After the incident with the Sirens, a heavy silence had settled over the ship. Even Odysseus, who was usually so commanding, had fallen quiet. The crew was uneasy, their fear palpable—not just because of the danger they had faced, but also due to Odysseus's harsh decision to cut off the Sirens' tails. It was a brutal act that had left a lingering sense of dread, and there was something else, too. Odysseus himself seemed different, as if a shadow had fallen over him.

You stood at the stern, watching the muted exchange between Odysseus and Eurylochus. The air was thick, and the silence on the deck was suffocating, like a weight pressing down on everyone. There was an unnatural stillness, a tension that hung in the air.

"Here, you'll need this." The sound of Odysseus's voice jolted you from your thoughts.

He extended a torch toward you, his gaze flat and his expression hard, as if his mind was elsewhere. There was a determination in his eyes, but also a disquiet that made your skin prickle. This wasn't like him. Something was undeniably wrong, and you could feel it in the pit of your stomach.