𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 ᵉᵖⁱᶜ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜᵃˡ

˚＊✦:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:✦＊˚

Chapter 1. CHAINS AND PROMISES

❝A single choice can become the foundation of a story yet to be told.❞
˚＊✦:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:✦＊˚

Countdown: 22 years remaining

The hall felt colder than usual.

Penelope's sandals scuffed lightly against the stone as she followed her siblings, her heart pounding louder with each step.

Her father's summons rarely boded well—especially for her.

The eleven year old kept her head low, her eyes fixed on the slightly frayed hem of her sister's dress. The minor imperfection briefly distracting her from spiraling thoughts if only for a moment.

'He'll say it again...' Penelope thought bitterly. 'That I'm not beautiful like Helen. Not useful enough.'

Whether it was her appearance, her demeanor, or her very existence; she had learned long ago that Icarius would never look at her the way he did her brothers and sister.

She wasn't Polyphontes: the embodiment of Spartan strength.

She wasn't Thoas: sharp and quick-tongued with their father's easy approval.

And she certainly wasn't Iphthime: the youngest who carried their father's favor as effortlessly as the morning dew from a night of rain.

No. Penelope was something else entirely. Something...lesser. At least that's what Icarius made her feel.

The groan of the great doors brought her back to reality. They swung open, revealing Icarius seated at the head of the room.

His imposing figure on the ornate chair he occupied, his dark eyes scanning his children with the precision of a blade as they filed in.

Penelope lingered at the back where she hoped—no, prayed his attention would bypass her entirely.

"Look up girl."

She flinched. The command was sharp and unyielding, leaving no room for hesitation.

Swallowing hard, Penelope raised her head, forcing her eyes up to meet her father's. His expression was the same as always: cold, assessing, and utterly unimpressed.

A lump formed in her throat but she willed herself to stay silent.

"Come closer."

The words were simple but they might as well have been an executioner's call.

Her legs felt like stone as she forced them to move forward. Each step brought her closer to the judgment she feared, her stomach twisting with every inch she closed between them.

When she stopped beside her siblings, she dared not to look directly at him. Instead she let her gaze fall somewhere—anywhere—else.

And that was when she saw you.

You stood a few feet away, dwarfed by the guard who held your shoulder with an iron hand. Your clothes were little more than rags, torn and stained, clinging to your body.

Your skin gleamed faintly under the dim light, a rich tone unlike anything Penelope had seen in Sparta. Your hair was wild and untamed in a way that gave you an almost otherworldly appearance.

But it wasn't just your appearance that struck her.

It was the way you stood trembling with your eyes glued to the floor. You were so young—far too young to be here—and yet you carried the weight that no child should bear.

Her heart ached unexpectedly with a pang of something she couldn't quite name. Pity? Anger?

"The last of her kind," Icarius's voice snapped her attention back. "A spoil of war from the recent raid."

There was no pity in his tone, only a flat recitation of facts. "Her people didn't fare well on the voyage—weak constitution, sickness....who knows? Most threw themselves overboard in defiance. Cowards. This one barely survived."

Penelope's stomach churned as she glanced at you again. Your smaller hands gripped each other tightly as though clinging to the last shred of safety you had.

"An exotic, no doubt about it. A novelty." Icarius continued with a wave of his hand. "She can be a personal servant if any of you want her."

Penelope's breath hitched. Distaste coiled in her chest at the very idea of forcing someone so young into servitude.

She clenched her fists, her pulse quickening as anger warred with fear. Refusal hovered on her tongue but she knew better than to speak against her father.

"And if none of us want her?" Iphthime asked lightly, her voice devoid of concern. She spoke as casual as if she were discussing a garment.

Icarius shrugged. "Then she'll be sent to the nearest brothel. There's always demand for something...unusual."

The words hit Penelope like a slap. A brothel. For a child?

You couldn't have been no older than seven. The very thought made her chest tighten with disgust.

Polyphontes chuckled darkly. "Well at least she'd be useful for something. I suppose I could pay a visit to the brothel in a few years."

His eyes flicked to you, lingering in a way that made Penelope's stomach turn. Thoas simply smirked, adding nothing but his silent approval.

Penelope felt like she couldn't breathe as her heart pounded in her chest. This wasn't right. This wasn't fair.

Before she knew what she was doing, the words tumbled out of her mouth.

"I'll take her!"

The room fell still. All eyes turned to her, and for a moment, she regretted speaking.

But the image of you—trembling, terrified—was etched into her mind. She couldn't take it back.

Icarius's lips curled. "You?" he asked, the word laced with disdain. "What use do you have for a servant? You hardly need one."

Penelope opened her mouth to reply but nothing came. Her mind raced, searching for an answer that wouldn't sound like disobedience.

Before she could stammer a response Iphthime chimed in.

"I have more than enough servants Father," she says with a sweet smile. "so I certainly don't need another. And I doubt Polyphontes or Thoas are interested in training her properly. Let Penelope have her. What harm would it bring?"

Icarius's scowl deepened. Thoas gave a dismissive shrug and even Polyphontes seemed disinterested now, crossing his arms and stepping back.

Narrowed eyes lingering on Penelope, Icarius finally sighed.

"Fine," he said curtly. "Do as you will. But remember—this is your burden now. Do not expect me to intervene when it becomes more trouble than it's worth."

The words stung but Penelope forced herself to nod. She lower herself and offered a hand.

"Come with me," she said gently.

You hesitated, your wide eyes searching hers for something—trust perhaps. Slowly, you reached out, hand slipping into hers.

As Penelope led you away from the hall, she felt the weight of her decision settle on her shoulders. She didn't know what this would mean for her future or yours. But one thing was certain:

She wouldn't let you face it alone.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The air was thick as Penelope closed the door to her room.

She glanced at you, standing just inside the doorway like a statue, your hands clasped tightly in front of you.

The flickering light of the oil lamp accentuated the tension in your posture, your gaze fixed on the floor as if meeting her eyes would invite punishment.

"This is where you'll stay until your own room is finished," Penelope said gently, gesturing around the royal bedchamber.

She pointed out to the makeshift bed pitifully located in a corner. "It's not much...but it's safe."

You say nothing.

"I'm Penelope," she tries again, forcing a cheerful tone that felt foreign on her lips. "What's your name?"

The silence stretched on—heavy and stifling. Penelope shifted uncomfortably, unsure on how to bridge the chasm of fear and mistrust between you.

"You...um...you can sit if you'd like?" she offered, gesturing to the cushioned bench near the room's window.

Still nothing. You didn't even lift your head.

She could see the tension in the way your shoulders hunched, the way your fingers fidgeted against the fabric of what could be called a dress.

Penelope sighed, running a hand through her hair in frustration. She felt helpless. How could she make this easier for you?

Then an idea struck causing the daughter of Icarius' eyes to lighten.

"Wait here!" she said, her movements swift as she crossed the room toward a wooden chest near her bed.

But as she passed by, you flinched, shrinking back instinctively as though expecting a blow.

Penelope froze mid-step. Her expression softened. "I won't hurt you," she said, her voice as tender as she could muster. "I promise."

She continued to the chest, this time moving slower, careful not to startle you further. Lifting the lid, she retrieved a small handmade harp.

It was simple; its wood worn from years of use yet showing signs of care. The faint scent of cedar wafting from it evoked memories from years ago.

Penelope returned to the center of the room cradling the harp as though it were a treasure. "This," she began softly, "was my mother's. She gave it to me before she...left back to sea. It's old but it still plays."

She walked over to the bench and settled onto the cushioned seat. Her fingers brushed lightly over the strings, plucking a tentative note.

The sound was soft and hesitant at first, but as she found her rhythm, a gentle melody filled the room.

It was a lullaby her mother used to sing, each note carrying warmth and the promise of safety.

Penelope was so lost in the music that she didn't notice you move. It wasn't until she felt the soft weight of your head against her knee did she startle.

She glanced down as her fingers freeze mid-strum.

You had crept closer and settled on the floor beside her. Though your gaze remained averted, your smaller frame leaned into hers, seeking comfort in her presence.

A soft smile tugged at Penelope's lips. She resumed playing, her fingers gliding over the strings with renewed purpose.

The melody wove around the two of you—a fragile connection forming in the quiet harmony.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Penelope's heart didn't feel so heavy.

═════════════════˚･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･˚══════════════════

Countdown: 18 years remaining

The warm glow of lanterns lit the garden below, casting a soft golden light over the gathered nobles.

Laughter and music floated into the night air as it mingled with the scent of jasmine. From the balcony above, Penelope watched the festivities, her hands resting on the cold stone railing. The chill seeped into her skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the scene below.

This sight should have filled her with joy—it was her fifteenth birthday after all. Instead, a hollow ache spread through her chest.

She had smiled all evening, curtsied when expected, and thanked everyone who had offered their well-wishes. She played the perfect host just as she had been taught.

But now, with no one to watch, her mask slipped. Her smile fell away and was replaced by the weight of exhaustion and sorrow.

'I should be happy,' she thought bitterly as her grip on the railing tightened. But the truth was she didn't feel like celebrating.

Her mother's absence had grown into a permanent void, the grief lingering like a shadow that never fully left.

And her father....his coldness had only worsened. Once distant but tolerable, he was now bitter and cruel—especially when he drank.

Below, a group of soldiers moved through the courtyard, their armor catching the light as they sparred for the amusement of the guests.

Penelope's gaze lingered on them, watching the rhythm of their movements—the clash of swords, the precision of their footwork. There was strength in their actions, something she deeply envied.

Though she had always wanted to be strong, strength wasn't something her father wanted girls in the family to do despite Spartan customs. Her place was within these palace walls, where her lessons focused on embroidery and courtly manners.

Any dreams of wielding a sword were dismissed as childish fantasies.

"Penelope!"

The sharp and slurred voice snapped her out of her thoughts. Her father's voice.

She turned slowly, her heart sinking as she caught sight of him stumbling onto the balcony. Icarius' face was flushed, his eyes bloodshot, and the acrid smell of wine clung to him like a second skin.

"There you are," he said, his words was laced with venom. "Hiding away while the rest of us celebrate your useless birth. Typical."

"Father," she began cautiously. "You've had too much to drink. Perhaps it would be best if—"

"Don't you dare tell me what's best!" he roared, his steps unsteady as he advanced toward her. She instinctively stepped back causing her heel to hit the base of the railing.

"You've been nothing but a burden since the day you were born," Icarius spats. "A curse sent by the Fates to torment me. I should've rid myself of you long ago."

Penelope's breath caught in her throat as his words sank in. Memories she had long buried surged to the surface, unbidden—the icy embrace of the sea swallowing her, her mother's desperate cries echoing as the waters had cradled her back to life.

"You already tried," she said through trembling lips, her voice barely above a whisper. Icarius stopped, his bloodshot eyes narrowing at her.

"What did you just say?" he growled.

"You threw me into the Sea," Penelope continued, her fear battling with the sudden surge of defiance. "Because you hated me—thought I was unworthy of the life I was given."

His face darkened, the weight of her words only fueling his rage. "And by Zeus I should've succeeded!" he bellowed. "The Sea made it her prison for saving you! A punishment for defying me—to protect you when she should have let you drown—is a price I've paid every day since."

"She paid for your sins," Penelope retorted as tears welled in her eyes. "The Sea took her back to the waters she came from, and they warned you didn't they? That if you ever tried again, you would be the one to drown."

Icarius's face twisted with rage. He suddenly lunges at her, grabbing her arm with bruising force and pushed her closer to the edge.

Shoving her back against the railing. "What do I care now?" he hissed. "She's gone, Fates have already taken everything from me. What more can they do? I'm not afraid of their wrath—not anymore."

His drunken rage and grief mingled as he leaned in closer, his voice a venomous whisper. "You're no daughter of mine. You've brought me nothing but misery and loss. And tonight...I'll finally be free of you."

"Father please!" Penelope cried. The cold stone of the railing pressed against her back, her heels slipping as she fought for balance.

Her heart pounded wildly as the darkness of the abyss loomed behind her, ready to swallow her whole.

Just as Icarius raised his hand to deliver the final push—

"My Lord!"

A voice cuts through the tension like a blade. Icarius froze, his grip loosening just enough for Penelope to wrench free.

She stumbled away, her breath coming in sharp gasps, her wide eyes snapping toward the source.

There you stood there at the doorway, your expression unreadable but your posture firm.

"Lady Iphthime has sent me to fetch you," you said, bowing slightly. "She requires your attention for an urgent matter."

Icarius turns to you with a glare, his body swaying as if caught between his drunken fury and your calm interruption. "She can wait," he slurs.

You didn't move. "She insisted my Lord. Something about the guests...." You inclined your head respectfully, forcing a light tone of urgency in your words. "and the wine running low."

That seemed to get his attention. He steps back with a huff.

"Tch. Women and their dramatics," he mutters, staggering toward the doorway. He shoves past you and stumble back into the palace.

As he disappears inside the air seemed to grow still.

His parting words—slurred and bitter—hang heavy in the night: "Lucky...the Fates must pity you after all."

You waited until the sound of his footsteps faded completely before stepping onto the balcony.

Penelope collapsed to her knees. Her breaths came in shallow gasps as silent sobs wracked her frame and tears blurred her vision.

Her body trembled from the adrenaline coursing through her veins, her hands clutching her gown as though trying to hold herself together.

You moved carefully to her side. You didn't speak at first, giving her the space to release the flood of emotions she had clearly been holding back for years.

"I-I thought..." Her voice broke the silence as fresh tears spilled over. "He was going to—"

"I know," you murmured. "But you're safe now."

For a long moment she didn't speak. The silence between you was heavy, punctuated only by her uneven breaths.

"Why..." She finally whispers "Why does he hate me so much? What have I done to deserve this?"

You hesitated as you searched for the right words. There wasn't much one could say to erase years worth of hurt inflicted by a man who should have protected her. But you try anyway.

"It's not your fault..." you said softly. "It's his anger—his fear. He blames because he's too weak to face them himself."

Her lip trembled and she lowered her head. "Weak," Penelope repeated almost bitterly. "I hate that word."

You leaned back against the cool stone railing with her and simply stare out into the night starry sky.

"Where I come from," you began, your voice steady but tinged with emotion, "we don't let men like him decide our worth. My village...it was led by women. Strong women. Our mothers, our sisters, our aunts—they were our protectors. They trained from the time they could hold a sword. They listened to each other, respected each other."

Penelope's eyes widened, her tears momentarily forgotten. "Like the Amazons?" she breathlessly asked with a tinge of wonder.

You smiled faintly. "Something like that," you admitted. "It wasn't perfect, but it was...beautiful. The kind of place where no one could make you feel small because you're a woman."

She could only stare at you as her mind turned over the possibilities. "Why have you never told me this before?"

Your smile faded. "Because...your family took it from me," the words came out heavier than you intended. But you forced yourself to meet her eyes. "I didn't want to burden you with my pain."

Her heart ached and she reached for your hand. "I'm so sorry."

You shook your head, squeezing her fingers gently. "Don't be. I've made my peace with it. But tonight..." You leaned closer, your voice firm with resolve. "Tonight I want you to do something for me."

She blinked. "What?"

"I want you to promise me you won't ever let anyone make you feel powerless again. You don't have to be a damsel my Lady. You can be strong."

Her brows furrowed. "How many times must I tell you to quit calling me that? For the last—"

"Penelope," you interrupt with a playful eyeroll. "If you're willing, I can help you. We'll train in secret. No one will know—not your father, not anyone. You don't have to stay defenseless."

Her lips quivered, the dullness in her eyes replaced by something brighter. Hope.

"Do you mean that?" she whispered.

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Of course I would. You have more strength than you realize. You just need to trust yourself."

She suddenly throws her arms around you, holding you tightly.

No words were spoken. They weren't needed.

With the Moon and stars as witness, a quiet promise was forged—one that would bind you together through the trials to come.