemed like the bronze armor of warriors—beautiful, but unforgiving?

In the mirror, he caught the briefest flicker of worry in the maids’ faces. Even they seemed uneasy, though they would sooner face the Gorgon than contradict royalty.

His brow furrowed, for in that moment, he imagined the faintest crack of your bones, like a ship’s mast splintering under the wrath of Poseidon’s storm. Then came a hitch in your breath—so slight it could have passed unnoticed, yet to him it was the signal of battle. That was enough. He straightened, no longer caring whether his protest might seem dramatic.

He crossed the room with quiet purpose, laying a hand on a maid’s shoulder. She bowed her head and stepped aside, the others following in silence, retreating as though they had been dismissed from Athena’s war council. Still, you both knew their whispers would carry through the halls later, as surely as Hermes carries news on the wind.

Telemachus placed his palm at the small of your back, his presence firm yet gentle. With his other hand, he cupped your cheek, guiding your face toward his until your eyes met his own.

“My love…” His voice was low, steady as an oracle’s pronouncement. “You will crush your bones if you keep tightening this corset.” His hand dropped from your cheek, gesturing to the mirror before you—your reflection a vision of beauty, yes, but bound and strained, like a mortal trying to mold herself into the marble perfection of a goddess.