I stared at the group of men before me, standing at my husband’s side. We had been trapped in this suffocating room for hours, listening to endless arguments about why Odysseus, King of Ithaca, shouldn’t go to war. It felt like we were stuck in a loop, circling the same points with no end in sight. All I wanted was to be with our son, away from the noise. But as Queen—and with this being a war council—I had no choice but to endure.

  It was my duty now to set the example. I was to rule in Odysseus’s stead, a sole ruler until his return. The weight of that responsibility felt heavy, like a mantle I was still trying to grow into.

  “My lord, you can’t be serious!” A man’s voice rang through the room, cutting the air with more bluster than reason. My gaze flickered toward him—an old, overweight man, clearly trying to inflate his importance.

  If only this were the Spartan court. There, meetings had purpose. Decisions were made swiftly, and the men who spoke did so with authority. Here, it felt as though we were all simply spinning our wheels. Didn’t anyone care about honor anymore? Didn’t anyone remember the value of keeping one’s word?

  I didn’t want Odysseus to leave. But the promises he made—our lives, my life—were bound by his word. Had he not signed that contract to help if anything ever happened to Helen, I would never have met him. We wouldn’t have our son. I wouldn’t trade this life for anything—not even for these old men and their endless excuses.

  I let my gaze drift slowly across the room, observing the familiar faces. The noble houses had sent their representatives, and there were the elected officials—the ones who spoke for the common folk. I half-wondered what they saw when they looked at me.

  I knew full well no one trusted a Spartan woman as their queen. We were bred and raised differently from the women of this land. Did they see me as a barbarian, all looks and no brain, as they claimed about Spartan women? Or did they see me as the barbarian queen—the one who tricked their king, a brute seductress trying to take Ithaca for Sparta?

  I was beautiful, yes. Not as stunning as Helen, but I stood nearly as tall as Odysseus. I trained with my favored weapons, kept my combat skills sharp on the training grounds. I think their problem with me wasn’t my beauty, but the fact that I could match them in battle. I wasn’t a delicate flower without a thought in her head.

  Spartans knew better than to raise their daughters that way.

  I glanced at my husband as the court descended into chaos. We stood nearly eye to eye. He was almost handsome to a fault, even from the side. His long brown hair was neatly tied back, and his sky-blue eyes—those were his most captivating feature.

  He had a strong jawline, the kind that most women would fawn over. His muscles were well-developed from years of training, but it was the quiet wisdom in his eyes that truly stood out. A cold calculation lay behind them, making him difficult for others to read—but not for me.

  He was blessed by the Goddess of Wisdom herself, and it showed in every fiber of his being. It made him not only a good king—but an even better warrior. I studied his microexpressions in silent anticipation, knowing he was preparing to end this debacle once and for all. Our ships were set to sail at dawn, and the tension in the room was palpable.

  I watched him, ready to step in should he need me, as Odysseus took a deliberate step forward. My husband’s anger was clear, simmering beneath the calm exterior. The room began to quiet, as though his very presence forced the air from the room. How many times had I seen this over the years? And yet, every time, it still made me feel like a giddy teenager once again.

  “Enough,” he said, his voice soft yet commanding, drawing the attention of every man present.

  I forced myself to focus. It was time to prepare for the worst-case scenario. I needed to anticipate how the nobles would react once Odysseus left for Troy. I could already feel the undercurrent of discontent, the resentment that might grow if the war stretched on longer than expected.

  I began mentally cataloging the men in the room, each noble representing a different degree of threat. Their reactions would tell me everything.

  There was Lord Theon, a seasoned military man from the south, who had always admired Odysseus’s leadership, but would likely grow restless with the war’s duration. His sharp eyes flicked from Odysseus to me, calculating, as if deciding how much loyalty he owed now that the King’s presence was slipping away.

  Next, Lord Tiberius, an ambitious, younger noble who had always looked for any opportunity to increase his influence. His frown deepened when Odysseus spoke, his jaw tightening. It was clear he was already preparing to test my resolve once the King was gone. His hunger for power was a constant worry.

  Then, there was Lady Rhoda, wife of Lord Tiberius, whose delicate features and calm demeanor often fooled others. I knew better. She might smile politely, but her eyes betrayed a keen intelligence and a desire to secure her own family’s rise. She would watch me closely, waiting to see if I showed any cracks in my resolve.

  Lord Argus, the oldest in the room, wise in the ways of court politics, had seen many kings come and go. His age might grant him respect, but it also meant his patience was wearing thin. He didn’t like change, and with Odysseus about to leave, that could mean trouble. His sagely expressions masked a sharp mind that had more experience than most men in this room combined.

  Finally, Sir Dorian, a former mercenary who had earned a seat at the table through sheer force of will. His unshaven face and rough demeanor contrasted with the polished looks of many of the others. But I knew him better than anyone, and I knew he was more loyal than he appeared. He was a wild card, but a necessary one.

  As Odysseus’s words continued to fill the room with a commanding authority, I couldn’t help but feel a wave of anticipation building. Every movement of his, every word, sent a ripple through the assembly. He was, as always, a king—calm, collected, and commanding.

  And then, as his eyes swept over the gathered men, his voice rang out, sharp and precise:

  "Lord Argus," Odysseus said, his gaze piercing, "get your men ready. We sail at dawn. The warriors and ships you’ve prepared, they’ll be needed. No delays."

  There was no need for elaboration. Lord Argus, who had spent his life navigating the shifting currents of politics, nodded sharply. He’d heard the unspoken order, the weight of it, and knew what to do. He would see to the arrangements, as he always did, with that quiet expertise only age could provide.

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  Then Odysseus turned to Sir Dorian, his voice never wavering: "And you, Dorian. Take your men, and don’t leave a soul behind. I’ll need your best, and I want every ship ready. We’re not bringing all able-bodied men, but we will bring enough. Get it done."

  The mercenary nodded, a gruff acknowledgment in his eyes. Despite the rough exterior, I knew how much he respected my husband. It was not just loyalty, but something deeper—trust that went beyond the battlefield.

  With a final, sweeping look around the room, Odysseus’s presence filled every corner. He didn’t need to raise his voice; it was enough that his words were delivered with purpose, with the certainty that those who heard him would act without hesitation.

  So I think my greatest problem is going to be Lord Argus. I thought. He could easily rile the people, attempt to break me, and do as he wished.

  My attention returned to Odysseus, and just as I was about to approach him, my thoughts turning toward the weight of the days ahead, Lord Tiberius moved forward. His presence was impossible to ignore, the air thickening with his calculated approach.

  “Your Majesties,” he said with a deep bow, his tone smooth and respectful, but something in his voice carried the subtle undertone of his usual ambition.

  Odysseus raised a brow, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the man. “Lord Tiberius,” he said with a tone that was polite but not inviting. “You’ve something to say?”

  Tiberius smiled, a practiced gesture that never quite reached his eyes. “Indeed, my lord. It’s about your departure. With your absence, much will change for Ithaca, and I trust you understand that there will be concerns... regarding the leadership.” His words were gentle, but the insinuation was clear: a hint of vulnerability, a suggestion of instability in the kingdom.

  Odysseus stood tall, unfazed by the undercurrent of Tiberius’s words. “I am confident in my wife’s ability to handle matters here,” he replied firmly, his voice carrying the weight of command. “Penelope has ruled beside me, and she will continue to do so.”

  Tiberius’s smile didn’t falter, though the glint in his eyes sharpened slightly. “Of course, Your Majesty. But I only meant to suggest, for the sake of the kingdom, that perhaps an additional hand—someone experienced in court matters—would be of great benefit. A regent, perhaps?”

  The suggestion hung in the air like a carefully placed bait. Tiberius made no attempt to disguise his intentions. He wasn’t offering help; he was testing the waters, seeing where the cracks might form.

  My heart fluttered in my chest. I knew where this was going. I could feel the subtle threat in the suggestion—he was planting the idea that I might not be capable enough to carry the weight of the kingdom on my own. The audacity of it. My stomach twisted with the weight of his insinuation. Was I truly so easy to manipulate in his eyes?

  I stole a quick glance at Odysseus, searching his expression. His jaw tightened ever so slightly, but his face remained composed, as it always did in the face of conflict. His silence spoke volumes, but I knew him well enough to feel the tension building beneath his calm exterior.

  “I believe the kingdom’s leadership is secure in the hands of those who know it best,” Odysseus said, his voice low, steady, and carrying the unmistakable authority of a king. “No regent will be necessary.”

  The way he said it left no room for further discussion. Yet Tiberius, undeterred by the firm reply, turned his gaze toward me. His smile remained, but it shifted, becoming something more insidious—almost like a challenge. He wasn’t backing down.

  “As you say, my lord,” he said with a bow, though his words had a faint edge of sarcasm. The air between us thickened with unspoken tension. “But the kingdom’s stability often depends on such matters being planned for. I simply wanted to offer... my services, should the need arise.”

  I felt a wave of frustration wash over me, but I kept my face neutral, unwilling to show weakness in front of him. I was not some fragile thing to be manipulated, and I wouldn’t let him see the slightest hint of doubt.

  Odysseus, however, took a single commanding step forward, his presence immediately filling the room. His hand landed on Lord Tiberius’s shoulder with an unmistakable threat behind it, and for a brief moment, I saw the edge of Odysseus that only a few ever truly understood—the king who would do whatever was necessary to protect what was his.

  “You forget my wife’s place of birth, Lord Tiberius,” Odysseus said, his voice low and controlled, “and the rigorous education all nobles and royals in Sparta adhere to rule and command. And should there be any question about my wife’s ability to rule, I trust you’ll refrain from voicing it again.”

  His words weren’t just a warning; they were a promise. A promise that anyone with sense would heed. It was a rare sight—Odysseus, not as a man, but as the king who stood resolute, unyielding.

  Tiberius’s smile remained, but now there was something warier in it. He bowed once more, though this time there was an edge of reluctance, his earlier confidence now tempered by the weight of Odysseus’s words.

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” he said, his tone clipped, though he tried to mask his discomfort with another polite bow. “I only wished to... ensure things remain stable.”

  Odysseus didn’t waste another moment. He nodded sharply, his voice colder than before. “You’re dismissed, Tiberius. We’ll handle things from here.”

  And just like that, the matter was closed. As the door closed behind Lord Tiberius, the tension in the room dissolved in an instant. I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, and in that silence, the weight of it all settled over me like a heavy cloak.

  But then, something changed. The hard lines that had defined Odysseus’s features softened, and the mask of the king he wore for so long fell away like a discarded garment. His eyes—those deep, thoughtful eyes—met mine, and in them, I saw the familiar man I knew so well, not the leader of armies or the ruler of Ithaca. Just him.

  He stepped forward, his movements deliberate, as if he had been holding himself in check, just waiting for the moment when the walls would come down. And then, before I could even register the impulse, my arms were around him. I surged forward, throwing myself into his embrace, desperate for the closeness, the warmth, the reassurance that, despite everything, we would be alright.

  His arms encircled me with a strength that could protect kingdoms, but the gentleness in his touch was all for me. He pulled me close, his chest rising and falling with the deep, steady breaths that calmed me in return.

  “You’re not going to leave me, are you?” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. It was a question that held all the fears, the uncertainties, the things I could never say aloud in front of anyone else. Not even with the weight of the kingdom on his shoulders did he ever truly leave me, did he?

  “No, not really,” he murmured against my hair, and for the briefest of moments, I believed him. “But I have to go to Troy, Penelope. You know that. It’s the only way.”

  I nodded, pulling back just enough to look up at him. The sight of him—the man I had loved for years, the father of my child, and the king of Ithaca—felt like a bittersweet mix of pride and dread. “You’re going to come back to me, aren’t you? To us?”

  His gaze softened, and there was a promise in his eyes that I held onto with everything I had. “I will come back, Penelope. You have my word.”

  I believed him. I had no reason not to. But something in my heart—something deeper than reason—couldn’t silence the voice that whispered that things were about to change, that nothing would be the same again.

  Odysseus leaned in, his lips brushing against my forehead. It was an intimate, tender moment, and the weight of the world seemed to fall away. There was nothing else but us, standing in the quiet of our chambers, and the impending journey that would take him far from my side.

  Then, as if on instinct, he took my hand, his fingers entwining with mine in a gesture that felt both natural and sacred. “Come,” he said softly, his voice a mere murmur. “Let’s go see Telemachus.