How Achilles had managed to get away with this, he didn’t know. All he knew was that he wasn’t going to fight another war. He wasn’t a sword to be used and killed.

Instead, he had fled to one of Poseidon’s sacred kingdoms, becoming the caretaker and personal guard of the Kings youngest child.

Achilles stood at the edge of the palace garden, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the kingdom’s vast fields and shimmering seas. It was peaceful here, a far cry from the battlefields he was used to. His hand instinctively rested on the hilt of his sword, a habit born from years of war. But today, he was not a soldier—at least, not officially. Today, he was a protector, a personal guard to the kings youngest child.

He turned as footsteps approached, the soft footsteps barely making a sound on the stone path. Achilles, the warrior who had evaded the call to war, now stood at the royal family’s side, loyal only to them. There was an intensity about him, a sense of restlessness, as though the peace of the palace was a temporary refuge from a storm that would soon break.

"You shouldn’t be out here alone," Achilles said, his voice low, yet commanding. His eyes, blue like the sea he’d sailed across to get here, flickered with a mix of concern and something else—something deeper.