𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 ᵉᵖⁱᶜ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜᵃˡ

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

Chapter 6. A FIGHT FOR HER

❝Where love and cunning meet, even the cruelest fates can be unraveled❞

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

Countdown: 8 years remaining

The early morning sun filtered through the large windows of Penelope's chambers, casting a warm golden glow over the stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of lavender and chamomile—calming yet bittersweet.

Penelope sat before the polished bronze mirror, her posture rigid and her gaze distant as though she were staring into something far beyond her reflection.

Despite her practiced composure, you noticed the way her fingers trembled ever so slightly as they rested in her lap, the faint rise and fall of her chest as she took steadying breaths.

The weight of the day ahead hung over her like an invisible shroud.

You stood behind her, carefully weaving the final braid into her thick dark tresses. The strands were soft beneath your fingers, the rhythmic task offering a grounding distraction.

Outside the hum of the wind added a soothing rhythm—though it did little to mask the tension that clung to the room.

Her hair cascaded freely, fluttering in the gentle breeze wafting through the open window. At the crown of her head, where a few braids intertwined, the golden cufflinks you had chosen gleamed, catching the sunlight.

Pride flickered within you as you secured the final braid. "There," you said, stepping back to admire your handiwork. "Perfect."

Penelope's lips twitched. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, her honeyed-brown eyes catching the light. She wore a dress of emerald-green silk, the material flowing like water with each movement.

Gold bracelets adorned her wrists alongside a matching necklace that rested elegantly against her collarbone. The entirety of the ensemble brought out the depth of her eyes; making them seem like pools of calm amid a storm.

"Just...stunning," you said, your tone genuine and soft.

For a moment she didn’t respond. Her attention lingered on the golden cuffs in her hair, the bright metal gleaming against the deep richness of the inky tresses.

Her fingers brushed over one of them, a faint wistful smile ghosting her lips. "The style and use of these jewelry...it isn't Greek."

"No," you admitted unable to hide the fondness in your voice. "It's something the women in my tribe used to do. We'd adorn our braids with beads or cuffs, each piece carrying meaning." You hesitated before adding, "I thought it'd suit you."

Penelope tilted her head, her eyes meeting yours in the mirror. "It does," she said quietly, a faint catch in her voice.

But the softness in her expression didn't last. Her shoulders tensed as she straightened; her lips pressing into a thin line. "Surely won't be difficult to attract a new master..."

The words settled heavily between you, stark reminder of what this day truly meant for her. Today was the day: the contest to determine her suitor. The winner, the person who is deemed worthy of her beauty and lineage.

Yet to Penelope it felt more like a transaction, exchanging one oppressive household for another.

"It's not fair," you said gently, stepping beside her.

Penelope let out a soft humorless laugh. "In this world, fairness for women does not exist. You know that as well as I do."

Her words stung. Not because they were unkind, but because they were true. The years you’d spent in this palace, the sacrifices you’d both made—dreams stifled beneath the weight of duty.

"I know," you murmured, your voice low. "But look on the bright side..."

She raised an eyebrow. "And what bright side would that be?" Her tone was as dry as the dusty training fields outside.

"Well," you feign a thoughtful expression, "at least Sparta still considers you a viable bride. What's the cutoff age again? I could have sworn twenty-five was pushing it..."

Penelope's sharp eyes snapped to yours, and for the first time that morning, a genuine laugh escaped her—lips curling into a wry smile. "You mean unlike you? Twenty-one and still unclaimed? Quite the scandal."

You chuckled, raising your hands in mock surrender. "Touché. But hey, I'm not the one wearing gold and silk, paraded around like some prize."

Her smirk softened into something more genuine, a glimmer of light breaking through her otherwise stoic mask. "And I’m not the one braiding a royal’s hair and pretending not to be bitter about it," she quipped back.

Before you could respond, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed from beyond the chamber doors, pulling both of you back to the present.

The doors creaked open revealing a guard clad in armor. He bowed slightly before speaking. "Lady Penelope," he announced in a clipped tone. "You are requested in the throne room for the contest preparations."

The faint light that had returned to Penelope's face vanished instantly. She squared her shoulders, her composure slipping into place like a well-worn mask.

"Very well," she said, her voice calm and devoid of emotion. "It seems my stage is set."

You note the tension in her hands—the way they clench as she rose gracefully from the chair, smoothing them over the fabric of her dress.

As she walked past you she paused briefly. Her eyes lingered for a moment longer than usual, filled with an emotion you couldn’t quite name upon meeting yours. "Thank you," she said quietly.

You nod, your throat tight as you watch her follow the guard into the hall. You wait, standing perfectly still until the sound of her footsteps faded completely.

It wasn’t just custom—it was law.

Icarius had made it explicitly clear: no servant was to follow too closely behind a member of the royal family, especially during events of such magnitude. It was another rule designed to enforce distance and remind you of your place.

When the silence returned, you exhaled a slow breath and made your way toward the throne room, each step weighted with purpose.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The throne room was a flurry of motion—its high vaulted ceilings amplifying the buzz of activity.

Servants and officials scurried about, their voices blending into a cacophony of hurried commands and murmured conversations.

Your mind thrummed with the countless tasks ahead of you, already mapping out the most efficient path to complete them all.

You knew Icarius had assigned you these tasks on purpose. What other reason could there be? You were Penelope’s personal servant—your sole duty should have been to attend to her, not to fetch goblets, direct kitchen staff, or assist with the placement of ceremonial weapons.

It wasn’t the first time Icarius had done this either. His disdain for her—and you by proxy—was palpable though unspoken, his orders designed to ensure you were too preoccupied to linger by Penelope’s side when she might need you most.

“Move faster,” a steward barked, gesturing toward a stack of polished silver trays. “The feast won’t wait for your dawdling.”

You bit back a retort, your fingers curling briefly into fists before you smoothed them out. Words would only earn you punishment and there wasn’t time for that—not today.

As you moved among the servants, banners bearing the royal family’s crest were being secured along the walls, the crimson and gold fabric rippling as they caught the occasional draft.

Long tables were laid out, draped with pristine white linens and piled high with fruits, roasted meats, and ornate pitchers of wine. Everything was prepared to impress, every detail curated to highlight the grandeur of the event.

You weave through the crowd doing your best to remain unnoticed.

The suitors began arriving, each one more pretentious than the last. They filled the space with their laughter, their booming voices tinged with arrogance as they boasted of their exploits.

Some were older: their fine clothing and polished weapons declaring their wealth and status as much as their confident strides. Others were younger: their eyes filled with ambition as they spoke too loudly, desperate to prove their worth through charm or bravado.

You felt a flicker of disdain curl in your chest as you poured wine and adjusted goblets, the suitors’ demands growing more grating with every passing moment.

“Make sure my goblet is never empty girl!” one man barked, shoving his jeweled cup toward you without so much as a glance in your direction.

Forcing a polite nod, you refilled his drink, your fingers tightening around the pitcher for a moment before you moved on.

From your position near the food tables you caught sight of Penelope at the far end of the room. She was seated beside her father on the raised dais, the embodiment of calm elegance.

Her posture was perfect, her chin lifted, and her expression unreadable. But you knew her well enough to see through the mask.

The slight tightening of her jaw, the subtle way her fingers brushed against the bracelet on her wrist—it all betrayed the tension simmering beneath the surface.

Your lips pursed as a new resolve to complete your tasks quickly reignited.

You would be there for her as you always had been, no matter the obstacles placed in your way.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The sun hung high in the sky, casting long shadows across the bustling courtyard. You carefully loaded another armful of weapons onto a wooden cart, the metal cool and weighty against your arms.

The clang of swords and hum of murmuring spectators was a steady rhythm that kept your mind distracted from the lingering ache in your shoulders.

You wiped the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand. Though a part of you was frustrated to have missed the first trial—a treacherous swim through creature-infested waters of the Ketos’ domain—you felt a flicker of relief as your endless list of tasks began to dwindle.

Rumors swirled among the servants, snippets of gossip painting the aftermath: a surprising number of suitors survived, some already gaining favor with the crowd.

One especially stood out—a young king from a small island in the south, his audacity and wit sparking whispers of admiration.

The survivors now rested in the shaded tents near the arena, their wounds being tended to while the next stage was readied. Despite the laughter and chatter among the gathered nobles, there was an undercurrent of unease, a grim reminder of how many had already perished.

You adjusted the straps of a quiver slung over your shoulder, your mind elsewhere as you stepped back—only to collide with something solid.

No not something. Someone.

The impact knocked you off balance as you let out a startled yelp, the weapons in your grip nearly slipping to the ground.

"Watch it!" you snapped instinctively, irritation flaring before you could stop it.

"Well if it isn’t Nobody. You’re not trying to run me over are you?"

That voice...

It was deep yet familiar, sharp and playful as it cuts through your frustration like a knife.

You look up, your breath catching in surprise and disbelief.

"Odysseus?"

He stood before you, his grin as infuriatingly cocky as you remembered. His dark hair was longer now—damp and slightly curling as strands clung to his forehead.

Time had refined him; he was no longer the scrawny boy you once knew. Broad shoulders and lean muscle replaced the wiry frame of youth, though the mischievous spark in his blue and brown eyes remained unchanged.

His posture was easy, almost lazy, yet it radiated a confidence that was somehow both irritating and endearing.

"Well well," he drawled, crossing his arms as he looked you over. "I’d say it’s nice to see you again, but I’ve got a bone to pick with you first."

A mix of relief and guilt surged through your chest leaving you momentarily speechless. "Me?" is all you could manage, your brows furrowing.

"Yes you." He pointed at you accusingly, though the playful glint in his eyes softened the gesture. "You vanish without a word—no goodbye, no letter...nothing. Spent weeks wondering if you got eaten by the boar—which I killed by the way. And now here you are: casually bumping into me like it's no big deal."

His words hit harder than you expected, stirring memories you’d tried to bury. You’d left so abruptly back then with no explanation, convinced he wouldn’t care.

"I didn’t think you’d notice," you muttered.

He laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Of course I would! You saved my neck remember? I don't forget things like that. Though your name..." He trailed off, snapping his fingers. "Never got that did I?"

Your heart skipped a beat, though you quickly masked it with a shrug. "You didn't seem like the type to be sentimental. And my name is ____ if you must know."

"____ huh?" His grin widened, a spark of genuine delight lighting up his face. "Well ____," he said, testing your name on his tongue, "unfortunately, I have very few who are on my people I am sentimental to list. Fortunately for you, your name's now on that list."

You rolled your eyes despite the small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "So I see you’re competing for Lady Penelope’s hand?" you asked, steering the conversation elsewhere.

"Oh you bet!" he said, light but earnest. "I mean her being royal and beautiful is a bonus. But that intelligence I've heard of?" He lets out a low whistle. "Let’s just say I couldn’t resist. Plus, I’d heard rumors about an exotic pretty little servant hanging around. Wanted to see if it was you. And now that I know it is..."

His grin softened, the teasing melting into something quieter, more sincere. "Maybe after the next trial we can catch up?"

The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard as a shy warmth began to creep up your neck. Suddenly unable to meet his gaze, you avert yours.

Eyes drifting downward—you froze.

There, tied around his wrist, was a familiar braid of leather.

Your bracelet.

Your breath hitched and your chest tightened. He still had it. After all this time.

Odysseus followed your gaze, raising an eyebrow as he noticed the object of your focus. "Something wrong?"

You opened your mouth but no words came. The knot tightening in your chest refused to loosen, leaving you rooted to the spot, overwhelmed by emotions you couldn’t yet name.

Before you could gather your thoughts, the sharp blare of a horn echoed from the arena, shattering the moment.

"I should go," Odysseus said, backing away with his usual grin. "Don’t disappear this time alright?"

And just like that he was gone; leaving you standing in the courtyard rooted on the spot, overwhelmed by emotions you couldn’t yet name.