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Chapter Text

· ─ ·𖥸· ─ · 

The palace of Ithaca was filled with laughter that day — a kind of joy that only came when peace was so long that people forgot what it meant to fear. Today, the celebration was for two of its youngest: Phoebe and Niketas, the king’s children, twins who had somehow made it to the age of six without tearing down the halls with their endless energy.

The great hall had been decorated with wreaths of olive leaves and garlands of wildflowers, gathered by hand that morning by the servants and Melia herself. The smell of honey cakes and roasted lamb drifted through the open windows. The air was warm, the sea calm beyond the cliffs.

Telemachus, now twenty-six, watched his children from the head of the table. His brown hair had begun to show a streak or two of silver — or perhaps it was the twins’ doing. Melia, radiant at twenty-eight, sat at his side, her dark curls pinned with gold.

Odysseus, older now but still sharp-eyed and proud, had Phoebe perched on his thigh, her little hands smudged with crumbs. He kept one arm around her, as if she might leap off and storm the hall at any moment. Penelope entered then, carrying a small honey cake, its top adorned with two beeswax candles. She set it down with a smile as wide as the sea.

Phoebe and Niketas leaned forward at once, their eager faces nearly touching as they both drew in breath.

“Wait, wait—together now,” Telemachus said, already knowing what would follow.

But of course, as the candles flickered, they both blew at once — and then burst into argument over who had done it first.

“I blew harder!” Phoebe insisted, crossing her arms.

“No, I did!” Niketas retorted, his cheeks pink with frustration.

Telemachus ran a hand through his hair and chuckled softly. “Enough, you two. Here.” He plucked the candles from the cake, handed one to each twin. “One wish each. Problem solved.”

Having two of them, well — it was like wrestling a storm twice over. Two babies who knew only how to cry or bicker, or both at once. Oh, gods, the crying. Especially Phoebe’s. She wailed like the princesses in old songs, never satisfied no matter how many sweets or stories were offered. And yet, despite it all, Telemachus and Odysseus adored her. There was no end to the kisses planted on her cheeks, no shortage of arms to lift and comfort her.

Niketas — though always ready to argue with his sister — was the first to run to her when she cried. He’d hug her tight until the sobs stopped. He did the same for Melia, always clinging to her skirts, always eager to stay near. With Penelope, though... well, he kept a respectful distance. She was tall, graceful, beautiful — a little too grand in his young eyes.

Once, bold as anything, Niketas had announced he would marry Penelope when he was grown. The family had laughed and played along, much to his delight. Phoebe, not one to be outdone, declared she would marry their father — which had brought on another round of laughter, and a blush to Telemachus’s cheeks.

Yes, these two were loud, wild, and more than enough to fill the halls with life.

Anyone could see that Phoebe bore the mark of Odysseus: the same strong nose, the same mismatched eyes — one brown, one grey — though it was always the brown eye her grandfather kissed. Niketas, though... Niketas was the puzzle. His hair, a soft blond no one could explain, had the city whispering. People spoke in quiet corners of Melia’s supposed disloyalty, of the queen’s humble origins and what that might mean.

But Telemachus never let such talk take root. His faith in Melia was unshaken. And Niketas, for his part, never let a slight pass. When he heard gossip, he’d approach the offenders with his small chest puffed out, imitating the speech of the nobles with surprising precision for a child.

“Is there something you wish to say of my mother, good sir?” he would ask, head tilted, voice steady as a judge’s.

More than one gossiper had left red-faced, mumbling apologies as they fled.

On this day, the sun shone bright on Ithaca, and for all their noise and nonsense, the twins were the heart of a kingdom at peace — for now.

· ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

The next day, Ithaca stirred slowly under a veil of gold. The streets were still quiet, with only the sound of sandals against stone and the distant clatter of a baker opening his shutters.

Odysseus walked down the hill with Phoebe in his arms, wrapped in a soft wool shawl, her dark curls tangled from sleep. Her mismatched eyes blinked against the sunlight — one brown like warm earth, the other gray like stormy skies.

She watched as the city woke up: the sea catching fire with the rising sun, the fishermen unfurling their nets, a cat leaping between rooftops. She pressed her head to her grandfather’s shoulder.

“Why does the sun come back every morning?” she asked quietly, her breath warm on his neck.

Odysseus chuckled. “Because it loves the sea too much to stay away.”

Phoebe considered this with furrowed brows. “But if it loves the sea… why does it leave at night?”

“Even the sun gets tired, little owl,” he said, smiling. “It needs to rest so it can shine again tomorrow.”

She frowned. “I don’t want to rest. I want to stay awake forever.”

“That,” he said, “is the truest thing a six-year-old has ever said.”

They walked in silence for a few more steps. The market wasn’t open yet, but a few merchants were setting up their stalls. One of them waved to Odysseus, and Phoebe waved back shyly. She shifted in his arms.

“Grandfather?” she asked.

“Yes, little owl.”

“Do you think I’ll be queen?”

Odysseus slowed his steps. “Why do you ask that?”

“Because the people think Niketas will be king,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “But I’m older by two minutes.”

Odysseus looked down at her, his expression unreadable. Then he kissed the brown eye — her left one — just once, the way he always did.

“I think,” he said gently, “that the people don’t always know what they’re talking about.”

Phoebe squinted at him. “But what do you think?”

He smiled. “I think you’ll be exactly what Ithaca needs. And I think no one will see it coming.”

She grinned at that. Then her brow furrowed again.

“What does that mean?”

“You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“You always say that.”

“And one day,” he said, swinging her gently in his arms, “you’ll say it too.”

They reached the fountain at the center of the city, the water sparkling in the morning light. Odysseus sat on the edge with her, pointing out the sea birds gliding in lazy circles above them.

Phoebe leaned her head against him again, quiet now. She didn’t fully understand his answers — not yet — but she liked the way they sounded, like riddles from a song only grown-ups could hear.

And Odysseus? He liked having someone to talk to who still believed the world was full of good questions.

· ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Phoebe’s footsteps echoed softly in the polished halls as she made her way to her bedroom, the day still young and golden from her morning walk with Odysseus. The scent of fresh olive wood and warm stone wrapped around her like a familiar cloak.

The door creaked open just as she pushed it, and there stood Niketas, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His soft blond hair fell messily across his forehead, a few strands catching the light like spun gold.

“Phoebe,” he said quietly, his voice still heavy from dreams. “Where were you? I woke up and you were gone.”

She smiled, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. “I went with Grandfather on a walk. The city was waking up — it was quiet and warm and the sea looked like glass.”

Niketas’s eyes widened a little, but then his expression softened. “Did he say anything special?”

Phoebe nodded, sitting down on the small bed and patting the space beside her. “He told me I’d be queen someday.”

Niketas’s smile faltered, replaced by a shadow that crept into his eyes. He shuffled closer and sat beside her, legs dangling over the edge.

“Does he love me too?” His voice dropped, a tremble barely hidden beneath the words. “Does he say things like that to me?”

Phoebe’s heart tightened at the sudden doubt that flickered in her brother’s eyes. She reached out, taking his small hand in hers.

“Yes,” she said firmly, squeezing his fingers. “Odysseus loves you. He’s just kinder to you in his own way. You know… he talks to me because I ask questions, but he’s proud of you, Niketas. Even if he doesn’t say it out loud.”

Niketas looked up, searching her face as if trying to believe her. “Are you sure?”

Phoebe smiled softly, brushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “I’m sure. You’re his grandson. And you’re my brother. That means something, right?”

He nodded slowly, his breath steadying.

“Besides,” Phoebe added with a mischievous grin, “he said I’d be queen, but that you and I could rule together. Like partners.”

Niketas’s face brightened at that, a warmth returning to his eyes. He leaned into her, wrapping an arm around her small shoulders.

“We’ll be rulers together,” he whispered. “No one can say otherwise.”

Phoebe rested her head against his, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek.

“Always,” she said.

Niketas smiled, then quietly pulled her to her feet. Their fingers laced together as they walked toward the kitchen, ready to face the day — side by side, stronger together than alone.

· ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

The morning sun filtered through the tall, narrow windows of the study room—a quiet chamber lined with scrolls, tablets, and the faint scent of olive oil lamps. The walls bore frescoes of ancient heroes and distant battles, silent witnesses to the wisdom that had been passed down through generations.

Niketas sat at a low wooden table, fingers gripping a sharpened reed stylus as he traced letters on a wax tablet. Across from him, Odysseus watched intently, his dark eyes sharp but patient.

“Good,” Odysseus said, nodding slowly as Niketas carefully wrote each character. “Remember, the alphabet is not a race. It is the path to wisdom.”

Niketas swallowed, his tongue pressing against the roof of his mouth in concentration. He knew this moment was more than just a lesson—it was his chance to show his grandfather he was worthy. Worthy of the name, of the blood, and of the future that awaited.

When it was time to read aloud, Niketas straightened in his seat. His voice was steady, but his heart hammered fiercely.

“‘The sun rises in the east and sets in the west,’” he said, enunciating every word as carefully as he could.

Odysseus’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Very good. No mistakes.”

Niketas exhaled slowly, relief washing over him. He wiped his palms on his tunic and picked up the stylus again, determined to keep this streak going.

The study was quiet except for the scratch of stylus on wax and the occasional murmur of approval from Odysseus.

“You have the heart of a scholar,” Odysseus said finally. “But remember, Niketas—wisdom is not just in perfect letters. It is also in knowing when to rest, when to ask questions, and when to listen.”

Niketas nodded, though he was already thinking about the next time he could practice and show his grandfather he was just as capable as Phoebe.

He glanced up briefly and caught Odysseus’s gaze—there was pride there, subtle but unmistakable.

For a moment, Niketas allowed himself to believe that he was more than the whispers, more than the doubts. That he was a true heir in his own right.

And for the first time that day, the heavy weight on his shoulders felt a little lighter.

· ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

While Odysseus sat contentedly in the study, guiding Niketas through alphabets and proverbs, the upper chamber of the palace told a very different story.

There, in the soft light of a high window, Penelope sat on a wooden stool beside her loom, weaving with the calm, practiced movements of someone who had spent a lifetime crafting both cloth and patience. Her silver hair was wrapped in a delicate braid, her posture straight, her hands steady.

Across from her, sitting on a floor cushion with her legs splayed out, was Phoebe—her tunic wrinkled, her hair already half undone, her eyes narrowed in boredom.

Penelope passed her a new bundle of thread.

“Try again. This time, make a house. Something simple. Something peaceful.”

Phoebe rolled her eyes dramatically and picked up her shuttle. The tension on the threads groaned beneath her fingers. She wove quickly, sloppily, her tongue sticking out in concentration. When she finally stepped back, Penelope leaned over to inspect it.

It was not a house.

It was unmistakably a sword.

A crooked one, with jagged edges and a point that looked like it was meant to stab straight through the fabric itself.

Penelope’s lips thinned. “Phoebe—”

“I tried,” Phoebe interrupted. “But houses don’t look fun.”

Penelope pressed a hand to her brow. “Fine. Something gentler. Try a flower this time. A lily, or a daisy. Something with… softness.”

Phoebe gave a theatrical sigh, took more thread, and got to work. Her fingers moved faster now. When she finally stopped, Penelope hesitated before looking.

There, clashing violently against the pale linen threads, was what could only be described as a blaze. A chaotic weave of orange, red, and black, spiraling outward like a firestorm swallowing a garden.

Penelope stared. “You were told to weave a flower.”

Phoebe nodded, unapologetic. “It’s a fire flower.”

“It’s not a flower.”

Phoebe shrugged. “It could be. If it was angry enough.”

Penelope took a slow, long breath, then gathered herself. She picked up a red thread this time and laid it across Phoebe’s palms.

“Very well. Something symbolic, then. Weave a heart.”

Phoebe looked at the thread in silence for a moment. Then she smiled—too sweetly.

She wove in silence, the shuttle moving in sharp, fast strikes. When she was done, Penelope leaned forward again, dread pooling in her chest.

This time, it was a heart… but not a soft, round one.

It was jagged. Cracked. There were sharp lines surrounding it, and thread dyed red dripping from the bottom like bleeding wounds.

Phoebe grinned. “There. A real heart.”

Penelope swallowed. “Why is it bleeding?”

“Because hearts break,” Phoebe answered, her voice matter-of-fact. “And blood always falls on the battlefield. That’s what they do.”

Penelope stared at her granddaughter, unsure whether to scold or simply… give up.

She stood slowly. “Enough weaving for now. Let’s move to something you can’t turn into warfare.”

She walked to the lyre, delicately carved and polished with mother-of-pearl. She strummed a simple, beautiful melody—one her mother had taught her when she was Phoebe’s age. A song about home, and dawn, and safe returns.

“Here,” Penelope said gently. “You try.”

Phoebe took the lyre and strummed once—hard. Then again, louder. The strings screamed with discord. Then she attacked it, fingers bouncing wildly, chaotic and sharp, eyes bright with some unnamable energy.

It was—technically—music. But to anyone who had ever heard the lyre before, it sounded more like the war cry of an animal being chased off a cliff.

Penelope winced. “Phoebe…”

Phoebe looked up, beaming. “I made it better. It needed to be louder. Like a real feeling.”

Penelope sat down heavily on the stool. She was quiet for a long moment. Then she folded her hands in her lap and stared at the floor.

“You are… not like other girls,” she said at last.

Phoebe paused, then tilted her head. “Is that bad?”

Penelope didn’t answer. Not with words.

But the silence in the room, once filled with song and thread, said more than enough.

· ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

The moon hung low and silver over Ithaca, casting long, sleepy shadows through the open balcony doors of the royal nursery. Crickets sang in the distance. A breeze drifted in, rustling the pale linen curtains.

But sleep? Sleep had not yet arrived.

“Get down from the chest, Phoebe,” Melia said gently, for the fourth time.

“I am down,” Phoebe replied dramatically, leaping from the carved cedar box and rolling across the floor. She brandished a wooden spoon like a blade, face lit with fury. “And now the cyclops dies!”

Telemachus, standing in the doorway, pinched the bridge of his nose.

“She’s still doing the cyclops?” he asked wearily.

Melia sighed, tucking a blanket over Niketas, who was already lying on his back, blinking up at the ceiling.

“She’s been doing the cyclops since dinner. Apparently this one has horns and breathes fire now.”

“It’s a new species,” Phoebe added, slashing at the air. “Grandfather said it lives in the west islands. It eats whole ships and spits out the bones.”

Telemachus turned slowly toward Melia. “I am telling him. No more bedtime stories that involve monsters or murder.”

Melia chuckled. “Good luck. He’ll just teach her to fight them instead of fear them.”

On the bed, Niketas rolled onto his side. “Mama,” he whispered. “If a cyclops eats a ship, what happens to the crew?”

“They... um... usually escape,” Melia answered gently.

“But what if they don’t?”

“Then they become the cyclops’s lunch,” Telemachus muttered under his breath.

“Telemachus,” Melia warned.

Niketas was already deep in another train of thought. “And what happens if the moon falls into the sea? And where do stars go when the sun comes up? And if I practice really hard, can I learn to talk to birds like in that one poem—?”

Melia sat down beside him, brushing the hair from his forehead. “You’ll find your answers, little dove. But first you have to sleep.”

“I’m not tired,” he said, though his eyelids betrayed him.

“Your body says otherwise,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple.

Across the room, Phoebe had climbed onto her bed at last, her spoon-weapon still clutched tightly. She crouched beneath her blanket like a lion waiting to pounce.

Telemachus approached with caution. “Do you sleep like this every night?”

“I’m guarding the room,” she said seriously. “In case the cyclops comes back.”

“There are no cyclops in the palace.”

“You don’t know that.”

He rubbed his face with one hand. “You’re impossible.”

Phoebe grinned at him, unrepentant. Then her expression softened just a little.

“Do you think I’ll fight monsters one day?”

Telemachus sat on the edge of her bed. “I think you already are.”

That made her blink. “Huh?”

He reached down, gently tugging the blanket up around her. “You’re growing up. That’s the biggest monster of all.”

She made a face. “That’s boring.”

“Exactly,” he said, and kissed the top of her head.

When both children were finally tucked in, their small breathing steady and slow, Telemachus and Melia lingered a moment at the door.

“She’s going to be trouble,” he whispered.

“She already is,” Melia replied fondly. “But at least she’s ours.”

“And him?” he gestured toward Niketas.

Melia looked at her son — gentle, inquisitive, curled up like a question mark in his sheets.

“He’s the heart of this family,” she said quietly. “Even when it hurts.”

Telemachus nodded. Then, with a long exhale, they slipped out into the hallway, closing the nursery door behind them.

Chapter Text

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

The sun had barely begun its climb when Telemachus walked through the bustling heart of Ithaca, his children flanking him like two uneven stars. Phoebe, as always, darted ahead like a spark that refused to stay grounded, while Niketas lingered behind, distracted by every flicker of color, every unfamiliar scent, every passing conversation.

“Phoebe, slow down—!”

Telemachus sighed as his daughter leapt up onto the edge of a fountain, arms outstretched as though she might take flight. Her tunic swished behind her like a cape, her mismatched eyes gleaming with mischief.

“I’m not even running!” she shouted over her shoulder.

“You’re climbing everything like a wild cat,” he muttered, glancing back.

But Niketas was no longer at his side.

Telemachus blinked.

“Niketas?”

No answer.

“Niketas!”

Still nothing.

Down the road, the market stalls were alive with chatter and color—baskets of figs and olives, strings of garlic swaying in the breeze, the rich scent of roasted lamb curling into the air. And there, tucked beneath a faded linen awning, a merchant was unwrapping a box of rare treasures: round, shining pieces of chocolate, a delicacy from the mainland.

Niketas had paused, wide-eyed, as the wrappings crinkled and the sweet scent wafted toward him. It was the first time he had seen real chocolate, and it looked like treasure from a dream.

He turned to call to his father.

But his father was gone.

Phoebe and Telemachus were nowhere in sight. The crowd moved around him like a living thing, swallowing him in silks and sandals and strange voices.

Niketas stood still for a moment, heart skipping once—then twice.

He didn't know he was supposed to stay in place. No one had ever told him what to do if he got lost. So, naturally, he did what he’d seen Odysseus do in every story:

He searched.

He weaved between legs and carts, peeking beneath stalls, calling softly at first, then louder:

“Papa?”

“Phoebe?”

But the market swallowed his voice.

Meanwhile, Telemachus had just caught Phoebe around the waist as she tried to vault from one step to another like a goat.

“Alright, enough!” he huffed, lifting her off the ledge and onto solid ground. “You’re not a hero from one of your grandfather’s stories, Phoebe!”

“I could be,” she muttered proudly.

He rolled his eyes—then turned around.

His stomach dropped.

“Where’s your brother?”

Phoebe looked around. “I dunno. He was just here.”

“Niketas!”

The name echoed over the crowd. But no answer came. Niketas wasn't the type to walk off like that.

So where was he?

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Niketas sat hunched in the shadow of a marble pillar, knees pulled to his chest, cheeks streaked with tears that clung stubbornly to his jaw. The sounds of the market had grown loud and strange—too many voices, too many feet, too many smells—and none of them were familiar.

He blinked furiously, trying to keep his tears quiet, the way his mother told him brave boys did. But he wasn’t feeling brave right now.

He wasn’t brave at all.

Every time he lifted his head, he saw only strangers—faces that didn’t know him, faces that didn’t look back twice. Some passed right by without noticing the boy curled against the cool stone. A few looked, hesitated, and kept walking.

He sniffed.

Then—

A shadow paused.

“Hey,” a voice said, soft but certain.

Niketas looked up.

There, standing beside him, was a girl. She looked to be about his age—maybe a little older. Her long brown hair fell in waves down her back, and her skin was sun-warmed, dusted faintly with flour, as though she’d come from a kitchen. Her dark eyes studied him with open curiosity, but no mockery.

She smiled, kind and patient. “Why are you crying?”

Niketas blinked hard, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and sat up a little straighter. “I lost my papa,” he whispered. “And my sister. I—I turned and they weren’t there anymore.”

The girl didn’t laugh. She didn’t even flinch.

Instead, she sat down beside him, cross-legged on the warm stone, her hands folded in her lap.

“That’s awful,” she said gently. “I got lost once, too. I cried until I threw up. It was disgusting.”

Niketas gave a small, hiccuped laugh, caught off guard.

“I’m Katherina,” she said, holding out a hand. “My father’s a merchant. I bet he can help find yours.”

Niketas looked at her hand. It was small, a little sticky with honey, and completely steady.

He hesitated, then reached out and took it.

“I’m Niketas.”

She grinned. “That’s a nice name.”

He clutched her hand tightly, as though it might anchor him to the world. And for the first time since he’d been separated, he felt the tears stop coming.

Katherina stood, still holding his hand.

“Come on. Let’s find your family. And maybe get a piece of chocolate if there’s time.”

Together, they slipped into the crowd—not quite strangers anymore.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Telemachus pushed open the palace doors with Phoebe in his arms, her sandals dangling from one foot, her tunic crumpled from climbing statues and sprinting down streets.

She was still talking. Nonstop.

“—and then I almost did a flip off the fountain but you grabbed me, and I could have landed it, you know, I just wasn’t ready yet and—”

“Phoebe.” His voice was exhausted. “We lost your brother.”

“Oh.” She blinked, then whispered, “Right.”

They crossed into the cool stone corridor of the palace, the noise of the city fading behind them. As they stepped into the main hall, Melia appeared from the side gallery, her expression calm—until she saw Telemachus’s face.

“Where’s Niketas?” she asked instantly.

Telemachus set Phoebe down. “I don’t know. He… he was just behind me. Then Phoebe ran off, and I—” he ran a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t have looked away.”

Melia’s face paled for a breath. Then, without panic, she stepped forward and took his hands in hers.

“I’ll help you search,” she said, already turning to grab her shawl.

But Telemachus shook his head. “No. You have to stay here—with her.” He nodded toward Phoebe, who had started poking the embroidery on a curtain with one finger.

“She’ll be fine,” Melia argued, already tying her belt. “You haven’t eaten, you haven’t rested, you’re not thinking clearly—”

“I can’t just sit here while he’s lost!” he snapped, louder than he meant to. The hall echoed. Phoebe froze. Melia’s hands stopped mid-motion.

There was a pause.

Then she walked back to him, slower this time. She placed one hand on his cheek.

“You’re a good father, Telemachus. But right now, you’re not thinking like one. You’re thinking like a soldier. That won’t help him.”

His shoulders dropped. His jaw clenched.

Melia reached up and brushed a curl from his forehead.

“Let me find him.”

He shook his head. “You shouldn’t have to—”

“I want to. He’s mine too.” Her voice broke a little. “And I know what he looks like when he’s afraid. I know how he hides when he’s overwhelmed.”

She leaned in, and their foreheads touched.

“I’ll bring him home. You stay with Phoebe.”

He closed his eyes. His hands wrapped around her waist. “You always do this. Step in when I fall apart.”

“You do the same for me.” She smiled. “We’re annoyingly balanced.”

A beat of silence. His lips brushed hers — soft, weary, but full of gratitude.

From the floor:

“BEURK.”

They turned slowly.

Phoebe was standing with her arms crossed and the most offended face known to mankind.

“You’re kissing. In front of my eyes. My child eyes. Unacceptable.”

Melia laughed quietly and kissed Telemachus’s cheek again just to spite her.

“Go,” he whispered, still holding her hand. “Bring him home.”

“I will,” she said, already turning toward the door.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Katherina walked quietly at Niketas’s side, their small hands clasped together as they moved through the noisy, crowded square. Her long brown hair swayed gently with each step, and her dark eyes never left his face for long. She could feel how tightly he held onto her — like she was the only thread tying him to safety.

Niketas sniffled, eyes darting around the sea of strangers. He couldn’t see anything beyond legs, sandals, and fluttering garments. So many people... so many voices calling out, laughing, shouting, living their lives — while he just wanted his father, his mother, and his sister. Every time he thought he caught a glimpse of someone familiar, the person would turn and become a stranger again. It was exhausting. It was terrifying.

Katherina’s father walked beside them, glancing down at the boy with a thoughtful look. “Do you see them, little one?” he asked gently, bending down slightly so his deep voice didn’t feel so towering.

Niketas hesitated, then shook his head, wiping his sleeve across his nose. “I’m too small,” he whispered, ashamed.

“Then let’s fix that,” the man said, and with a soft chuckle, he leaned forward and lifted the boy high into the air.

Niketas gasped in surprise as the world shifted beneath him. Suddenly, the crowd wasn’t walls of people anymore — he could see over them. The wind brushed through his curls as he perched on the man’s broad shoulders. His small hands clung to his rescuer’s head, and his wide brown eyes scanned the horizon desperately.

Then, just as they turned a corner — “Mama!” he cried out, pointing with all the strength in his little arm. “She’s there! I see her!”

The man’s eyes followed his outstretched hand. “Hold on,” he said, and in one smooth motion, he picked up Katherina and cradled her against his chest. She giggled softly, used to the way he moved, but even she could feel the urgency in his steps.

Niketas’s heart thudded against his ribs. There — a flash of red cloth, the way his mother’s hair curled behind her ears, the way she searched the crowd, calling—

But they were still too far.

Still.

Almost.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Niketas could barely breathe from the excitement bubbling inside his tiny chest. As soon as they neared the edge of the market square, he leaned forward, bouncing lightly on the man’s shoulders.

“I see her! I see her! That’s Mama!” he cried again, voice cracking from joy.

Before anyone could stop him, he slid down the man’s back in a rush and hit the ground running. His small feet pounded the cobblestones, his sandals slapping the dirt, his eyes locked on the red silhouette in the distance. “Mama!” he shouted.

But just as he was getting close, a merchant stepped into his path. He veered around, barely dodging a fruit cart. Then a group of children ran past, laughing and spinning in a circle. The world turned. A gust of wind blurred his eyes with dust. He stumbled.

When he looked up again… she was gone.

His breath caught in his throat. “Mama?” His voice came out thin. Weak.

He turned in a slow, helpless circle. “Mama…?”

Panic rose. Everyone looked like her now — red shawls, brown hair, skirts that fluttered too fast to follow. His chest hurt. His hands trembled. The square suddenly felt too big. The sun too hot. The shadows too long.

And just when the first tear spilled down his cheek—

“There you are!”

Niketas turned to see the same strong arms scooping him up again. The kind man held him tight against his chest, rubbing a calming hand over his back. “Don’t scare me like that, little one,” he murmured with a chuckle, though his heart had been hammering too.

“I saw her,” Niketas hiccuped into his shoulder. “She was right there…”

“I know, I know. Let’s try another way,” the man said gently. He turned, made his way out of the noisy crowd, and started toward the palace gates.

As they walked, Niketas pointed a woman just in front of them. She was right there. "Mama!!" He shouted.