I reached for the door, a surge of anticipation warring with the strange reluctance that had settled in my gut. Patroclus deserved some time alone after the ordeal in the throne room.

"See you at dinner," I declared, hoping my voice sounded more casual than I felt.

An hour ago, the prospect of some solitude would have been welcome. Now, a strange pang of... something... tightened my chest as he didn't echo the sentiment.

"Where are you headed?" he asked, his voice laced with a hint of what sounded suspiciously like disappointment.

I paused, a silent prayer forming on my lips. Please, don't let him dismiss me.

"Drills," I answered, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Alone?"

The question hung in the air, a silent plea I couldn't ignore. A corner of my mouth lifted in a barely perceptible smile.

"Yes," I admitted. "No one usually watches me train."

The truth was, it was a solitary ritual, a way to channel the frustrations and anxieties that swirled within. But the thought of him watching, of his eyes following my every move, ignited a spark of excitement I hadn't anticipated.

"Why?" His question was simple, but the curiosity in his voice sent a thrill through me.

I took a deep breath, debating how much to reveal. Finally, I met his gaze. "My mother," I began, the weight of her words settling heavy on my tongue, "has forbidden it."

"Forbidden what?" His brow furrowed in confusion.

"Training," I clarified. "Because of..." I hesitated, the prophecy a burden I rarely spoke of.

"Because of what?" he pressed gently.

I studied him for a moment, gauging his reaction. He seemed genuinely curious, not afraid or judgmental. With a sigh, I blurted it out.

"A prophecy."

He blinked, processing my words. "What prophecy?"

"That I will be the greatest warrior of my generation," I confessed, feeling a ridiculous flush creep up my neck.

It did sound boastful, even to my own ears. But seeing the surprise, not mockery, in his eyes calmed my anxieties.

He considered my words, a slow smile spreading across his face. It wasn't the dismissive snort I had expected. In fact, it was the most genuine smile I'd seen on him all day.

"Sounds like something a little boy would say," he teased, his voice light.

Relief washed over me. He wasn't horrified by the revelation. But there was a glint of something else in his eyes, a spark of amusement that made my heart skip a beat.

"Maybe," I conceded, mirroring his smile. "But it's true."

A comfortable silence settled between us, a question hanging unspoken in the air. I held my breath, silently willing him to ask.

Finally, he spoke. "When was this prophecy given?"

A flicker of surprise crossed my features. Clearly, the weight of my heritage hadn't fully sunk in.

"The day I was born," I explained. "Just before. Eleithyia, the goddess of childbirth, came and told my mother."

Understanding dawned on his face, a flicker of awe replacing his amusement. Right, Patroclus wouldn't necessarily know about the involvement of gods in the lives of demigods.

"Is this known?" he asked cautiously.

"Some know, some don't," I replied. "But that's why I train alone." It wasn't the whole truth, but it was enough for now.

I shifted my weight, the silence stretching between us. He didn't seem to be in a hurry to see me leave. In fact, there was a hint of something else in his gaze, a question he seemed hesitant to ask.

I held his gaze, a silent invitation.

"Then I'll see you at dinner," he finally said, a hint of a challenge in his voice.

"See you then," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

He turned and headed towards his quarters, leaving me rooted to the spot. A wide grin split my face as I watched him go. He might not have asked to come train with me, but at least I had his undivided attention for a little while longer. And that, for now, was all that mattered.

I was already tucked into Patroclus' usual spot at the head of the table when he finally arrived. He shuffled in, looking distinctly uncomfortable, and squeezed into the space beside me amidst the usual cacophony of the Myrmidons. He stole a quick glance in my direction, his cheeks flushing the color of a ripe tomato, before darting his eyes away again. The awkwardness radiating off him was practically palpable.

The meal itself was a welcome distraction. Roasted fish, perfectly seasoned with lemon and herbs, accompanied by fresh bread and cheese – a far cry from the bland fare I usually endured. For once, I found myself enjoying the simple act of eating, the savory flavors momentarily pushing the turmoil within me aside.

The other boys seemed oblivious to Patroclus' presence. Perhaps, over time, they had simply grown accustomed to him, his quiet form blending into the background like another piece of furniture.

A sudden urge to shatter the comfortable silence seized me. Cleaving through the din with a single word, I spoke his name. "Patroclus."

I took care to enunciate each syllable clearly, "Pa-tro-clus," unlike the slurred mess others often made of it. It wasn't hard. His name was beautiful, just as he was. But that was besides the point.

Heads swiveled in our direction, the boisterous chatter dying down as a hush fell over the room. It wasn't something I did often, publicly acknowledge one of these boys by name. Their curiosity was palpable.

"Tonight," I continued, my voice firm and unwavering, "you will sleep in my chambers."

The announcement hung in the air, and I watched as a fresh wave of color surged across Patroclus' face. Despite the heat creeping up his neck, he managed to maintain a semblance of composure.

"Alright," he mumbled, the single word barely audible over the drumming of my own heart.

"A servant will bring your belongings," I added, dismissing him for the moment.

As I rose from the table, Patroclus followed suit, his steps hesitant as he tried to maintain a composed pace with my longer strides. Every fiber of my being screamed at me to reach out, to offer him some form of reassurance, but pride held me back.

We weaved through the labyrinthine halls of the palace, the weight of countless eyes following our progress. He kept his gaze fixed firmly ahead, avoiding my stare. I led him past his own quarters, a stark reminder of his recent exile, then the grand chamber of state with its imposing throne. Finally, after another turn, we reached a secluded wing of the palace that sloped dramatically down towards the churning sea.

The walls, once adorned with vibrant murals, were now faded and muted, the vibrant colors bleeding into dull greys in the flickering torchlight. The air itself carried the distinct tang of salt, a constant reminder of the restless ocean that lay just beyond. Here, in stark contrast to the opulence of the rest of the palace, Achilles' room was a spartan affair. Bare stone walls, a single rug for warmth, and no unnecessary clutter.

Off to one side, a thick pallet lay bedrollen unfurled, a stark contrast to the luxurious bed I typically occupied. I gestured towards it with a curt nod. "That's for you."

A faint frown creased his brow, his lips parting as if to speak. But the words seemed to catch in his throat, and he simply uttered a single, noncommittal, "Oh."

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Did he not like the arrangement? Was the pallet too rough, too uncomfortable? A pang of unexpected concern twisted in my gut.

"Are you tired?" I finally managed to ask, the question forced through a throat suddenly dry.

He shook his head vigorously, a touch of defiance in the gesture. "No," he muttered, as though I had suggested something nonsensical.

"Me neither," I echoed, though truthfully, the day's events had left me drained.

We stood there for a moment longer, an awkward tableau of two strangers forced into close proximity. Neither of us seemed to know what to say, how to bridge the chasm that yawned between us. Finally, desperate to break the tension, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"Do you want to help me juggle?" I asked, the question sounding far more childish than I intended.

He hesitated, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. "I don't know how," he finally admitted, a hint of sheepishness in his voice.

"You don't have to know. I'll show you."

A flicker of disappointment flitted across his face at my question, replaced by a hesitant, "Alright." Good. Something I could do for him, something to bridge the awkward silence that hung heavy between us.

"How many can you hold?" I prompted, hoping to steer the conversation towards something less... charged.

He shrugged, a slight frown marring his features. "I don't know."

An idea struck me. Reaching out slowly, I held out my own hand, palm up. "Show me yours."

His eyes widened in surprise, and I swear I saw a hint of apprehension flicker across his face before he hesitantly mirrored my gesture. Our palms lay inches apart, a silent invitation.

Taking a deep breath, I gently pressed mine against his. The contact sent a jolt through me, a warmth that spread far beyond the point of touch. His skin was soft, a stark contrast to my own calloused hands, and a faint scent of herbs, probably clinging from dinner, hung about him.

For a moment, we simply stood there, hands pressed together. His fingers, plump at the pads compared to mine, were surprisingly warm. I traced their outline with mine, a silent exploration that sent shivers down my spine.

"About the same," I finally managed, my voice a husky whisper.

The disappointment in his eyes spurred me on. "It will be best to start with two, then," I continued, my voice regaining some semblance of its usual authority.

Pulling away from his touch, a touch I craved more than I cared to admit, I reached for the juggler's balls I kept near my bed. They were worn leather pouches filled with sand, the kind mummers used to entertain crowds. Selecting two, I offered them to him. "Take these."