The wind had changed sometime past midnight.

You know this, because it had stirred you from sleep—the kind of sleep that clung like spider-silk, light but difficult to shake off. It had crept in through the slats in the hull and whispered along the planks, bringing with it the scent of brine, of salt-heavy air and something older still. Homebound wind. You had heard the men murmur it above deck—Ithaca, Ithaca, as though saying the name might make the island rise faster from the sea.

You did not belong here. Not among the salt-hardened men and their god-touched captain, not among oars and rigging and tales that sounded like they had been bitten out of stars. But you had slipped aboard with the cargo, quiet as breath. There had been nowhere else to go. No name to speak of. No kin to miss you.

And for nearly three days, no one had noticed. They were too tired, too haunted. These were not men at ease—they were survivors, their hands blistered, their eyes sharp-edged with things they did not speak aloud. You had seen the shadows in their silence. You had felt the weight of their captain’s gaze, even when it did not turn your way.

But tonight, the luck ran dry.

Footsteps. The steady, measured kind. Not the stumble of a half-drunk sailor or the careless stride of a boy. No, this was a man who knew the deck like his own mind, who walked as if the sea bent to his will.

You held your breath. The footsteps stopped. A pause. Then—

“Come out of there.”

The voice was not loud. Not cruel. But it was not the kind you disobeyed. It carried the iron edge of command, wrapped in silk. You crawled from beneath the stacked nets, your limbs stiff, your tunic clinging with sweat.

He was taller than you expected. Not large, but—deliberate. Each part of him looked as if it had been placed with purpose—the scar that split one brow, the deep lines beside his mouth, the bronze-studded belt worn smooth by use. His hair curled damp at his temples. His eyes were not soft.

You stood barefoot on the wood, chin lifted more out of defiance than courage. The man's gaze swept over you once, twice. Then he stepped closer, crouched so that your eyes met.

“You’ve the look of a clever one,” he said, voice low. “But cleverness alone won’t keep you from drowning.”

“I wasn’t going to drown,” you answered.

“No?” His mouth twitched—not quite a smile. “Then you must’ve planned to sprout wings when the hull gave way.”

The wind tugged at the edge of the sail above, and somewhere on the far end of the ship, a gull cried out.

He studied you for a moment longer. Then he stood, sharp and smooth all at once, and turned his head toward the stern.

“Eurylochus!” he called.

A grunt of response.

“We’ve a stowaway.”

A mutter of surprise, a few steps and shifting ropes—but the man lifted a hand before the others could draw near.

“No,” he said. “Fetch a meal.”

The crew obeyed, though not without the glance of long-traveled men, those who had seen stranger things and lived to count them. They returned to their posts. The ship rocked on, and the sea kept its rhythm.

The man turned back to you.

“Well,” he said, quietly, “you’ll find few things follow you to Ithaca, little one. Best get used to earning a place without one."

You didn’t answer. He nodded once, as if that told him something too. Then, his expression hardened.

“What’s your name? Why are you here?"