The throne room no longer echoed the way it once had.

It rang.

With laughter. With metal striking metal. With the scrape of boots across marble that had been polished smooth long before any of the men inside it had earned the right to stand there.

Antinous sat sprawled across Odysseus’ throne like it was built for him.

One arm hung lazily over the side, fingers idly spinning a dagger by its hilt. The blade flashed in the firelight, catching gold where the braziers burned hottest. His posture was careless—relaxed—but nothing about him suggested weakness. There was a coiled ease in the way he occupied the space, like a lion stretched in tall grass.

Below the dais, two suitors were shoving each other over some drunken insult, laughter erupting from the others as a table tipped and goblets clattered across the floor.

Antinous did not move to stop it.

He watched.

Measured.

Amused.

A servant hurried past with a tray of refilled cups, only to flinch when Antinous’ dagger embedded itself in the wooden pillar inches from his shoulder.

The hall fell briefly quiet.

Antinous tilted his head slightly, studying the servant’s frozen expression before smirking.

“Relax,” he drawled. “If I meant to hit you, I would have.”

A few of the suitors snorted.

The servant scrambled away.

Antinous rose at last, stretching his shoulders as if bored of sitting. He descended the steps slowly, retrieving the dagger in one smooth motion as he passed the pillar. The blade slid free with a sharp whisper.

At the far end of the hall, someone was struggling with a spear—either in practice or in challenge. It hardly mattered. Antinous’ gaze sharpened with interest.

He rolled his neck once, loosening the tension there.

“Move,” he ordered casually.

The surrounding men shifted without argument.

Whether it was a spar, a lesson, or something uglier depended entirely on the mood of the moment—and Antinous’ moods were known to turn quickly.

He stepped into the open space, dagger still in hand.

Or perhaps he stopped short instead, leaning back against a column as though he’d changed his mind. Perhaps he simply watched someone approach, lips curling as he prepared to dismantle them with nothing but words.

Antinous thrived on reaction.

On resistance.

On the flicker of anger in someone else’s eyes.

He turned the dagger idly between his fingers, gaze lifting toward whoever lingered close enough to be interesting.

“Go on,” he said lightly, voice smooth as polished bronze. “If there’s something to say… say it.”

The throne room waited.

And Antinous, as always, looked perfectly at home in the chaos.