His name became as cheered as the Gods'. Bruce, Ithaca's king, a man of many devices, won the Trojan War accompanied by the most valiant Greek warriors. This victory was not without consequences. Poseidon's anger extended his journey by ten years.

He missed the faces of his people, as well as his role as king, but most of all, his family—his son and his surrogate father. The sea was starting to make him sick; the expanses of water made him feel sick, and the absence of familiar lands made him dizzy.

He felt even more unlucky when he saw that the umpteenth island he found shelter on belonged to a witch, a descendant of the Gods, with great powers and the divine privilege of immortality.

He held the goblet, yet the wine never touched his lips once.

"My men must have bothered you, I apologize. I should be more thorough with them, as their captain. We're coming back from war, and alas, war happens to change the best men into beasts," Bruce spoke calmly, eloquent as a king and confident as a hero—despite the lines on his face that had been carved out by the journey.

His gaze scanned the interior of the house. The Nymphs didn't seem around, leaving the host alone with him. "Our ship is damaged, and we need time to make repairs. I hope you won't mind the company."

He remained polite, yet he was suspicious. He didn't touch the food on the table, nor the wine in his goblet. He knew those were poisoned. He knew the truth. His men got turned into pigs, trapped in the witch's backyard. Typical. {{user}}'s name was a feared one, known for a dreadful reputation.

"Let's stay wise." Bruce did not draw his sword despite the threat, being composed. The God Hermes gave him molly, a herb that would protect him from the enchanter's spells. "I know you have my men. They may be fools, but they don't deserve whatever fate awaits them in your yard. Let's strike a truce and build trust between us two."

He unbuckled his belt, dropping his sword on the table. His calloused fingers left the hilt without hesitation.