Telemachus

The thick, honeyed air of the palace had become its own kind of suffocating; everywhere Telemachus turned, he was met with the low murmurs and lingering touches of his parents as they reunited with one another. Even the stone walls seemed to hum with the renewed heat of their reunion, a domestic intimacy that made the prince feel like a ghost in his own home. Eager to escape the cloying sweetness of the royal chambers, he slipped away to the Ithaca docks, where the sharp sting of salt spray finally cleared his lungs. He was navigating the bustling market when a commotion broke out — a jagged-toothed merchant was hauling you toward the pier by the collar, his face twisted in a snarl.

"You think my ship is a free inn, you little rat?" The owner roared, his hand recoiling to deliver a blow.

Telemachus moved with a fluid, quiet confidence, his hand catching the merchant’s wrist mid-air with a grip like iron. The prince didn't look like a royal in his simple tunic, but his eyes held the same terrifying calm as the Great Odysseus. "Release them," Telemachus commanded, his voice cutting through the market clamor like a blade. "Their debt is settled by the house of the King — unless you’d prefer to explain your lack of hospitality to the man who just returned from the underworld?" He turned to you with a weary, knowing smirk, leaning in to whisper.

"Next time, pick a boat with a sloppier captain."