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Chapter Text

━ ⭒─⭑━

You adjusted the light bundle of freshly laundered linens in your arms, the soft fabric pressing against your chin as you made your way through the palace corridors.

It felt good to be moving again, your steps light yet purposeful, as if shaking off the heaviness of the past few days.

The morning light spilled in from high arched windows, warming the stone floors beneath your sandals and casting gentle shadows along the walls.

You had returned to your duties just as you promised Telemachus, resuming the routines that had once brought a sense of normalcy to your days. Queen Penelope had been pleased to see you, her smile warm yet tempered with a motherly concern. She had insisted that you take it slow, barring you from returning to her chambers so soon. "You need time to fully gain your strength back," she had said, her voice firm yet gentle.

While part of you missed the comfort of her presence, another part was grateful for the care and concern you were shown, even if you weren't truly ill. They didn't know the truth, but their kindness had eased the ache you hadn't realized had lingered in your chest.

The corridor turned sharply ahead, and as you rounded the corner, you collided with someone. Your bundle tumbled from your arms, and you staggered slightly, your hands instinctively reaching out to steady yourself.

A clatter followed as the person opposite you dropped their load—a basket of clothes spilling onto the floor.

"Oh, gods, I'm so sorry—!" you began, but the words caught in your throat as you looked up.

It was Callias. His tousled hair was damp with sweat, the dark strands clinging to his forehead, and his face looked drawn, shadows lingering under his eyes as if he hadn't slept well in days. He was dressed in his usual servant's attire, but the fabric was creased, and there was a faint smudge of dirt on his cheek.

Despite his tired appearance, his expression shifted the moment he realized it was you. His eyes widened, and a grin broke across his face, chasing away the exhaustion in an instant.

"____!" he exclaimed, his voice tinged with a mixture of surprise and relief. The basket at his feet was forgotten as he stepped forward, engulfing you in a hug before you could react.

The breath was momentarily squeezed out of you as his arms wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you close. "You're okay," he murmured, his voice trembling slightly with emotion. "I was so worried—no one told me what happened! And then I heard you were unwell, and... gods, I'm just glad you're alright."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound bubbling up as you gently pushed against his chest, creating a small space between you. "Callias," you said warmly, "of course I'm fine. You didn't think I'd let a little rain do me in, did you?"

Callias pulled back slightly, a pout forming on his lips as he crossed his arms. "Don't give me that, young lady," he said, narrowing his eyes playfully. "Where have you been? And don't you dare use that dumb lie about being sick." His gaze swept over you, his brows knitting together in mock suspicion. "You don't even have a lingering sniffle or cough."

You hesitated, your gaze drifting to the side as you debated whether to tell him the truth. The weight of the last few days pressed against your chest, but something about Callias' earnest expression made you feel like you could confide in him.

Finally, you leaned in slightly, lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's... something big... something epic."

His eyes lit up with intrigue, a grin spreading across his face before he stilled; the faint sound of footsteps echoed from around the bend, accompanied by hushed voices. Callias' head snapped up, and he looked around wildly, his body tensing as though expecting trouble, his expression suddenly cautious.

The footsteps grew louder, and moments later, a group of servants dressed in Bronte's colors appeared, their arms laden with folded linens and supplies. They passed by without so much as a glance in your direction, their faces a picture of indifference, but the way Callias' shoulders remained taut told a different story.

He bent down quickly, gathering the scattered clothes from his basket. As he straightened, he leaned in close, his voice barely above a whisper. "Meet me later, under the cypress tree. Your spot."

Before you could respond, he added, "There's something I need to tell you too." His eyes flicked toward the corner where the other servants had disappeared, and then back to you, his gaze steady but urgent.

With that, he hoisted the basket back into his arms, giving you a small, reassuring smile before hurrying off down the hall, his footsteps fading into the distance.

You stood there for a moment, your heart beating a little faster as you replayed his words. The cypress tree. Your spot. Whatever he wanted to say felt important.

And as you bent to retrieve your own bundle of laundry, you couldn't shake the feeling that the day was far from over.

☆

☆

The air under the cypress tree was warm and dappled with late-afternoon light filtering through the branches.

Callias leaned against the tree's rough bark, his panpipes resting lightly in his lap. His fingers traced the edges of the instrument, occasionally pressing a note that lingered softly in the air.

His eyes flicked between the winding paths leading into the courtyard, searching eagerly for your figure, the minutes stretching into what felt like hours.

Every sound seemed amplified—the rustle of leaves, the distant hum of servants, the occasional chirp of a bird. Yet, all of it faded into the background as his anticipation grew.

He adjusted his position, his back straightening, and his fingers drumming against the panpipes, unable to shake the nervous energy bubbling within him.

Then a sharp, unmistakable voice shattered the delicate stillness.

"Callias."

He froze, the warmth draining from his face as his name cut through the air with a cold edge.

Slowly, he turned toward the voice, his muscles taut. Standing there, poised and commanding as ever, was Princess Andreia. Her presence dominated the space, her pale, calculating gaze sweeping over him like a hawk assessing its prey.

Callias' heart lurched as he quickly stood, the panpipes slipping from his lap and landing in the dirt with a soft thud. He bent into a low bow, his voice carefully steady. "Princess Andreia," he greeted, his words formal, though he could feel the knot tightening in his stomach.

Her lips curved into a faint, icy smile, though it held no warmth. She stepped closer, the sound of her sandals sharp against the cobblestones. "You seem preoccupied," she remarked coolly, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. "Are you perhaps waiting for someone?"

Callias cleared his throat, his mind racing for a suitable answer. "No, Your Highness," he replied, his voice calm but edged with unease. "I was merely taking a short break."

Andreia's gaze sharpened, her footsteps drawing her closer. "Taking a break? How interesting." She tsked softly, shaking her head in mock disappointment. "Tell me, Callias, since when did servants under my father's rule grow so bold as to rest whenever they pleased?"

He opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand, her voice growing colder. "Do not even bother insulting my intelligence with more excuses. You've been getting beside yourself lately."

Callias felt his breath hitch as she stepped closer still, her presence oppressive. Her words lashed out like a whip. "Do you think you're above the rules? Above your duties? Back home, such insolence would have earned you a punishment severe enough to make you think twice. Have you forgotten the lessons taught to you? The lessons I taught you?" Her tone was laced with disdain, her eyes piercing as they bore into his.

The knot in Callias's stomach twisted painfully. Unbidden, phantom pains stirred in his lower back, the ghost of old scars prickling against his skin. His breaths came quicker, his mind flashing back to memories of punishments long past—the searing pain, the weight of expectations that had crushed him under their heel.

He swallowed hard, his head dipping lower, unable to meet her gaze any longer.

"N-No, Your Highness," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "I haven't forgotten."

Before his words could settle, Andreia's hand snapped upward, her fingers gripping his chin with surprising strength. She tilted his face down, forcing his gaze to meet hers.

Callias' heart pounded as he fought the urge to flinch. Her touch was cold, her nails biting into his skin with enough pressure to remind him of his place.

She leaned closer, her green eyes gleaming with a frosty intensity, as if she were appraising a nuisance rather than a person. "This palace is not our home," she said, her voice as smooth and sharp as a blade. "But that doesn't mean the rules I have in place for you here are any less strict. Do you understand?"

Callias nodded as best he could under her grip, his throat dry and his voice failing him.

Andreia's eyes narrowed further, the faintest curl of a smirk tugging at her lips. "I wonder..." she mused, her voice dropping to a low, cryptic tone, "has someone been filling your head with delusions of importance? Perhaps a little musician with too much free time?"

Callias froze, his blood running cold, panic flashing through him. Every instinct screamed at him to deny her accusation, to deflect, but he knew better. Denying too forcefully would only confirm her suspicions.

Andreia studied him for a moment longer before releasing his chin with a sharp motion; the sudden absence of her touch almost jarring. She straightened, brushing nonexistent dust from her gown as though the interaction had dirtied her.

"Consider this your only warning. A servant with divided loyalties is a liability I cannot afford. Don't forget, Callias—loyalty is rewarded. Betrayal, however..." she trailed off coldly, her gaze cutting through him one last time. "Do not test me again."

Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and strode away, her steps measured and unyielding.

Callias remained frozen, his body stiff and his hands trembling at his sides; his hand instinctively moved to brush down the back of his tunic, where the scars lay hidden beneath the fabric—a cruel reminder of her unspoken power over him. His fingers lingered there, the ghost of old wounds prickling against his skin.

His mind began to spiral, unbidden memories rising to the surface.

He could almost hear the sharp snap of a whip cracking through the air, followed by the searing pain that had lanced across his back. It had been something so small—he had tripped in the grand hall of Bronte while carrying a tray of goblets for one of the royal stewards. A single goblet had tipped over, its wine spilling in a dark stain across the marble floor, and Andreia had been furious.

The punishment was swift, merciless. She had ordered him to be lashed in the courtyard as a lesson to the other servants. "Clumsiness," she had said coolly, "is a sign of carelessness, and carelessness has no place in the palace of Bronte."

He had bitten down on the inside of his cheek so hard he'd drawn blood, swallowing the cries that threatened to escape with every lash. But the humiliation had stung more than the whip itself—being exposed, stripped of dignity, while the other servants watched, their eyes averted out of fear they might meet the same fate.

Ithaca had been different. Here, there were no public punishments, no cold demands to perfection. He could breathe without fearing his next mistake would cost him more than bruised pride.

The palace still had its rules and its order, but there was a warmth, a humanity, that Bronte had always lacked. Queen Penelope's quiet compassion, the way Prince Telemachus would greet the servants by name—it all made Callias feel... human, in a way he had almost forgotten he could be.

Yet Andreia's presence threatened to shatter that fragile sense of belonging. The way she wielded power, even here, felt like a shadow of Bronte encroaching on Ithaca's light.

Callias shook his head, trying to banish the memories, but they clung to him like a second skin. The ache in his back, long healed but never forgotten, was a stark reminder of what it meant to fall out of favor with someone like her.

He bent down to retrieve his panpipes, his fingers brushing over the dirt-streaked wood as he tried to steady his breathing. He cast a wary glance around the courtyard, his earlier eagerness to see you now replaced with a gnawing unease.

And then, like the sun breaking through storm clouds, your voice called out to him. "Callias?"

He froze, his heart leaping in his chest for an entirely different reason.

When he turned, his eyes landed on you, and for a moment, the tension in his body melted away. The warmth in your expression, the lightness in your step—everything about you was a balm to the icy fear Andreia had left behind.

Callias straightened, brushing off his tunic as he offered you a smile, though it wavered slightly.

The stark contrast between Andreia's coldness and your kindness hit him like a tidal wave. Where she had made him feel small and insignificant, you made him feel seen, valued.

"____, you're here," he said, his voice softening as relief flooded through him. "I was starting to think you wouldn't come."

"Of course I'm here. We agreed to meet here, or was I mistaken and imagined our entire interaction earlier?" You laughed lightly, stepping closer to him, your hands twitching as though you were about to reach out in greeting. But Callias subtly shifted back, careful to keep the space between you.

His heart raced as he did so, the fresh sting of Andreia's reminder still too vivid in his mind.

He masked his movements with a quick smile, hoping you wouldn't notice his hesitance. Your own smile remained undeterred as you tilted your head, your tone teasing. "When did you arrive? Have I kept you waiting long?"

Callias felt his chest tighten for a moment, a brief flicker of warmth battling with the icy grip of Andreia's words. Internally, he reassured himself—She doesn't know, she can't know. "Not long," he lied smoothly, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. "I just got here myself."

You gave a small, contented sigh, the tension in your shoulders easing as you looked around the familiar courtyard. Without another word, you plopped down onto the grass, the softness of it cushioning you as you let out a sigh of relaxation.

The momentary calmness of your favorite spot wrapped around you like a comforting embrace, chasing away the lingering heaviness of the day.

You leaned back on your hands, tilting your face up to the sky, and after a beat, you peeked one eye open to glance up at Callias. A playful smile graced your lips. "Well? Don't just stand there like a statue. Sit," you said, patting the spot on the grass beside you.

Callias hesitated, his fingers tightening around the panpipes in his hands. He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking to the spot you'd patted, then back to your expectant smile.

His fake smile began to falter but shifted into something genuine as he pushed the memories to the back of his mind, focusing instead on the way you looked at him like he was someone who mattered.

With a steadying breath, he plopped down beside you, the tension in his body easing ever so slightly in your presence.

For a moment, the two of you sat in silence, the cypress tree's branches swaying gently above, casting playful shadows on the grass, providing a soothing backdrop to the moment.

Callias sat close but not too close, the space between you a subtle reminder of his guarded demeanor.

You didn't notice, too focused on gathering your thoughts.

Callias' fingers still toyed with the panpipes, the faint movements a nervous habit he couldn't quite shake. He caught your glance flickering toward them, and his grip relaxed, letting them rest on his lap.

You tilted your head slightly, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye, your fingers idly tracing the grass beside you.  "There's something I need to tell you," you began, your voice quiet but steady as though you were weighing your words. "I... I've been thinking about how to even start this, but I guess I should just say it."

"What is it?"

You took a deep breath, your eyes dropping to the ground as you tried to find the right place to begin. "It's about... Lady Andreia," you said, your voice soft but clear, and you didn't miss the way his posture stiffened at the mention of her name.

"You know how she... well, she doesn't exactly like servants," you started, glancing briefly at him before looking back at your hands. "I—" You paused, hesitating.

The memory of what had happened was still vivid, and you weren't sure how much to say. But Callias deserved to know—at least, part of it.

"Some time after I left you in the courtyard, I realized I left my lyre behind," you began, your voice faltering slightly, "it wasn't long until a Bronte servant approached me and told me you'd asked for me to meet you at the sheepfold to return it. So, I thought nothing of it and went to find you after I was finished with my duties."

Your voice trailed off, and for a moment, you stared at the grass beneath you as if the words you needed might be hidden there. Callias' brow furrowed, and his grip on the panpipes tightened slightly, but he didn't interrupt.

"When I arrived," you continued, your voice quieter now, "it wasn't you I found. It was Lady Andreia." The memory of her cold smile and calculating gaze resurfaced. You cleared your throat softly and pressed on. "She was sitting there, holding my lyre."

Callias' expression darkened at this, his jaw tightening. His hands balled into fists in his lap, but he said nothing, letting you continue.

"I tried to stay calm, to be respectful. I... thought maybe she'd let me take it and leave. But instead, she started mocking me—mocking the lyre." Your throat tightened, and you paused, glancing away as you struggled to find the words. "She called it ugly... worthless. And then..." Your voice faltered again, and you had to take a steadying breath before continuing.

"She broke it," you said finally, the words coming out barely above a whisper. "She... she smashed it over her knee, like it was nothing." The weight of the confession settled between you, and you could feel your chest tightening as the emotions threatened to resurface. "Afterward, she just walked away, like it didn't matter. Like it was just some... insignificant thing."

Callias cursed under his breath, his fist clenching tightly in the grass beside him. "That... that witch," he muttered, his voice low and full of frustration. "I... I should have known something was wrong. After you left, she dismissed me almost immediately, but I didn't think..." He trailed off, his gaze distant as he pieced together the events in his mind. "I didn't even know you'd left it behind. If I had knew..." He broke off again, his voice filled with self-recrimination.

"Even if you knew," you said firmly, reaching out to touch his arm, grounding him, "what could you have done? If she ordered you to hand it over, you would have had no choice. You're a servant of Bronte, Callias. You had no say in the matter." Your gaze softened as you met his eyes, forcing back the tears that threatened to fall, offering him a small, shaky smile.

Callias' jaw clenched, and he looked away, his fists still tight. "But if I—"

"No," you interrupted, your voice soft but steady. "Callias, this isn't your fault. It was her. Lady. No—" You paused, the distaste lingering before you forced her name out. "Andreia's just a bully with power. She would have found some other way to hurt me, no matter what."

For a moment, the two of you sat in silence, the weight of the conversation settling heavily between you.

Callias' shoulders remained tense, his gaze fixed on the ground, but slowly, his fists began to unclench. He exhaled deeply, his frustration still evident but tempered by your words.

Then, his' brow quirked up, lips twitching almost into an amused grin. He snorted lightly, the tension in his face easing ever so slightly. "Andreia, huh? No 'Lady Andreia'? Look at you, breaking the rules. Who knew you were such a rebel?"

You rolled your eyes, unable to stop the small smile that broke through your earlier seriousness. "Oh, please. If calling her by her name makes me a rebel, I'll wear the title proudly."

The banter lifted some of the heaviness in the air, and for a brief moment, it felt like the two of you could breathe again.

But then, your gaze softened, your smile fading into something more contemplative. You leaned in slightly, your voice dropping to a whisper, as though sharing a secret only he could hear. "Besides... thanks to her actions, as cruel as they were, the Fates seemed to show me a little kindness in return."

Callias tilted his head, his brow furrowing in confusion at your cryptic words. "Kindness? What do you mean?" he asked, curiosity lacing his tone.

You hesitated for a moment, your eyes brightening as the memory of the divine lyre flashed in your mind. But you didn't elaborate—not yet. Instead, you swung your satchel around, careful and deliberate, as though holding something precious beyond measure.

Reaching inside, your fingers brushed against the cool, smooth surface of the lyre. You pulled it out gently, the golden frame catching the late afternoon sunlight, which shimmered across its surface in dazzling patterns.

The intricate etchings seemed alive in the light, telling stories of gods and heroes as the strings, spun from what appeared to be starlight itself, glowed faintly, resonating with an otherworldly hum. The moment the lyre was fully exposed to the air, the faint scent of something sweet and unplaceable—a mix of wildflowers and ozone—seemed to linger between you.

Callias' mouth dropped open as he stared, his eyes widening in disbelief. "By the gods..." He leaned forward instinctively, his voice almost a whisper. "How... how did you get that?"

His hands hovered near the lyre, hesitant and almost reverent, as though touching it might prove it wasn't real. You grinned, the corners of your lips lifting as you plopped the lyre into his hands, your trust in him evident in the motion.

Callias hesitated, his hands hovering as though afraid to touch something so exquisite, but as the weight of the lyre settled into his palms, his breath caught. A faint warmth emanated from the golden frame, gentle but unmistakable, like the first rays of sunlight after a cold dawn.

"It's beautiful," he breathed, his fingers lightly brushing over the glowing strings, careful not to pluck them. As his fingers brushed against the glowing strings, and he felt an almost imperceptible vibration run through him, resonating deep in his chest.

It was as if the lyre accepted his presence, greeting him with a soft hum that lingered on the edges of his hearing, impossible to fully ignore.

Callias froze, his eyes widening further as he glanced at you. "Do you feel that?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His grip on the lyre tightened slightly, his awe growing with every second.

You tilted your head, the faintest trace of a knowing smile playing on your lips. "Feel what?"

"It's... alive," he said, his voice trembling slightly, the words faltering as if he doubted his own senses. "It's like it's breathing. It's warm... and it hums, almost like it's trying to speak."

You leaned back slightly, your expression softening with amusement as a proud smile spread across your face. "I know," you said, your voice giddy, unable to hide the excitement bubbling within you.

Reaching out, your fingers brushed against the lyre, and the reaction was instantaneous—its hum deepened, a faint glow rippling along the strings as though it recognized you, leaping to life at your touch.

Callias' eyes darted from the lyre to you, his brow furrowing as a flicker of worry crossed his features. He hesitated for a moment, then blurted, "Wait—how exactly did you get this?" His voice carried a note of apprehension now, as though the awe was giving way to concern. "You didn't... you didn't make some sort of deal, did you?"

Your hand paused mid-air, the playful smile softening into something more reassuring as you met his gaze. "A deal?" you repeated, laughing lightly to dispel the tension. "No, Callias, I didn't sell my soul or anything dramatic like that. It was a gift..." Your fingers rested lightly on the lyre's golden frame, its warmth seeping into your skin like sunlight. "from Hermes."

Callias' head snapped up, his eyes darting from the lyre back to you. He let out a low whistle, his eyebrows shooting upward in surprise. "Hermes?" he repeated, almost disbelieving. "You mean...The Hermes? Messenger God?"

You nodded, your smile growing as you recalled the god's sudden and striking appearance. "In the flesh," you confirmed. "He gave it to me freely. A gift."

Callias didn't look entirely convinced, his grip on the lyre tightening slightly. "Freely," he echoed, skepticism lacing his tone. "The gods don't just give mortals things like this for no reason. There's always a cost, even if it's not one you see right away." His voice dropped lower, more cautious. "Are you sure there's nothing else to it? No strings attached—well, besides these ones?"

You let out a soft snort at his attempt at humor, shaking your head. "Hermes might be many things, but this... this felt genuine. I think he wanted me to have it—no bargains, no tricks." The faint hum of the lyre seemed to agree, the glow of its strings softening to a gentle shimmer.

Callias studied you for a moment longer, his expression caught between awe and unease. Finally, he sighed, shaking his head with a faint smile. "If you say so," he murmured, though his tone still carried a hint of uncertainty. "But I'm keeping an eye on this thing—and on you. Just in case."

You couldn;t help but smile, warmth blooming in your chest at his concern. "Thank you, Callias," you said sincerely, your voice soft. "It means a lot to know you're looking out for me—even if it's just in case I've accidentally invited divine chaos into my life."

His faint smile grew into a mischievous grin, his tone taking on a teasing edge. "Oh, please. You don't need a lyre to bring chaos into your life—you're already pretty talented at that on your own."

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head at his cheeky remark. "I walked right into that one, didn't I?"

Callias chuckled, his grin widening. "Like a moth to a flame," he quipped, his voice light but fond. He glanced back down at the glowing lyre in his hands, the humor in his expression softening as a flicker of wonder returned. "Still," he added, his tone shifting, "I've got to hand it to you. If anyone could charm the gods themselves, it's you."

His words caught you off guard, and you felt your cheeks heat ever so slightly. You brushed the moment aside with a playful scoff. "Let's not give me too much credit. The gods probably just like a good underdog story."

Callias shook his head in disbelief, muttering under his breath. "Truly, you must have a pendulum of luck swinging wildly in your favor." His expression turned grim for a fleeting moment, as though the weight of something else tugged at his thoughts.

Clearing his throat, he gently handed the lyre back to you, his touch lingering for just a moment before he pulled his hands away. "But enough about that. I haven't even told you my news yet," he said, his tone shifting, though a shadow of his earlier unease remained in his eyes.

You nodded, carefully placing the lyre back into your satchel, its weight settling comfortably on your shoulder. "Alright," you said, curiosity piqued. "What's your news?"

Callias glanced around, his gaze sweeping the courtyard as though ensuring no one else was within earshot. Then, lowering his voice, he leaned in slightly, adopting a conspiratorial tone. "One of Andreia's personal attendants let something slip," he began, his words measured. "Apparently, she's been in talks to form political alliances between Bronte and Ithaca."

Your brows knit together in confusion. "What would she..." you started, but the sentence trailed off as your thoughts spiraled, unbidden.

Images of Andreia and Telemachus together flashed in your mind, their interactions suddenly taking on a sharper, more calculated edge.  "Oh..." you murmured, the realization settling like a stone in your chest, heavy and unwelcome.

A wave of discomfort rippled through you as your thoughts spiraled further. Their proximity during the banquet, the way Andreia's laughter lingered just a little longer when Telemachus was around—it all seemed to point to something more deliberate.

Your shoulders dropped, the weight of understanding pressing down as if the very air around you had thickened.

Though you were a servant, you weren't naive to the grand scheme of royal affairs; you understood how alliances like these were often forged.

Telemachus, as the prince, was undoubtedly a prime candidate for marriage, and while his father's disappearance had delayed such matters, it hadn't erased the possibility entirely.

You could no longer dismiss those fleeting moments as mere coincidence or your own overthinking.

The thought left you feeling unsettled, your shoulders dropping slightly as the pieces began to align. "Oh..." you repeated, softer this time, the word carrying a note of resignation.

Callias, sensing the shift in your mood, straightened, looking at you more seriously. "Listen, ____" he said, his voice gentler now, "I don't think you have anything to worry about. The prince... he wouldn't—" He hesitated, his eyes searching yours as though trying to find the right words. "He wouldn't just go along with something like that. Not unless it's what he truly wanted."

His words lingered, and for a moment, you weren't even sure why he was trying to reassure you.

And even though you tried to deny it, a small, flickering part of you wanted to believe him, to believe that Telemachus—his warm smiles, his quiet moments of kindness—couldn't be capable of viewing you as nothing more than a servant to be discarded for the sake of an alliance.

But just as quickly as the thought surfaced, you buried it, pushing it down beneath the weight of your resignation, tucked away with the rest of your uncertainties.

It was easier to accept the ignorance, to leave those possibilities unexplored.

Clearing your throat, you gave him a faint smile, choosing to redirect the conversation. "Anyway," you began, your tone lighter now, "what else have I missed these past few days?"

Callias groaned dramatically, throwing his head back with an exaggerated moan. "You mean, what didn't you miss? Everything has been so dull!" he lamented, his voice laced with mock despair. "Dinners felt so empty—even with the musicians playing, they ended much quicker than usual. Honestly, it's been like the life was sucked out of the palace."

He paused, his expression shifting to something more reflective. "And the royal family? Well, I wouldn't say I'm close to them—I mean, who is, really? But..." He trailed off, his gaze distant, as though recalling the flashes of moments he had witnessed.

"I saw Queen Penelope in the kitchens a few times," he continued, his voice softening. "She was talking with the chef, making sure your broths were just right. She even sent one back because it wasn't warm enough."

You blinked, a rush of warmth spreading through your chest at the thought of the queen's quiet attentiveness. Callias went on, his tone taking on a storytelling rhythm.

"And after you fell 'ill,' King Odysseus ordered the construction of an overhead walkway.  You know, the one that connects the palace to the sheepfold and pigeon coops, and stuff?  It's supposed to protect the servants from the storms. They say he got the idea from the Phoenicians, or maybe one of those great cities he saw on his travels."

He smiled faintly, but his expression grew somber as he continued. "And then there's Prince Telemachus..." Callias' voice dropped slightly, as if hesitant to bring up the prince. "He's been... different. Sullen, I guess, unless he's around his parents. But even then, he's quieter than usual."

Your heart clenched, and you leaned in slightly, unable to stop yourself from asking, "What do you mean?"

Callias hesitated before answering. "I've also seen him in the library, flipping through scrolls and old texts. He's been talking with the palace physicians a lot too. And Bronte's physicians—he brought them in, you know. They were discussing remedies, illnesses, treatments... trying to figure out what could help. And the prince, well, he was asking questions—lots of them." His gaze turned to you, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. "About you."

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you couldn't find your voice. A rush of emotions surged within you—disbelief, gratitude, and something else you couldn't quite name. You swallowed hard, your gaze dropping to the ground as you tried to process his words.

"He was... asking about me?"

Callias nodded. "Yeah. Looking for answers, I guess. He seemed... worried."

The weight of his words settled over you, and for a moment, you couldn't think of anything to say. The image of Telemachus—quiet and focused, sifting through scrolls and speaking with healers for your sake—made your chest tighten with an emotion you weren't ready to name.

You exhaled slowly, a shaky breath that seemed to carry away some of the tension in your shoulders. "I... I didn't know," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Callias gave you a small, reassuring smile, his earlier teasing replaced with a quiet understanding. "Well," he said gently, "now you do."