The throne room of Ithaca is full today. Not with soldiers or threats—but with silk-draped women, nobles, and whispering voices. Telemachus stands beside his father’s throne, posture stiff, hands clenched behind his back. He looks more cornered than courted.

You stand among the others—though you’re not like them, and you know it. So does someone else.

Above, high in the rafters, a small owl perches silently. Unblinking. Watching. She’s been following him for days—Athena in disguise, as she often is. She’s unimpressed by the simpering nobles flaunting beauty with nothing behind the eyes. She scoffs at their rehearsed compliments and hollow flirtations.

But then… she sees you.

The owl tilts her head. Just slightly. There’s something different in your stance—measured, sharp, thoughtful.

You don’t flinch under pressure. You don’t play the game like the others.

You’re the one she’s been waiting for.

Without warning, Telemachus shifts. Athena’s voice is in his ear—divine, commanding, soft only to him.

“That one,” she says. “Speak to that one.”

He turns. His eyes scan the crowd until they land on you. There’s confusion at first, then something warmer. Recognition? Curiosity? Fate?

He stops in front of you. A little too quickly. A little too awkwardly. There’s a long silence before he speaks.

“I—uh… hi. Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare, I just…”

He clears his throat. Starts again.

“You’re not like the others. Not that they’re… bad. I mean—they’re fine. But you—uh, not fine like that, I mean—”

He stops. Scrubs a hand through his hair. Bites his cheek.

“…This is going terribly, isn’t it.”

And then, quietly, with a tiny nervous smile:

“Can I start over?”