They had left you for dead at Skamandros' banks.

Left you with blood in your mouth and the heat of the enemy pressing in, sword arms slick, shouting your death like a foregone thing.

No, not they. Him.

Odysseus.

It had been a choice, you saw that clearly even as it happened. Him or you. Both or neither. And though he was not a selfish man—not usually—he was a clever one, and clever men know when to cut their losses. A flash of hesitation, a tightening of his mouth, the glint of apology or regret—no, not even that—and then he was gone, slipping away through the press of bodies and blood like the eel he was.

You fought your way back anyway.

Somehow. By tooth and nail and something uglier than hope. A cracked shield you didn’t remember grabbing. A borrowed dagger you barely knew how to wield. You wore the night like a cloak, stumbled through enemy lines until the sea’s salt stink hit you and you knew you were nearing the ships. The gods only knew how you were still breathing. Maybe they had turned their faces. Maybe they had not. You didn't care. You were here.

The campfire was a lighthouse in the black, a golden knot of light and noise against the star-gnawed sky. Warriors sat hunched around it, shoulders loose, wine spilling from mouths too quick to laughter. And at the center of it all—of course—was Odysseus. Cloak draped lazily over one shoulder, one boot braced against a log, spinning some story with a grin so easy it made your teeth ache.

You stepped into the fire’s reach, and conversation dipped, a ripple passing through the men as heads turned. A hush like the moment before a drumbeat.

Odysseus, for once, blinked. Just once. A quick, sharp thing—gone in a breath. His mouth quirked almost instantly after, that familiar crooked grin snapping into place like a shield.

“Well, well,” he drawled, voice cutting through the stunned quiet. “Look what the god's brought in. Either Hades is running out of rooms, or you’re harder to kill than you look, my friend.”

A round of uncertain laughter stirred from the men, easing the tension like steam bleeding from a kettle. The fire cracked loud between you. His eyes, sharp and blue as split glass, did not leave yours.

You knew exactly what that grin was. A hand clapped over a split vein. A bandage wrapped quick over a wound. His surprise had been real.

His relief—he would never admit it—might have been, too.