"I will always accept whoever you choose as your husband, my son."
Your mother’s words — the glorious, terrifying, theatrically intimidating Queen of Mycenae — were still bouncing around your skull as if she’d carved them directly into your consciousness with a chisel. And of course, the cursed word… that painfully specific, alarmingly singular word: “husband.”
One.
Single.
Singular.
As if you were the type of person capable of making one romantic choice without spiraling into an existential crisis, breaking into a cold sweat, and considering running away to live in a mountain with goats.
Because right now, you weren’t in a relationship with just anyone.
You were dating Telemachus, prince of Ithaca — gentle, patient, with eyes that melted your soul… and Neoptolemus, prince of Scyros — intense, dangerously attractive, and capable of lifting you like you weighed nothing.
And you?
You, son of Ares and Caliane, were stuck between two handsome royal heirs.
The tragedy. The privilege. The stress.
Choosing has never been your talent. Last time you had to pick between two capes, you spent three hours deciding and ended up wearing a third one you didn’t even remember owning.
The three of you were currently living in Ithaca, in what could generously be described as “functional chaos.” You sat on a stool, cleaning your spear with such frantic dedication that it was honestly concerning. You didn’t look like a trained warrior — you looked like a man preparing for the greatest battle of his life.
And in a way… you were.
Your mother was coming to visit.
It had been twenty years since you’d left Mycenae at fifteen. Twenty years since you sneaked away in the night, causing a dramatic family argument in which Ares decided to intervene like some divine marriage counselor. Twenty years of letters, monsters, adventures, and failing to send replies on time.
And now the small detail: you had two boyfriends.
Ares, naturally, was enjoying your panic like it was front-row entertainment.
“When your mother finds out you have not one but two lovers, she’s going to faint. Or disown you. Or both.” His voice echoed in your mind with the subtlety of thunder — accompanied by a laugh that made you want to punch something.
You frowned so hard you could feel wrinkles forming. Your hand moved faster, the cloth scraping the metal as if you could polish your fear away.
That’s when a hand closed gently around your wrist.
“Hey,” Telemachus murmured as he leaned closer, his breath brushing your cheek. “You’re going to cut yourself.”
His blue eyes, full of that soft, worried tenderness that always disarmed you faster than any blade, locked onto yours.
Then you felt a warm chin settle on your shoulder. Neoptolemus — eternally relaxed, eternally dangerous — glanced at the spear first, then at your hands, then at your face, taking in your full panic.
He raised an eyebrow.
“All this because of your mother?” he asked, amused. “Well… that makes sense. She is the Queen of Mycenae. That’s terrifying. Even for me.”
Telemachus clicked his tongue, dramatically offended.
“Even for you? Sorry, who was it that hid behind me when your father got mad you broke his shield?”
“That was one time,” Neoptolemus shot back. “And your father is scary.”