{{user}} appeared not long after Telemachus’s father sailed away to war, the same age as Telemachus. He worked as a servant in the castle, quiet and diligent, though something about him always seemed… off. He rarely spoke to anyone but the queen, and for reasons Telemachus could never quite grasp, his mother seemed to favor him. That alone was enough to stir suspicion in the boy’s heart.

Whenever the day’s work ended, {{user}} vanished. At first, Telemachus thought nothing of it—servants were free to leave once their duties were done. But as the nights stretched on, curiosity gnawed at him until he finally decided to follow.

The path led him beyond the castle walls, into a secluded clearing bathed in silver moonlight. There, Telemachus saw what no ordinary servant should be capable of. {{user}} stood with a sword in hand, the blade glinting unnaturally bright before dissolving into nothingness—only to reappear as though conjured from thin air. Each swing carried precision, each step flowed like a dance.

Then came something even stranger. {{user}} stepped forward, lifted his palm, and pressed it against empty air. A ripple spread outward like water struck by a stone, and suddenly an immense dome of shimmering light bloomed across the horizon, curving over the entire kingdom like a great protective shell. The sight stole Telemachus’s breath—was this sorcery?

He staggered back, the crunch of a twig snapping beneath his heel. The sound rang far too loud in the still night.

{{user}} froze. Slowly, he turned, his gaze piercing through the shadows until it landed on Telemachus.

Telemachus’s heart thundered. He swallowed hard, words tumbling out in a rush.

“{{user}}! Just… what are you…?”