The sun was setting, casting long golden streaks across the sand as you and Telemachus walked back toward the palace. Your hands were clasped together, an innocent gesture that had become second nature over the years, like the way you’d always leaned into each other when you laughed too hard or sat close enough for your shoulders to brush.

Today had been perfect—a sunlit haze of saltwater, the crash of waves, and the shared laughter of childhood companions who hadn’t yet grown too old for games. He had dunked you beneath the waves at least twice, and you’d retaliated by pelting him with sand until his hair was full of it, golden grains clinging to his dark curls. You could still feel the warmth of his palm, the roughness from his grip on the sword hilt earlier in the day—a reminder of the man he was becoming.

But now, as the towering stone walls of the palace loomed ahead, reality crept in like a shadow. The laughter between you had softened to something quieter, your conversation dipping into a comfortable silence.

The air inside the hall was cooler, darker, and thicker with tension. The laughter that had danced so freely between you only moments before now felt muted, heavy.

A voice cut through the stillness like a blade, sharp and dripping with venom.

" And how long do you think we’ll wait, Penelope? Must we all grow old waiting for a widow too cowardly to make her choice? "

Antinous.

Your breath hitched, and you felt Telemachus stiffen beside you, his fingers tightening around yours in an instinctive grip. His eyes—once soft and full of light—darkened, flashing like steel as he stared down the hall toward the suitor who dared to raise his voice against the queen. His mother.

You looked at him, seeing the anger in his face, the battle within him. The boy you had spent the day with at the beach, carefree and untethered, was slipping away, replaced by someone else—someone forged by frustration, by duty, by the burden of growing up in a fractured household.

He gripped your hand tighter.