𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑 ᵉᵖⁱᶜ ᵐᵘˢⁱᶜᵃˡ

˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚
Chapter 9. THE BRONZE SENTINEL

❝Sometimes the greatest victories are won by those the world refuses to see❞
˚＊✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ＊˚

A/n: last installment for Act One! Possibly won't upload again for a lil bit to finish up on Act Two. Thank y'all so much for the support and see ya soon!

The air in the throne room was thick with tension. Heated voices rose and fell, clashing against the high stone walls like waves against a jagged cliff.

Lords, generals, and soldiers of high rank filled the space; their faces a mix of concern, frustration, and simmering panic. Odysseus sat at the center of it all, perched on the grand throne of Ithaca.

His injured leg was propped up on a low stool wrapped tightly in layers of bandages that barely concealed the faint stain of blood beginning to seep through.

Despite the attempts to alleviate his pain, his jaw was clenched, and his fingers gripped the arms of the throne with a force that turned his knuckles white. His normally sharp eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, though he tried to maintain the stoic facade of a King as he silently observed the debate.

Eurylochus stood near the dais with crossed arms over his chest as he addressed the crowd. His tone was calm but carried an edge—the kind of subtle authority that made him impossible to ignore.

"Odysseus cannot lead," Eurylochus said plainly, his gaze sweeping over the gathered men. "Not in his current state. We all know it."

The room erupted in murmurs, a chorus of agreement and dissent. Some nodded reluctantly, while others frowned at the thought of their King being sidelined.

From his seat Odysseus’s mind churned. He bristled at Eurylochus’s words but could not deny the kernel of truth buried within them.

Every instinct screamed to refute the claim outright, to rise and silence the doubts in their eyes with the sheer force of his presence. But the ache in his leg reminded him sharply of his limits.

"And who would you suggest takes his place?" Antiphates—one of Ithaca's seasoned generals—challenged. His gravelly voice carried the weight of a man unafraid of confrontation. “With all due respect we cannot afford indecision.”

Eurylochus squared his shoulders, his expression resolute. "I can take command. As Second-in-Command it is my duty to step in during times like these."

Timon, a younger and brash voice among them, interjected. "I agree. Eurylochus is the natural choice. He's not only kin to the King but his record in the field speaks for itself. He’s proven himself capable time and again."

Murmurs rippled through the room dividing the assembly further.

“Capable?” Philoctetes, renowned Greek archer, scoffed. His eyes narrowed as they fixed on Eurylochus. “He's Odysseus's kinsman yes. But let us not forget how this capable man once sowed discord among his own men. He nearly cost us a campaign with his arrogance.”

The argument grew louder as the tension in the room threatening to boil over. 

"And what of Troy?" another voice cut in. It was Menestheus, a visiting Athenian general. "Odysseus was more than a leader—he was a symbol. A strategist without equal. Replacing him is not so simple."

The words stung Odysseus like an old wound reopened. He sat straighter, though the movement drew a wince that he quickly masked.

"Enough," he said finally, his voice low but commanding.

The arguments ceased instantly.

“I am not dead,” he announced despite the strain. “Nor have I relinquished command. I will not abandon my men and I will not abandon Ithaca.”

The room remained silent, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air. Odysseus’s sharp gaze swept across the assembly, lingering on each face, reading the doubts and fears etched into their features.

“Eurylochus,” he called, his tone hardening as his attention fixed on his kinsman. “You speak of duty and yet you seem to have forgotten what binds us as men of Ithaca. I have bled for this kingdom as have you. Do not mistake my injury for weakness, nor my trust in you for surrender.”

Eurylochus’s jaw clenched but he said nothing.

“I will lead where I can,” Odysseus continued, his voice gaining strength. “And where I cannot I will guide. Eurylochus will act as my second, but I remain Captai—"

The great doors of the throne room burst open with a thunderous crash.

Every head turned toward the entrance as the doors revealed Penelope and you standing side by side.

Penelope strode in first, her face a perfect mask of calm, her movements precise and unyielding. She wore a dark cloak, the fabric draped over her shoulders and flowing down to her feet—concealing what lay beneath.

Her steps echoed through the chamber, the soft clink of something metallic beneath her cloak catching the ears of those closest.

You followed at her side, your demeanor a stark contrast.

While Penelope exuded regal poise, your gait was confident and dare say lazy. It was as though the weight of the room's scrutiny didn't faze you—as if you weren't walking into a lion's den.

You were dressed for movement: lightweight shin guards and bracers gleamed in the light while a leather skirt reinforced with overlapping bronze scales allowed for fluid movement.

Draped across your torso was a well-worn enchanted messenger bag Odysseus had given you years ago; its magical seams withholding the true weight of tools and supplies you'd collected from countless skirmishes.

A hush fell over the crowd of men as the two of you approached Odysseus, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the tense silence.

The Ithacan King brows furrowed as he straightened in his seat. "Penelope," his voice faltered slightly as his gaze darted between her and you. "What are you doing here?"

Before she could respond Lord Theocles stepped forward, his expression pinched with disapproval. “Your Majesty,” he said sharply, his tone dripping with condescension. “This is a council of war strategy. It is no place for—”

"For what?" Penelope interrupted, her voice slicing through like a blade. The older man faltered, his mouth snapping shut under her sharp gaze. "A Queen?"

Penelope turned her attention back to Odysseus. "I've come to offer a solution," she said evenly.

The murmurs started again—louder this time. Lords exchanged incredulous glances, a few openly scoffing.

"A solution?" Antiphates sneered. "And what would that be Your Majesty?” His tone dripped with derision. “Surely you don't mean to advise us on warfare."

"I don't intend to advise," Penelope replied calmly over the rising noise like a thunderclap. "I intend to lead."

The silence that followed was deafening. Disbelief, disdain, and outright opposition were written on their faces, each expression a reflection of centuries of tradition they were unwilling to abandon.

"You can't be serious," Lord Theocles spat in incredulity. His face was red with fury as he stepped forward, jabbing a finger in Penelope's direction. "A Queen leading us into war? Into Troy? It's unheard of! Absurd!"

Menestheus nodded in agreement. "This is no simple skirmish or border raid Your Grace. Troy is a battlefield for seasoned men, not..." He hesitated, his eyes flicking over Penelope's composed figure. "...a woman."

The words cut through the room like a slap.

You couldn't help it—you laughed. It wasn't a polite chuckle or a quiet snicker, but a full-bodied unapologetic laugh that echoed through the chamber.

The reaction was immediate. Every head turned toward you, the atmosphere shifting dangerously.

Theocles' face darkened. "And what, pray tell, is so amusing?" he snapped, his tone dripping with scorn. "The audacity of a servant to laugh in the presence of Kings and Lords—do you find this a jest?"

Your laughter cut off sharply and the grin on your face vanished. Straightening your posture you fixed Theocles with a piercing glare.

The weight of your stare silenced him momentarily, though his lips pressed into a thin, furious line.

"What's amusing," you began low, "is the sheer audacity of men like you. Men who cling to old titles and outdated notions, sitting here wringing your hands while claiming this war is too dire for anyone but yourselves to handle. Blind and foolish."

“Blind?” Theocles' eyes narrowed. “You speak of audacity, yet you forget your place. No matter what finery you wear or how close you stand to a King and Queen, it doesn’t change what you are—a servant from Sparta, playing at something greater.”

The room was deathly quiet, every eye flicking between you and Theocles, the tension coiling tighter with every word.

You stepped forward, the soft clink of your armor punctuating the silence. “And what does that make you Theocles? A Lord too afraid to recognize true strength when he sees it? Or too bitter to admit it’s not your own?”

Theocles bristled as the red in his face darkened. “You dare—”

“I dare,” you interrupted with an authority that silenced him. “And I’ll do more than that. You question my Queen’s ability to lead while you talk about leadership, strategy, strength, and victory. Yet you don't know?" 

Your lips curled in disgust as you slowly looked Theocles up and down, the sweep of your gaze heavy with scorn. It was the kind of look that stripped away every shred of pretense and left nothing but his insecurities exposed.

“Tell me,” your voice was cold and biting, “who do you think did the ambushed at the Strait of Corinth four years ago? Who do you think outmaneuvered the Arcadian raiders before they even set foot on Ithacan soil?"

The room shifted uneasily.

"You remember that battle don't you?" you continued, your tone now dripping with mock sweetness. "March 18th. Sixty Ithacan soldiers faced down a force of two hundred—and do you know how many casualties we suffered?"

No one spoke, their silence speaking louder than any protest.

"Three," your said sharply. "Three casualties against a force more than triple the size. The defense at Mount Neritos—who do you led the strategy that allowed us to repel the enemy without losing a single man?"

"The Battle of Amnisos—dozens of enemy soldiers routed with only one casualty among our men. Border raids by Spartan brigands. The skirmish along the Cephallonian coast. The pirate fleet ambush off Asteris. Each victory achieved with minimal casualties."

"Enough of this nonsense!" Theocles slammed his hand on the table. "What is the point of this ridiculous recitation?"

"The point," you said, your voice cutting through the air like steel, "is that you've spent so much time looking down on those you deem unworthy that you've failed to see the truth staring you in the face."

The weight of your words settled over them like a storm cloud.

"And what truth is that?" the older Lord growled, his face red with frustration.

You stepped back slightly, gesturing toward Penelope with deliberate care.  "The truth," you said, "is that the architect of those victories wasn't some mythical general or renowned soldier. It was her."

Reactions rippled through like a wave.

"That's impossible!" Timon barked, finally having enough of the charade. He stepped forward while pointing an accusatory finger. "The strategist behind those victories—he is a legend."

A small knowing smile tugged at your lips. "Oh he's real," you said, reaching into your enchanted satchel. "But you got one thing wrong."

They all watched, rapt with curiosity and trepidation, as you pulled out a gleaming bronze helmet. Its intricate design—unmistakably Ithacan in craftsmanship—caught the light with an almost ethereal brilliance.

You turned to Penelope, holding the helmet out to her. Her face remained calm but you saw the faintest flicker of something in her eyes. She reached out, her fingers brushing the polished bronze as she took the helmet from your hands.

"He's not a man," your voice ring throughout the hall like a clarion call. "He's Penelope. The Queen of Ithaca."

With that, Penelope reached up and pulled the cloak from her shoulders, letting it fall to the ground in a heavy heap.

Shock spread across the room like wildfire.

Her armor gleamed beneath the torchlight—a sleek, regal masterpiece of polished bronze that seemed to glow faintly with a golden hue with the Ithacan crest adorning her breastplate.

And when she placed the helmet on her head, completing the ensemble, the effect was undeniable.

Every man there knew exactly who she was.

The shadowy figure who had led Ithaca's forces to victory time and time again. The one who had outwitted every enemy that dared to challenge her.

The hero whose name had been whispered in awe across the Greek world.

"It...It can't be!" Timon stumbled back in shock, "The Bronze Sentinel. The unknown warrior of Ithaca."

It had been her all along.

Odysseus, who had been silent until now, leaned back in his throne. His lips quirked into a faint smile, his eyes glimmering with something deeper: pride.

Penelope stood tall, her honey-brown eyes unflinching beneath the helm.

You stepped beside her. "Yes. The Bronze Sentinel. The very same figure who led Ithaca to victory time and again. And she stands before you now—not as a myth...but as your Queen."

Theocles's face was pale as his lips parted in disbelief. "Impossible," he muttered finally, shaking his head.

"Not impossible," you shot back firmly. "Unseen. Unrecognized. And yet; here she is."

"I have done more for this kingdom in secret than most of you have in your entire lives." Penelope declared, her voice calm and commanding—her tone leaving no room for argument. "And now I'm telling you openly: I will lead our forces to Troy. Not simply as your Queen, but as a warrior of Ithaca. A warrior who has already proven her worth. I will fight. And I will win."

As the final word left her lips the air in the throne room changed.

It started subtly—a faint hum in the air, a vibration that wasn't quite sound but felt deep in your bones. The light from the windows dimmed slightly as the golden glow of the sun gave way to something muted, almost crimson.

A low distant cry echoed through the chamber hauntingly. It wasn't human, but the unmistakable screech of a bird—a vulture.

The sound grew louder, more distinct, until the air itself seemed to quiver. Then, as if summoned by the Gods themselves, the fiery mirage of a massive vulture materialized in the air above the throne room.

Body shimmering like molten metal, the edges of its wings blazing with radiant heat. Its glowing red eyes burned with an intensity that made even the bravest men in the room flinch.

The vulture swooped low over the heads of the stunned court. Gasps erupted as it circled Penelope, its presence commanding and otherworldly—a divine fire that left no doubt of its purpose.

A piercing raspy cry left creature once more before diving toward Penelope. Some men stepped back instinctively as the fiery creature descended, others clutching their weapons.

But Penelope didn't flinch. She stood her ground with her chin high and her expression unyielding.

The vulture's blazing form collided with her, but instead of harm the flames swirled around her—licking at her armor and skin yet leaving them untouched.

The heat illuminated her, bathing her in a fiery glow that pulsed with divine power.

Power that left no doubt in anyone's mind.

"She's been blessed..." A hushed murmur washed over all those who witnessed this moment.

The earlier protests were silenced, replaced by awe and unease as the court struggled to process what they had witnessed.

An undeniable favor of the Gods.

Odysseus leaned forward slightly as he studied his wife. Finally a low chuckle escaped him, soft but unmistakable. "You always did have a way of surprising me," his voice was laced with warmth. "Ares himself...of course."

Penelope turned to face him fully as the fiery glow around her began to fade. "You once told me that Ithaca needed a leader who would do whatever it takes to protect its people," she said. "Now let me be that leader."

For a moment, Odysseus said nothing. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Very well."

One by one, every man within the courts y began to bow—acknowledging Penelope's authority as not just their Queen but as their leader in war.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️ BONUS  ⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The nursery was bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun.

You sat cross-legged on a thick woven rug dressed in a simple flowing gown—a rare moment of ease amid the chaos that had overtaken Ithaca.

Telemachus lay nestled in your lap, his wide eyes staring up at you.

You sang to him softly, an old Spartan lullaby you barely remembered but hummed with as much tenderness as if you had composed it yourself.

"Look at you little Prince," you cooed affectionately as you adjusted the blanket wrapped around him. "Not even a month old and already ruling the palace."

Telemachus let out another round of gurgles. The sound warmed your chest, filling the room with a sense of peace that felt rare these days.

You were half lost in the rhythm of the tender atmosphere when a familiar voice cut through the stillness.

"My love!"

The playful drawn-out whine made you pause mid-hum. You glanced up toward the archway, your brows furrowing slightly as you caught the sound of something creaking and bumping along the floor.

"How could you! How could you keep such a thing from me?!"

You rolled your eyes before even seeing him.

Penelope was the first to step through the doorway. Her lips was pressed into a thin line—yet there was a telltale flicker of amusement dancing in her honey-brown eyes. The golden fabric of her evening gown shimmered faintly in the sunlight, the soft folds swaying gently as she moved with practiced grace.

Before you could ask the source of the commotion revealed itself: Odysseus.

He wheeled himself into view; his movements slightly clumsy as he maneuvered the makeshift wheelchair you and Polites had hastily built for him. It wasn't perfect—far from it really—but it allowed him some semblance of mobility while his leg healed.

The wheels creaked with every push, and one of them wobbled precariously, but Odysseus didn't seem to care.

"How could you not tell me?" he repeated dramatically, clutching his chest as if physically wounded by some great betrayal.

Penelope sighed and crossed her arms.

"Odysseus," she said evenly, though her tone carried the faintest edge of humor, "you're being ridiculous."

"Ridiculous?!" he gestures wildly with one hand while the other held the position of his creaky chair. "You—my wife—Queen of Ithaca. A secret warrior favored by Ares himself. And you didn't think to tell me? Not once?"

Penelope arched a brow. "And what would you have done with that information?"

Odysseus opened his mouth only to pause, his expression shifting as though genuinely considering her question.

"We could've been a team," he declared at last, his tone dramatic once more. "A power couple! Do you know how incredible we would've looked fighting side by side? King and Queen, unstoppable on the battlefield!"

A small laugh escapes the older of the two. "Unstoppable perhaps,” she said lightly. “But imagine the scandal—a King so obviously favoring a fellow warrior on the battlefield. What would they say about Ithaca then?”

“Favoritism!” Odysseus scoffed, leaning back in his chair as he waved her off. “Please. It’s called a strategic advantage.”

"And besides," Penelope continued, stepping closer to stand tall over him, "I thought you'd notice. All the training, the sparring, the fact that I am clearly stronger than you."

Odysseus's eyes widened slightly as a faint pink flush crept up his neck. "O-of course I noticed!" he said quickly, his voice dropping slightly. "I...I liked it very much actually."

Penelope leaned down until her nose grazed his. Her honey-brown eyes gleaming with mischief as a sly smile curved her lips. "Oh really?"

Odysseus sputtered, the blush deepening as it spreads across his cheeks. "I mean—I just assumed it was...a Spartan thing! You know cultural. Spartan women are known for being strong aren't they?"

 "Not to the extent I went," she teased as her smirk deepened. "Or were you too distracted to notice that too?"

"I was not distracted!" Odysseus snapped, though the faint pink on his ears betrayed him. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added sheepishly, "At least...not by anything that mattered."

Penelope tilted her head, her smile sharpening as she straightened. "Oh? Like when you proposed to my cousin Helen?"

The room fell silent.

Odysseus froze mid-adjustment of his chair, his eyes widening. "Penelope..." he began, his voice strained, "we don’t need to bring that up. That was...different."

"Different was it?" Penelope echoed faintly. "You mean when you, Odysseus of Ithaca, didn't offer your hand in marriage to Helen of Sparta—the same Helen whose father made you and every other suitor swear that ridiculous oath to protect her marriage no matter who she chose?"

"I didn’t even know much about you then!" Odysseus exclaimed, his voice pitching higher as he gestured emphatically. "Helen had just mentioned you after I promised—gossiping with her ladies about how Penelope of Sparta, Daughter of Icarius couldn’t even find one suitor while she had a hundred vying for her hand. She was laughing about it!"

“And that made you think you should join her queue?” Penelope’s tone was syrupy sweet, but there was steel beneath it. “Interesting.”

“I was young!” Odysseus argued, clearly flustered. “I didn’t know any better. And besides—” He looked up at her, sincerity softening his expression. “The moment I heard what you were like—your personality, your strength, your…everything—I realized Helen was a mistake.”

“A mistake?” Penelope asked, tilting her head, her eyes glittering with mischief.

His words tumbled over each other as he waved his hands in a frantic attempt to clarify. "Not a mistake! I mean—yes a mistake. But not...you know what I mean. She wasn’t you!"

At this point you couldn't hold it in any longer. Laughter bubbled out of you, loud and genuine. The sound startled them both and they turned toward you in unison.

 "Alright," you said, still chuckling as you shoot them a pointed look. "I take it we're actually going to do this then?"

Penelope didn't answer immediately. Instead, she let a slow knowing smile creep across her face.

"Oh absolutely. Second-in-Command."