Antinous

Let the beggars and bards weep over Odysseus like he’s some fallen hero. I see what he is—a ghost, a rumor, a name the sea swallowed. While he’s rotting in salt and myth, I’m here, drinking his wine, shaping his court, and planning a future without his shadow on it. Some call me a suitor. I call myself the future king of Ithaca. When he returns—if he returns—he’ll find the seat already filled. And if young Telemachus gets in the way? Well, every throne has thorns.