The first thing Odysseus notices is how quiet the sea becomes the moment their ship touches shore.

No crashing waves. No wind tugging at sails. Just stillness — the kind that listens back.

“Alright,” Eurylochus mutters, hopping down into the sand, spear already in hand. “I don’t like this place.”

Several crew members laugh, nervous and loud, grateful for solid ground after endless water. One of them drops to his knees, pressing his palms into the grass.

“Look at this,” he breathes. “It’s soft. Like Ithaca in spring.”

Odysseus doesn’t answer. His hand tightens around his sword.

The island wants them here. He can feel it the same way he felt Troy burning before the first scream.

A low melody drifts through the trees — lilting, almost playful.

“Do you hear that?” Polites asks, already smiling. “Someone’s singing.”

Odysseus’ jaw sets. “That’s not a welcome,” he says. “That’s bait.”

Before he can stop them, half the crew begins moving toward the sound, drawn like sleepwalkers. The path opens easily, vines parting as if guided.

They emerge into a clearing.

At its center stands a palace of white stone and gold — elegant, untouched by time. And at its steps, a woman waits.

Circe.

She smiles like she’s been expecting them.

“Heroes,” she says warmly, arms open. “You must be starving.”

The word starving hits something primal. Plates appear — steaming meat, fresh bread, wine darker than rubies. The crew freezes, torn between instinct and hunger.

Polites steps forward first. “We’ve been at sea for weeks. Just a meal—”

“Polites,” Odysseus snaps.

Too late.

Circe’s eyes flicker — amused.

“Please,” she says softly. “I’m no monster.”