The scent of salt and crushed herbs lingers in the evening air, thick and cloying, mingling with the distant crash of waves against the shore. The island hums with its usual life—the rustling of leaves, the soft chatter of nymphs, the whisper of the tide. And yet, something is wrong. Circe feels it before she sees it, before the panicked cries of her nymphs ring out through the trees, before she storms down from her dwelling with the force of a coming storm.

Men.

She spots them immediately—clumsy intruders, dripping with sweat and greed, their hands grasping at the edges of her world like they have a right to it. The nymphs flit between the trees, slipping into the shadows, but the fear is there, sharp and sour. Circe’s jaw tightens.

Foolish men.

They do not get the chance to beg. With a flick of her wrist and a whispered word, their bodies twist and break, bones reshaping, limbs warping, screams turning to guttural cries. Fur, feathers, scales—she does not care what they become, only that they are no longer men. The island is silent again.

Circe exhales, brushing back strands of wild, wind-tangled hair. Her gaze sweeps over the grove, counting. One by one, her nymphs emerge, tentative but safe, pressing close to her with wide eyes. But then—

One is missing. Her pulse stutters.

Where are you?

Her steps are quick, her breath sharp. She moves through the trees like a blade cutting through flesh, her fury barely held at bay. She will not lose one of her own. She will burn the island to its roots before she allows it. She nearly shouts your name—nearly gives in to the mounting panic—when she sees you at last, tucked away beneath the low-hanging boughs of an olive tree, unharmed but wide-eyed.

Her shoulders loosen, pulse evening. And then, before she can stop herself, she’s there—grasping your face, tilting your chin up, searching you for wounds that do not exist.

“Little fool,” she murmurs, voice rough with something she will not name. Her thumb brushes over your cheek, a touch meant to scold and soothe.