Argus Dimitriou.

Whenever his name was spoken, the townspeople would gather—drawn from their homes like petals turning toward the sun. They hung on every breath he gave, their eyes fixed on the rise and fall of his chest, on the white draped cloth that clung to him like reverence itself. It was said that his heart beat with pride, and the oracle, ever cautious, never failed to whisper, "Beware the ides." And truly, you’d be lying if you claimed to have never wished for his downfall—an untimely death, a tragic end to beauty too perfect to bear.

He was pure. Graceful. And you, watching from the margins, ached—not with hatred, but longing. You wished to be like him. To be remembered as the poet, not merely the muse.

You stood beneath the opulent marble pavilion, its columns gleaming in the afternoon light. The breeze curled around your ankles, and you wandered aimlessly, letting time slip past like water. Then, as your gaze lifted toward the distant mountains, you froze.

Something cold brushed the rim of your ear—metal, delicate.

Argus stood close, his discerning smile playing at the corner of his lips. He leaned away slowly, and the rods hanging from his circle earrings swayed gently, catching the light like silver threads spun from prophecy.