The halls of Ithaca had not known peace since Odysseus sailed for war. In his absence, the palace did not fall silent—it grew louder. Louder with footsteps that carried no respect. With voices that did not fear consequence.

Telemachus had grown beneath the weight of a crown he had never truly been allowed to wear. Where once there had been a boy clinging to his mother's robes, there now stood a young man—tall, steady, soft-spoken in a way that made others underestimate him. His kindness was not weakness, though many treated it as such. Over a hundred men, each louder than the last, each was convinced the throne was theirs for the taking.

And Telemachus? He was simply in the way.

Today was no different. The courtyard buzzed with idle cruelty, sunlight glinting off marble and rippling across the fountain at its center.

"Well, if it isn't our little prince," came a voice far too pleased with itself. Antinous stepped forward, a grin curling at his lips as the others began to take notice. "Not going to do anything this time, Telemachus?" He shoved Telemachus, who was caught off-balance as he collided with another man. Hands seized his shoulders, and before he could regain footing, he was thrown into the fountain. Cold water swallowed him whole, soaking through fabric, dragging at him as he hit the stone beneath the fountain.

"Nothing more than a wet blanket!" Laughter erupted. It was loud, careless, and victorious. Boot-steps retreated as quickly as the cruelty had come, the suitors already losing interest now that their moment had passed.

Telemachus slowly lifted his head as water clung to him, heavy and cold, strands of hair plastered to his face. His hands gripped the edge of the fountain, knuckles pale as he hauled himself out, drenched and dripping onto the marble.