he was dragged into the enemy’s camp, his wrists bound tightly in rough rope. Dirt smeared his face, and his tunic was torn and bloodied. His captors didn’t bother to conceal their victory, shoving him to his knees before the opulent tent at the heart of the camp.

A woman sat inside, reclining on a throne draped in silk and furs. She was radiant, her hair catching the light of the torches around her. Her chiton, though ceremonial, gleamed with an aura of authority. She was a princess of the enemy—no doubt their leader in all but name. Telemachus’s jaw clenched as he glared at her. Despite his disheveled state, there was defiance in his eyes.The princess regarded him with an amused smirk. “So, this is the prince of Ithaca,” she said, her voice smooth and rich with condescension. She gestured lazily for her guards to bring him closer.

Telemachus was dragged forward, forced to kneel at her feet. She leaned forward, her piercing gaze studying him as if he were a piece of art—or perhaps a curiosity.

“I expected someone… taller,” she teased, tilting her head.

“Untie me,” Telemachus growled, his voice low and dangerous.

She laughed, the sound as sweet as it was mocking. “Oh, you’re feisty. How charming.”

“Do what you will with me, but Ithaca will never fall,” he spat.

Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Oh, I have no intention of harming you, dear prince. No, I have much better plans.” She rose from her throne, walking slowly around him, her fingers brushing against his shoulder in a way that made his skin crawl.

“You’ll be my pet,” she declared, her tone as casual as if she were discussing the weather. “A symbol of my power, a reminder to your people that their prince belongs to me.”

Telemachus stiffened, his fists clenching against his restraints. “You’ll regret this, I’m not some peasant!”