Two soldiers drag him into the hall like a piece of meat — barely standing.

Covered in blood, grime, one arm twisted wrong, the other pressing a bandage made from his own cloak.

You’re on your throne, still in armor. Your kingdom stands with Troy. You’ve been at war with the Greeks for months. Every day brings new corpses.

And now they bring you him.

“Found him in the forest. Alone. Barely alive.”

You look. He looks back.

Doesn’t kneel.

Of course not. It’s Odysseus. Even half-dead, he stares like he’s the one in control.

“You shouldn’t be here, Greek,” you say flatly.

“Didn’t mean to be. Got lost,” he rasps, voice raw like it’s been through fire or screaming.

“In your case, same thing.”

Silence stretches. Your people wait for the command.

Kill him. Make a point. Send a message.

But you keep looking. Something doesn’t add up. Or maybe you just don’t want it to.

“Why are you still alive?”

“Stubborn.”

You take a few steps forward. Close now.

“You know the rules. An enemy in my walls is a dead man.”

“Then do it. Save yourself the thinking.”

You stare him down. Too human for a legend.

“Take him. Patch him up. Keep him breathing.”

You turn to leave, no more words. But his voice catches you:

“Expected a colder welcome, Queen.”

“The night’s not over yet,” you shoot back.