𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 ᵉᵖⁱᶜ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜᵃˡ

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

Chapter 7. GATES OF FATE

❝In the face of tyranny, love and loyalty forge paths even through the darkest nights.❞

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

You made it back to Penelope just as the second trial began. Slipping quietly into your place behind her in the Royal elevated box, you watch the event unfold.

The arena stretched out below in a field of chaos and calculated danger.

Wooden barriers jutted up from the ground, forcing contestants to weave through narrow paths while volleys of arrows rained down from the high platforms above. Pitfalls and snares were scattered across the field, some camouflaged so effectively that you flinched each time a competitor stumbled into one.

Penelope sat poised as always, her chin resting lightly on her hand as she watched the spectacle with an air of detached amusement.

"They're terrible," she muttered under her breath as one of the contestants tripped over his own feet, barely avoiding an arrow that embedded itself in the dirt with a dull thud. "I could do better blindfolded."

You smirked, leaning closer so only she could hear. "Is that an invitation to join the contest?"

She shot you a dry look. "Don't tempt me."

The crowd erupted into cheers as another contestant narrowly cleared an obstacle, their enthusiasm making the air buzz with excitement.

You, however, found your attention divided. From your vantage point you scanned the contestants, your gaze flitting from one figure to the next.

Their movements varied wildly—some charging ahead recklessly, others hesitating too long and falling behind. Then your eyes caught a familiar figure weaving through the obstacles with surprising precision causing you to perk up.

Odysseus.

He moved differently than the others. Where most relied on brute strength, Odysseus employed a sharp calculating agility. His smaller, leaner frame allowed him to dart nimbly between barriers, his steps light and deliberate.

He sidestepped arrows with ease, ducked beneath a collapsing platform just in time—even used the body of a fallen competitor as cover when the volley grew too thick.

The royal family seemed to take notice, their murmured conversations pausing as they watched him navigate the trial. Penelope noticed him too.

Her sharp eyes lingered on him longer than they had on anyone else as her brow furrow slightly. "He's...different," she remarked thoughtfully. There was no mistaking the curiosity in her tone.

You nod. "He's clever. Knows how to adapt."

She arched a brow. "Cleverness doesn't always win battles," she said lightly, though her tone carried an edge of skepticism. "You never cared much for cleverness before. In fact..."

Penelope's turned her gaze to you, her honey-brown eyes gleaming with mischief. "You never complimented any of the suitors before," she finished dry and teasingly.

Her words caught you off guard, but you found yourself smiling despite the fluster. "I suppose there's a first time for everything," you replied, though your voice lacked its usual sharpness.

Her smile softened but she didn't press further.

As the trial wore on you found yourself silently cheering as you watched Odysseus. The field was chaos— the remaining contestants growing more desperate as the the trial intensified.

One man nearly collided with Odysseus, swinging his arm wildly in an attempt to shove him aside. The Ithacan King ducked effortlessly, using the momentum to vault over a low barrier in a single fluid motion.

You released a breath you hadn't realized you were holding.

Some stumbled while others fell, but Odysseus stayed ahead, weaving through the chaos like he'd done it a hundred times before.

When he crossed the finish line as one of the first, the roar of the crowd was deafening—a mix of cheers, groans, and scattered applause.

Penelope's gaze lingered on him as he leaned against a wall to regain his breath. Grin as sharp and unapologetic as ever, Odysseus glances toward the elevated box.

And then he was gone, swept up in the energy of the crowd as the servants rushed to clear the field for the next stage.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The final trial was the most simple yet grueling—archery from a chariot.

Targets lined the far end of the arena, their painted bullseyes stark against the dusty backdrop while chariots, each drawn by a pair of restless horses, stood at the sidelines.

You could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on you. This trial wasn't just about skill—it was a gauntlet of endurance and strategy.

One by one contestants mounted their chariots. When the horns sounded, they would set off across the uneven terrain, attempting to balance their aim with the relentless jostling of the ride.

The first competitor loosed an arrow that sailed far off course and landed harmlessly in the dirt. Before he could fire again, his chariot struck a hidden dip in the ground, sending him sprawling.

The pattern repeated itself.

Some managed a few well-placed shots before losing control of their horses, their chariots careening wildly into barriers. Others fell victim to their own overconfidence, their arrows clattering uselessly against the targets' edges.

And then came Odysseus.

Every breath seemed to have stilled as he stepped onto the platform, his mismatched eyes scanning the arena with sharp focus.

His chariot was smaller than most, the horses leaner but quick-footed. The reins fit easily in his hands as he tested the tension with an air of quiet confidence.

When the horn sounded he took off like an arrow loosed from a bow.

Odysseus handled the reins with precision, guiding the horses around jagged rocks and divots in the earth with an ease that made the crowd lean forward in anticipation.

Even Icarius sat straighter in his seat, though his expression was unreadable.

The first arrow he fired struck just shy of the bullseye. The second hit closer. A sudden jolt in the terrain nearly unseated him and you felt your heart lurch.

He steadied himself just in time, using his momentum to notch another arrow and fire. It struck true: piercing the center, the thunk audible even from where you stood just as Odysseus crossed the finish line.

The arena fell silent for a moment before the crowd broke into thunderous applause.

Penelope slowly rose form her seat along side her father. His face betrayed nothing, but you could sense the displeasure simmering beneath his composed exterior.

Odysseus dismounted, brushing dirt from his tunic as he stood tall before the royal box, his chest heaving with exertion.

Penelope, still standing, began to descend the steps with a calm grace that belied the turmoil you knew she must be feeling.

She approached him, her emerald-green dress catching the light as she extended her hand. The contrast between them was striking—her poised elegance against his battle-worn but triumphant form.

And yet, as their eyes met, there was an undeniable connection.

Odysseus seemed at a loss for words. A faint blush dusted his cheeks as he held her gaze before fixing his composure and bowing his head, his forehead brushing her fingers lightly.

Penelope's lips curved into the faintest of smiles, a glint in her eyes. You could see it—the spark of hope she rarely allowed herself to show.

But the moment didn't last.

Icarius stepped forward, his voice booming over the crowd. "To uphold our palace's personal Spartan tradition of patience," he began, his tone dripping with authority, "the wedding ceremony will take place tomorrow morning!"

A ripple of confusion spread through the audience, whispers weaving their way through the crowd. Instead of sharing their sentiments, anger filled your being.

You knew this game too well.

This wasn't about tradition. It was a clever strategy; one that allowed him to maintain control over Penelope while masking his cruelty behind the guise of honor and duty.

Delaying the ceremony under the guise of tradition only to spring a new trial on the unsuspecting groom. A trial that more often than not ended in death.

You recalled the last ceremony, when a suitor came out victorious. Icarius had promised a grand ceremony only to announce a "final test of courage" the morning of the wedding.

The groom had never returned from the forest where the trial took place.

You glanced at Penelope, searching her face for a sign of her thoughts. Yet as the crowd began to disperse Penelope's expression didn't falter.

She inclined her head gracefully to her father, her eyes flickering to you for the briefest moment. Your resolve hardened. You nodded in return, the gesture subtle but resolute.

You knew what you had to do.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

Night had settled heavily over the palace. As the last of the servants extinguished torches in the halls, the faint glow of moonlight became the only source of light to guide your way.

Your footsteps were soft but deliberate, each one echoing louder in your ears than it should. The shadows along the walls seemed to stretch and twist as if they were alive and knew of what you were about to do.

The risk was undeniable. If you were caught Icarius' punishment would be an automatic brutal death.

And yet the thought of Penelope—trapped beneath her father's control, her freedom crushed beneath the weight of tradition—outweighed the consequences.

You had no choice.

You reached Odysseus's chambers and paused just outside the slightly ajar door. The low murmur of voices from within told you he wasn't alone.

Peeking inside you saw Odysseus sitting on the edge of a his bed, his armor stripped and laid neatly to the side.

Despite the exhaustion written in his features, his mismatched eyes remained sharp, scanning the faces of his men as they spoke in hushed tones.

His small group of men were a mix of weariness and restless energy, their cloaks rumpled and their weapons close at hand. You hesitated, your hand hovering near the doorframe.

These were soldiers—loyal to their King and quick to action. To step into their space uninvited was to gamble with your life.

But then you thought of Penelope again—of her father's cold calculating gaze and the cruelty you knew that lay behind his veneer of civility. Your fear turned to determination.

You pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The men turned sharply, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons. One even began to draw his sword before Odysseus held up a hand to stop him.

"Stand down," Odysseus said, his eyes fixed on you. He stood slowly, his expression shifting from surprise to concern. "Something's wrong," he said immediately. "You've got that look."

"You need to leave," you said, your tone firm despite the tension in your voice. "You and your men. Tonight."

He blinked, startled by the urgency. "Leave? Why? I've just won the contest. The marriage—Penelope's hand—"

"You don't understand," you interrupted, your voice trembling slightly. "Her father will never allow it. This contest is a farce—just like all the others. He doesn't want her to marry. He wants her to stay here, miserable, under his control until the day she dies."

The room fell silent. Odysseus's men exchanged uneasy glances, their trust in you clearly absent. One of them, a burly soldier with a scar across his cheek, stepped forward.

"How do we know you're not setting us up?" he asked, his voice low and suspicious. "What if this is some kind of trap?"

Odysseus held up a hand to silence him but didn't look away from you. "Explain," he said simply, his tone calm but edged with urgency.

You swallowed hard. "Icarius has done this before. For two years he's done this—holding contests, finding excuses to delay the wedding ceremony, and then creating new trials that kill every last suitor."

Odysseus could only stare at you as the weight of your words sink in. His face darkened, his jaw tightening. "Why would he do that to his own daughter?"

"Because he doesn't care about her happiness," you said bitterly. "Only his power over her."

Odysseus's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "That's monstrous."

"Yes," you said simply. "And if you stay he'll find a way to destroy you too."

His gaze softened and he stepped closer, searching your eyes. "Is there anything I can do?"

You felt a smile tug at your lips despite the fear twisting in your chest. "Yes. Leave. Take your men and meet me at the gates before dawn approaches. I'll handle the rest."

Odysseus frowned, suspicion flickering in his eyes. "What are you planning?"

"Trust me," you said firmly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I have everything ready. Just be there."

For a moment Odysseus hesitated. His sharp mind worked through the possibilities, the risks and the trust he had come to place in you despite your often curt demeanor.

After what felt like an eternity he nodded. "Alright. I trust you."

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The air was thick with tension as Odysseus and his ten men gathered at the gates.

Their cloaks did little to stave off the chill that crept through their bodies—a cold that came not from the weather but from the danger they all felt.

Some of them shifted uneasily, their eyes darting toward the watchtower and back to the darkened streets behind them.

"This is madness," one muttered at the back of the group. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white. "Sneaking out like thieves in the night. We're fighters not criminals."

"Better a living thief than a dead warrior," another retorted bitterly. "If the rumors about Icarius are true we've no other choice."

"Silence," Odysseus snapped. He stood slightly apart from the group, his gaze fixed on the shadows of the watchtower.

He was tense too—though he didn't show it. Every creak of the gates, every distant bark of a dog sent a fresh jolt through his chest.

His mind raced with possibilities, questions he hadn't had the chance to ask you: What exactly were you planning? And why did it feel like something more was at stake than just his safety?

Somewhere in the distance a guard's boots echoed faintly against the stone, the sound fading as they rounded a corner. The group tensed as one, their hands twitching toward their weapons.

"This feels like a trap," the first Ithacan soldier muttered again..

"It's not," Odysseus said sharply, though the knot in his stomach said otherwise. "Enough. We wait."

A sudden faint rustling caught his attention. It wasn't the wind.

Odysseus raised a hand and his men immediately fell silent, their blades sliding from their scabbards with the soft hiss of metal on leather.

The flickering torchlight painted shifting shadows on the ground, making the source of the sound impossible to pinpoint.

"Hold steady," he murmured. The rustling grew louder—closer until finally, a cloaked figure emerged from the darkness, their face obscured by a dark veil.

Odysseus relaxed slightly as his hand falls away from the hilt of his sword. "____," he said, his tone softening with relief. "You're here."

He stepped forward, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. "I owe you more than I can say and I'm grateful beyond words. But there's something I need you to understand. I can't leave without her..."

His voice softened as his gaze dropped, as though speaking aloud laid bare the depth of his feelings. "A wife in my heart already, I would sooner face every enemy Sparta throws my way than abandon her here. If it comes to war to bring her home then so be it. I would do so, for My Penelope."

The figure said nothing at first, their head tilting slightly as if considering his declaration. Their silence stretched long enough to unsettle him.

"____?" he pressed, his brows knitting. "What is it? Why aren't you—"

The figure's hands reached up, and in a fluid motion, the veil slipped away.

Odysseus's breath caught in his throat. The rest of the world seemed to fade, swallowed by the quiet gasp that escaped his lips.

"Penelope," he whispered, the name tumbling out before he could stop it.

She stood before him, her dark hair still woven with the golden cuffs that glinted like stars in the moonlight.

"Surprised?" she asked calmly, a teasing smile tugging at her lips.

Odysseus he could only stare. His thoughts were a whirlwind of disbelief and awe.

The sharp sound of a creaking gate broke the moment, the giant wooden barrier opening just enough to allow safe passage. He turned sharply to see you leaning out from the narrow window of the watchtower above waving a white flag.

The faint light of a torch caught the glint of satisfaction in your eyes as you motioned for them to move quickly.

"Move!" Odysseus barked to his men, his voice regaining its usual sharpness. They hesitated for a moment before obeying and slipping through the now-loosened gates in silence.

"Well?" Penelope's voice drew his attention back to her. She stepped closer, her smile softening as she tilted her head. "Shall we go home...husband?"

For a moment he could only stare at her, his chest tight with emotions he couldn't name. Then with a small huff he held out his hand.

"Let's go."

Penelope placed her hand in his and together they stepped through the gates. The newlywed couple stayed behind for a moment, their hands clasped tightly as they turned back toward the watchtower.

You emerged from the shadows, descending the steps with a calm deliberate pace. For a moment the three of you stood together in the quiet, the gravity of the moment settling over you.

Odysseus met your eyes as his face softened into something sincere. "Thank you. For everything."

You waved him off, a faint smile playing on your lips as you fought to keep your voice light. "It wasn't a big deal." You gestured vaguely behind you and force a chuckle. "Just a little bribing of the guards, hours of prying the gate bolts so it'll open without making too much a racket, and timing when the patrols would pass by. No big deal at all."

The edge of your smile suddenly slips as you turn your gaze away. The weight in your chest growing heavier as you met Odysseus's eyes again.

For all his cleverness, he couldn't see the quiet ache you were trying to mask.

You hesitate, the words catching in your throat before finally finding your voice. "Take care of her," is all you can make out. The faint humor from earlier was gone—replaced by something raw and unyielding.

Penelope releases a laugh as she stepped forward. "What are you talking about, ____?" she said, her voice tinged with confusion and something softer.

She reached out, her fingers brushing against your arm. "You're coming with us."

Your eyes widened slightly as surprise flicker across your face. "...W-what? Penelope, I can't—"

"You can," she interrupted firmly. Her grip tightened slightly. "You mean too much to me to stay behind. Besides," she added, a smile curving her lips, "I can't imagine ruling Ithaca without you by my side."

You opened your mouth but no words came. The faint sound of rustling leaves filled the silence as you stared at her, the weight of her words sinking in.

Odysseus gave you a knowing smile as he steps closer. "She's right. You're part of this, whether you like it or not."

Your gaze shift between the two of them and the faint glow of the palace. You were torn. The life you'd known—your duty, your home—was slipping away with each passing moment.

Then, with a small sigh and a faint smile, you nod. "Alright. Let's go."

Penelope's face lit up and she lace her fingers through yours. Standing between you and Odysseus, you began to move beyond the gates.

The chill of the night seemed less biting now, the weight on your chest easing with every step. Though the path ahead was uncertain, one thing was clear:

You were no longer walking it alone.