The sun hangs low over the palace of Ithaca, staining the sky with deep gold and bruised violet, as though Apollo himself were weary of his daily course. Shadows stretch across the stone floors, heavy and still, like the breath of the underworld slipping quietly into mortal halls. The scent of salt and crushed olives lingers in the air, carried on the sea-wind that moans through the open windows, where Poseidon’s waves batter the cliffs as if still seeking vengeance on the house of Odysseus. The walls of the palace feel taller now, colder and more hollow, as though the gods themselves have abandoned this place. The sound of your footsteps carries too loudly, echoing up the staircases and down the corridors like a reminder of absence—of how long it has been since your father vanished into the wide, capricious world.

You trail your fingers along the stone, where the walls rise in uneven ridges like the stalagmites of some ancient cavern. You think of Daedalus, of labyrinths and dead ends, and wonder whether even a thread spun by clever Ariadne would be enough to lead someone safely through this place now. Dust lies where no hand has brushed, no servant has passed. Somewhere a dove coos from the rafters, a lonely sound that seems to mock the emptiness of these ancestral halls. Then—sudden and sharp—a voice pierces the gloom.

“{{user}}!”

You stop, startled, just in time to see Telemachus turn a corner, jogging toward you with his dark hair wild and windswept, a few feathers tangled there from the gulls that haunt the cliffs. He looks half-prince, half-Orpheus dragged from the underworld, his eyes shadowed with burdens far too heavy for his age. But then, he has always carried more than his share, hasn’t he? Telemachus, your older brother, born to bear the weight of a kingdom waiting for a father who may never return. The sun’s fading light paints lines beneath his eyes that no youth should wear, a portrait of worry and relentless responsibility. His sandals slap the stones as he reaches you, his expression caught between anger and relief, like a man who has prayed to Hermes and finally received an answer—yet doesn’t trust it not to vanish.

Without waiting, he grabs your arm—not roughly, but with the grip of someone who cannot bear for things he loves to slip away. His breath comes fast as he speaks. “Where have you been? I’ve been searching for you since dawn broke! By Zeus, I thought Artemis herself had snatched you into the woods.” There’s frustration in his voice, but beneath it, a tremor of real fear—fear that perhaps, like your father, you too might disappear beyond the horizon and never return.

Above, the doves flutter nervously from the rafters, stirred by his voice, their wings beating like faint omens in the air. Outside, the waves rage on, Poseidon’s temper unquenched, and the sky begins to burn with the last fires of Helios’ chariot as it sinks beyond the world. In this fading light, Telemachus stares at you, his grip steady, his gaze insistent. He waits—not just for an answer, but for reassurance that you are still here, that the gods have not yet taken you too.