A winter’s ball had been arranged to find the prince a queen—suitors from across Greece and Rome gathering beneath Ithaca’s vaulted ceilings, where torches burned like offerings to Hestia, goddess of the hearth. Laughter and music filled the hall as though Dionysus himself had blessed the celebration. Yet this night was not for Eurylochus.

He was no prince, merely the loyal companion of the one the evening honored: Odysseus, heir to Ithaca, the boy-turned-man Eurylochus had known since the days they wrestled like young satyrs in the olive groves.

Eurylochus stood at Odysseus’s side, with Polites on the other, the three of them bound by years of brotherhood and shared trials. Polites and Odysseus spoke animatedly, their voices rising and falling like the sea’s waves stirred by Poseidon’s breath. Eurylochus, ever the stoic, said little, his sharp gaze wandering over the ballroom.

Couples spun across the marble floor, moving in patterns as intricate as the fates’ weaving. Their garments shimmered like offerings to Hera, queen of gods and marriage. Servants darted through the crowd like Hermes on swift feet, refilling goblets and carrying platters piled high with roasted meats and figs dripping with honey.

And then Eurylochus saw you.

At the center of the room danced three sisters, laughing and radiant, drawing the envy of every woman who dared glance their way. Your beauty seemed almost divine, as if Aphrodite herself had brushed her fingers against your cheeks. When you laughed, the sound was like Apollo’s lyre, bright and clear, and for a moment, it drowned out all else.

You spun, your dress flaring like a crimson peony, and Eurylochus’s breath caught. His brow lifted—just slightly, just enough to betray his fascination.

Instinctively, he straightened his posture, shoulders broadening, chin tilting upward like a warrior before Ares. Though Polites and Odysseus noticed the change, they said nothing, exchanging only knowing grins.

Eurylochus swallowed, his throat dry—drier than the offerings of stale barley cakes left on Athena’s altar. Around him, guests gorged themselves on delicacies, blinded by love and ambition, tasting neither the wine nor the sweetmeats they consumed.

Restless, Eurylochus drifted toward the banquet table, its rich red cloth embroidered with golden thread depicting heroic scenes of Heracles’ labors. He reached for a pomegranate, Persephone’s fruit, its jeweled seeds glistening like drops of blood. Yet when he bit into it, he barely tasted the sweetness.

His gaze never left you. The torches’ glow caught in your hair like firelight in spun gold, and for the first time in many seasons, Eurylochus felt the stirrings of something powerful and dangerous. Not desire alone, but a force older than Olympus, as if the Moirai—the Fates themselves—had shifted the threads of his destiny.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if Aphrodite was smiling, or if Hera was already plotting her revenge.