Back to You

by EverlarkAlways08

"Peeta closed his eyes, his throat aching. "I don't deserve you." Katniss let out a soft, breathy laugh, one that held no amusement—just exhaustion and love. "And I don't care." Peeta opened his eyes, and Katniss was staring at him with that same unwavering determination that had always undone him." My own take on The Odyssey but told in the form of Everlark.

The palace stood silent, save for the distant echoes of soldiers preparing for battle. The grand halls that once felt so full of life now seemed hollow, the weight of the departure pressing on every stone and column. The sun had yet to rise, and the world outside was still, as if holding its breath for what was to come.

Peeta stood by the large wooden doors of the palace, his armor heavy upon his shoulders, though it felt like nothing compared to the weight in his heart. His eyes were drawn to the courtyard beyond, where his men were already gathering, ready to set sail for Troy. The moment was almost upon them. He would have to leave.

But before he did, there was one last thing—one last person—he needed to say goodbye to.

Inside, the soft sound of small footsteps reached his ears, followed by the quiet murmur of a voice he knew better than his own. He turned to see Katniss, standing in the doorway, their young son, Rye, nestled in her arms. The sight of them both made his chest tighten, the bittersweet sting of leaving them growing stronger.

Katniss was everything to him—strong, unwavering, and yet, in this moment, her eyes were filled with the same sorrow he felt. She stepped forward, her every movement slow, as though she were unsure whether she truly wanted to close the distance between them.

"Peeta," she whispered, her voice rough with unshed tears.

He wanted to reach out, to hold her, but he felt frozen, as if this moment would slip away the instant he touched her. The weight of their young years together, the love that had woven their lives from childhood till this moment, hung thick in the air between them.

"Katniss," he said softly, his voice barely a murmur. "I swear, I'll come back. I swear it."

She shook her head, a small smile appearing despite the sadness in her eyes. "I know you will. But promise me you won't forget what you're fighting for."

He nodded, his throat tight. He had never once doubted his love for her, but in that moment, he could feel the depth of it—the ache of the love they had built, and the fear of leaving it behind.

Rye stirred in her arms, his small hands reaching out toward his father. Peeta reached out to him, taking the boy into his arms. His son was so small, so innocent—only three years old, with wide, trusting eyes that didn't yet understand the weight of what was happening.

"Daddy," Rye said, his voice sweet and innocent, tugging at Peeta's heart. "Don't go."

Peeta's heart cracked, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. He pressed his forehead against Rye's, breathing in the familiar scent of his son's hair. "I have to, Rye. But I'll come back. I promise."

Katniss stepped forward as Peeta places Rye down on his feet, her hand resting on Peeta's shoulder as if to remind him that he wasn't alone in this moment, that they both were carrying the weight of this goodbye. "He's so little, Peeta," she whispered, her voice breaking. "He won't remember this, but I will."

Peeta closed his eyes, nodding once more, but the words escaped him. How could he say everything he needed to? How could he promise to come back when there was so much uncertainty ahead?

"Stay safe," Katniss added, her voice full of a quiet strength. "Return to us."

The moment hung between them, thick and heavy with everything they couldn't say. Peeta couldn't stand it any longer. Without thinking, he pulled her into him, his hands cupping her face, his lips finding hers in a kiss that was desperate and full of every unspoken promise. It was a kiss that spoke of years of love, of longing, and of the agony of parting.

She melted into him, her hands gripping his chest, as though anchoring herself to him, willing herself to hold onto the fleeting moments before he was gone. Their kiss was everything—the fire, the longing, the ache of separation.

When they finally broke apart, both breathless, Peeta rested his forehead against hers, his voice a whisper, thick with emotion. "I'll come back to you. I swear it."

Katniss nodded, her eyes wet with tears but filled with a fierce resolve. "I'll be waiting for you, just like always."

Peeta lingered there for a moment longer, as if he could hold the world still just by staying in her embrace. But the moment was fleeting, and the reality of the battle loomed larger than ever.

He stepped back, glancing one last time at Rye, and then turned toward the ship waiting beyond the palace gates. His heart felt heavy with each step, knowing this was the hardest part of the journey—the leaving.

"I'll be back," he promised once more, his voice catching in his throat.

And with that, Peeta walked toward the uncertainty of war, carrying the image of Katniss and Rye in his heart, his love for them his one true anchor.

---

The camp was bustling around him, preparations for the coming battle filling the air with urgency. The warriors were sharpening their swords, preparing their armor, and readying their horses, but Peeta stood apart from it all, his eyes distant. His thoughts were far from the battlefield, far from the banners and the clash of steel that awaited them.

He glanced at the sky, the rising sun casting a warm glow over the horizon. It was beautiful, but it only reminded him of the quiet mornings he used to share with Katniss. He could almost hear her voice in the breeze, soft and steady like the way she'd whisper his name when they were alone. He'd held her close, memorized the feel of her heartbeat against his chest, the way her fingers traced lines over his skin as if trying to ground herself in him. Every part of her was burned into him, and it was a pain to be so far away.

Peeta's hand instinctively moved to his chest, to the small pendant she'd given him before he set sail for Troy. The metal was cool against his skin, but it was nothing compared to the warmth of her touch, nothing compared to the way she had looked at him before he left—worry and love interwoven in her gaze.

"I'll come back to you," he had promised, but the weight of it seemed heavier now. The looming war ahead of him felt endless, and the thought of being away from her and Rye, their son, made his chest tighten. He imagined the two of them back at home, the warmth of their fire burning as they waited for his return. Rye, so young yet so full of strength—he'd need his father. He wanted to be there for him.

His eyes closed, and he allowed himself to picture them. Katniss, sitting by the hearth, her hair long and dark, her eyes fierce even in the calm. Rye, perhaps running through the garden, chasing after a butterfly or learning how to shoot with a bow just like his mother. I'll come back, he thought again, though the doubt crept in like the cold mist from the sea.

The sound of footsteps broke him from his reverie, and Peeta turned to see one of his men approaching, ready to give the orders to move out. But Peeta didn't look at him; his gaze drifted once more to the horizon.

"I'll come back," he whispered to himself, as much a promise as a prayer. It was the only thing that kept him standing here now, amid the looming chaos.

He would fight, he would endure, but in his heart, the only thing that mattered was the hope of finally returning to her, to the warmth of their home, to the life they'd barely begun to build.

The sound of distant waves crashing against the shore seemed to echo the restless thoughts in Peeta's mind. He tightened his grip on the pendant, as if willing the weight of his love for Katniss to transcend the distance between them.

Would she wait for me? His chest tightened. There was no doubt in his heart that she would. She was everything—strong, resilient, unwavering. But even so, he couldn't help but wonder what it would be like when he finally returned. Would she still look at him the same way? Would their son, Rye, recognize the man who had been gone so long? Would he be the father Rye deserved, or would the years apart turn him into a stranger in his own home?

Peeta shook his head, trying to push the thoughts away. The battle, the bloodshed, the looming storm—it would all come, and it would pass. But it was the longing for home that gripped him hardest now. Every battle, every fight felt like a step further away from them, from the place where peace still existed in his heart.

"I'll come back," he repeated, this time louder, as if speaking the words could make them true. He could almost hear Katniss's voice in response, a soft laugh that carried with it all the love and devotion she had shown him over the years. She had always believed in him, even when the world around them crumbled.

His mind wandered back to the last night they'd shared together before he left. He remembered the way her hands had trembled slightly as she helped him pack, the quiet words they had exchanged as she gave him the pendent, the promise made between them as they stood at the door. She had kissed him, a lingering, heartfelt kiss, and he had held on to that moment longer than any other. The memory of her touch still lingered on his lips.

Come back to me, she had whispered. He could still hear the weight of her voice in his ears.

And then there was Rye—so young, so full of life. Peeta had left just after his son had learnt to talk, and now the boy would be older. Stronger. What if he forgot the lessons Peeta had tried to teach him? What if he never knew the full depth of his father's love?

A soft wind stirred the air, and for a fleeting moment, Peeta could have sworn he heard the laughter of a child—a laugh that reminded him so strongly of his son. He could almost see Rye's face, bright and innocent, smiling up at him as he ran through the meadows. The image was enough to bring a tear to his eye, but he quickly wiped it away.

The sound of a horn blared in the distance, pulling him from his reverie. The men were preparing to leave. It was time. He had to go.

Peeta's gaze lingered on the distant shore, on the place where he had once felt at home. There was so much more to fight for now. The thought of returning to them, to his family, kept him steady.

As he turned to join his men, Peeta's voice was firm, the promise still echoing in his heart. "I'll come back to you, Katniss. Rye. I'll come back."

With one last look over his shoulder, he mounted his horse and rode toward the battle, the weight of his love and his determination pushing him forward.

The fires of Troy still smoldered behind them, thick smoke curling into the sky as the remnants of a once-great city turned to ash. The war was over. Ten years of bloodshed, sacrifice, and loss had finally come to an end. The gods had favored them—or cursed them—long enough.

Peeta stood at the edge of the shore, his boots sinking slightly into the wet sand as the waves rolled in and out. The sea stretched endlessly before him, shimmering under the pale light of dawn. It was supposed to be a new beginning, the start of the long-awaited journey home. And yet, a strange unease lingered in his chest.

"Ten years," he murmured under his breath.

Ten years since he had left his kingdom. Since he had last held Katniss in his arms. Since he had last seen his son. Ten years since Rye's small hands had clutched his tunic, begging him not to go. His boy had only been three when he left—what did he look like now? Would he even remember the father who had once promised to return?

Peeta clenched his jaw. He had to go back. He would go back.

A familiar presence moved beside him, and he didn't have to turn to know who it was. Finnick Odair—his most trusted polemarch, the man who had fought beside him in every battle, had saved his life more times than Peeta could count. But more than that, Finnick was his brother in all but blood, the boy he had grown up with, the friend he had once sparred with in the courtyards of their palace's.

Now, they were weary men, hardened by war, carrying the weight of too many years apart from the lives they had left behind.

"You're quiet," Finnick observed, crossing his arms over his chest. His bronze armor, dented and scratched from years of battle, glinted faintly under the rising sun. "Not that I blame you. It's a strange thing, isn't it? Victory?"

Peeta let out a slow breath. "It doesn't feel like victory. Just an ending."

Finnick hummed in agreement, gazing out at the sea. "And now we go home."

At that, Peeta turned to look at him, noting the way his expression had tightened, as if the words were not as simple as they should be. He had known Finnick too long not to notice when something was weighing on his mind.

"What is it?" Peeta asked, watching his friend carefully.

Finnick hesitated, then sighed. "You know as well as I do that we've been gone too long. Ten years, Peeta. Ten. We left as kings, but what are we returning to?" He paused before continuing, his voice quieter now. "Our home isn't the same. It can't be."

Peeta's fingers curled into fists. He had considered this before, late at night between battles, in the moments when he allowed himself to think of home. But he refused to believe that too much had changed. That Katniss had moved on. That Rye no longer saw him as his father.

That he no longer had a place in his own kingdom.

"It's still home," Peeta said firmly. "Katniss is still there. Rye is still there."

Finnick exhaled slowly, running a hand through his salt-crusted hair. "I hope so. But Peeta… what if they're different? What if they don't—"

"Don't," Peeta cut him off sharply, his eyes blazing. "Don't finish that sentence."

Finnick studied him for a long moment, then nodded, relenting. "Alright." A small smirk ghosted across his lips. "I should've known better than to doubt you. You've always been the stubborn one."

Peeta lets out a breath that was almost a laugh. "I don't expect everything to be the same. I know Katniss and Rye have lived their lives without me for years. But that doesn't change anything. I swore I'd come back to them, and I will."

Finnick tilted his head, something softer in his expression now. "You really think she's been waiting for you all this time?"

Peeta didn't hesitate. "Yes."

It wasn't arrogance or blind hope. It was something deeper—an unshakable certainty. He knew Katniss better than he knew himself. And though he had no way of knowing what these ten years had been like for her, he believed in what they had. In what they had always been.

Finnick let out a low chuckle. "Gods, I hope Annie still recognizes me. She might throw me into the sea the moment she sees me."

Peeta smirked. "She probably will."

Finnick grinned but sobered quickly. "No matter what happens, we'll face it together. Just like we always have."

Peeta clasped his shoulder. "Always."

A sharp cry echoed from the ships behind them, and both men turned. Their soldiers were ready. The tide was shifting. It was time.

Peeta took one last glance at the ruins of Troy, then stepped forward, toward the sea, toward home.

Toward Katniss. Toward Rye.

No matter what had changed, no matter what awaited him—he was going home.

The ship surged forward, cutting through the water, and Peeta stood tall at the bow, the distant shores of Ithaca growing nearer with each passing moment.

Peeta stood at the bow of the ship, staring out at the horizon, the sun barely a sliver above the waves. The weight of the past months hung heavily on his chest, each day stretching out, each moment drawing him further from home.

He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Darius, the young solider who joined him three years ago, walking toward him. His face was drawn, eyes shadowed with a worry that had only deepened over time.

"Darius," Peeta greeted, his voice quiet but warm.

Darius stopped beside him, glancing at the water below. He seemed to wrestle with something before finally speaking.

"I can't keep doing this, Peeta," Darius said, his voice low, almost afraid to say the words aloud. "I don't know how much longer I can keep going. I've seen men die, been close to death myself. And all the while, I'm just thinking about... about not making it home."

Peeta turned to him, his expression softening. The weight of Darius's words hung between them, and he could see the fear in the young man's eyes. Fear that had grown from years and months of uncertainty and the constant looming threat of the gods' wrath.

Peeta's voice was quiet but steady. "I've had that fear before. It's the fear of being forgotten, of never seeing what you're fighting for."

Darius swallowed hard. "What if I never get to see my home again? What if I die out here, without ever feeling the earth beneath my feet again, or seeing my family... or..." He faltered, his words trailing off.

Peeta felt a pang in his chest at the pain in Darius's voice. He had not been a stranger to these thoughts. There had been nights when his own fears crept in, wondering if he would ever get to see Katniss again, to hold Rye, to return to the life he had built.

He placed a hand on Darius's shoulder, grounding him in the moment. "The gods may have their designs, but we are not bound to their will. The journey may be long, but you've got more life in you than the fear of death. That's what keeps us going."

Darius looked at him, the doubt in his eyes still there but softened by Peeta's words. "But what if it's not enough? What if fate's already decided?"

Peeta took a breath, thinking back to the long years of war, of fighting for survival, of holding on to the small, fleeting moments of peace that came after each battle. "We can't control fate," he said slowly. "But we can choose what we fight for. We fight for those we love. We fight for what's worth living for."

He let his words hang in the air for a moment. The crew was still, their eyes on the horizon, but Darius seemed to take comfort in the silence, the simple, shared understanding that came from being in this together.

Peeta looked out at the sea again, the waves crashing beneath them, then turned back to Darius. "I'm going home. And I'll get all of you there too."

Darius nodded slowly, his shoulders easing. "I... I want to see my family again. I want to live through this."

Peeta squeezed his shoulder one last time. "Then we fight, Darius. That's all we can do."

Darius nodded again, this time with more conviction. "Thank you, Peeta."

Peeta watched as the young solider walked away, a little more sure of his steps, a little more resolute.

Peeta's gaze lingered on the horizon once more, where the faintest sliver of land seemed to shimmer in the distance. He knew that no matter how long the journey, no matter how many trials awaited, he had to see this through. He had to return to Katniss, to Rye, to everything that had kept him alive for all these years.

He would return, and that was a promise he wouldn't let the gods take from him.

The wind whispered over the deck of the ship, carrying the salty tang of the sea as the fleet pushed forward, oars cutting through the water in steady rhythm. The sky above was painted in the dusky hues of twilight, the gods casting their watchful eyes upon the mortals below.

Peeta stood at the prow, his hands gripping the rail as he gazed out over the endless stretch of ocean. The weight of fourteen years of war pressed heavily upon his shoulders, but none of it mattered now. All that mattered was home.

Katniss. Rye. His kingdom.

A gust of wind stirred, colder than before. The hairs on the back of Peeta's neck rose. He wasn't alone.

He turned his head slightly, and there, standing where no mortal should be, was Athena.

The goddess of wisdom and war stood in the moonlight, clad in a flowing tunic of storm-gray, her eyes sharper than any blade. A gleaming bronze spear rested in her hand, but she did not wield it. She did not need to.

Peeta had spent enough time on the battlefield to recognize the power in her stance—the quiet authority of a god who had shaped the fates of men.

"Peeta Mellark of Ithaca," she said, her voice smooth as still water. "You have earned victory in Troy, but the war is not over for you."

Peeta did not flinch. He had seen gods before. He had felt their presence in battle, whispering in his ear, guiding his sword. But Athena had always been different. She was not just a deity to be feared—she was one to be respected.

And now, she had come to warn him.

"What is it?" Peeta asked, his voice steady.

Athena studied him for a long moment, as if weighing the strength of his resolve. Then she spoke:

"Zeus is not pleased with you."

Peeta's grip on the railing tightened. He had expected as much. The gods were fickle, their favor shifting like the tide. But he had never fought for their approval—only for his people, for his home.

"Why?" he asked.

Athena stepped closer, her gaze piercing. "You defied the will of Olympus when you sacked Troy. The city was meant to fall, yes—but not like this. The gods do not forget when men take what is not theirs to take."

Peeta set his jaw. He had done what he must. His men had fought, bled, and died for this victory. And now they only wished to return home.

Athena seemed to sense his thoughts. "It is not your victory that angers him, but your refusal to bow before him. You did not offer proper tribute. You did not acknowledge the storm that brewed before you."

Peeta scoffed, shaking his head. "I don't have time for Zeus's wounded pride."

Athena's expression did not change. "Then you risk everything."

The wind picked up around them, and the waves began to churn, as if the sea itself had heard her words and responded.

Peeta exhaled slowly. He knew what she was saying. If he continued on this path, Zeus would make the journey home hell. His men would suffer. Many would die.

Finnick, his most trusted friend. His soldiers, who had followed him for years. Good men, loyal men.

The thought sent a sharp pang through his chest. He had already seen too many of them buried beneath Troy's ruined walls.

Still, he did not hesitate. "I'm going home," he said, voice firm.

Athena's eyes flashed with something unreadable—approval? Pity? He couldn't tell.

"Even if it means losing everything?" she asked.

Peeta swallowed but nodded. "Yes."

Athena tilted her head slightly, as though she had expected this answer. Then, she lifted her spear and pointed it toward the darkening horizon.

"Then be warned," she said. "The sea will not be kind to you. The storms will rise. The gods will test you. And not all of your men will live to see your shores again."

Peeta clenched his fists. He had known, deep down, that this journey would not be easy. But hearing it spoken by the goddess herself made it all the more real.

Still, his resolve did not waver.

"I will face whatever comes," he said, standing tall. "Because I have to. Because my wife and son are waiting for me."

Athena studied him for another long moment before nodding.

"Then may you be strong enough to endure what is ahead."

With that, the goddess stepped back, her form beginning to blur, as though the mist itself had swallowed her. Within moments, she was gone, leaving only the rolling waves and the distant rumble of thunder in her wake.

Peeta exhaled, his breath steady. He turned back to face the open sea.

No matter what lay ahead—monsters, storms, the wrath of gods—he would endure it.

Because Katniss was waiting.

Because Rye was waiting.

And no force in this world—not even the will of Olympus—would keep him from them.

The journey home had begun.

Peeta's ship glided through the turbulent waters, the wind no longer as gentle as it had been earlier in the journey. Dark clouds had gathered on the horizon, and the once calm seas were turning restless, as though mirroring the storm brewing inside him. The crew was alert, the tension palpable as the ship rocked with increasing violence.

Peeta stood at the bow, staring out into the chaos of the sea, feeling every wave crash through his chest. The deep, unshakable weight of the years spent apart from his family still clung to him like a shroud, but now, there was something else—something darker.

"King Peeta, we need to make landfall soon," one of the older sailors called, his face creased with worry.

Peeta didn't answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the blackening sky, watching as the storm approached faster than he had anticipated. He could feel the ship beginning to strain against the waves, groaning with each twist and turn. The men were nervous. They had all heard stories of ships lost to the deep during treacherous storms—some of them had lost friends, family, and comrades to these very waters.

The captain of the ship, a seasoned warrior named Theros, came up beside Peeta. His broad shoulders were tense, his hand clenched tightly around the wheel as the ship listed heavily to one side.

"Peeta, we need to find shelter," Theros said, his voice a low growl. "These waters are cursed. We've been sailing too long without proper rest. If we don't find land soon, we're going to lose the ship."

Peeta's brow furrowed, his hands tightening into fists. He had been a leader, a king, for so long. He had never run from conflict, whether it was on the battlefield or in the heart of his kingdom. But here, on this sea, in this moment, he was torn between his duty to his men and the desire to return to the one thing he had fought so hard to reclaim—his family.

"I'm not turning back now," Peeta said sharply, his voice carrying over the roar of the wind. "I've waited too long."

A murmur ran through the crew. Some of the men exchanged uneasy glances, their uncertainty rising as the storm swirled around them. The sea was angry now, and with each gust of wind and crashing wave, it seemed to be conspiring against them.

"That's not what I'm suggesting," Theros countered, his voice laced with frustration. "But there are too many risks, Peeta. You might be the king, but you can't command the storm. You want to get back to your family, don't you? The ship won't make it much longer at this rate."

Peeta's jaw clenched as he turned to face his crew. His men had been with him through thick and thin, and he had always trusted them. But something about Theros's words struck a chord. He couldn't bear the thought of failing them—failing to return to Katniss and Rye.

"We're not turning back," Peeta said again, his tone hardening. "We make landfall, or we push forward through the storm. Either way, we're not losing this ship."

At this, the tension among the crew reached a boiling point. Some of the men argued in low, anxious tones, their voices rising over the storm's howl. A few even voiced concerns about their safety, while others argued that staying on course was their only hope of getting home.

"I didn't sign up for this!" one of the younger sailors shouted, his eyes wide with fear. "We're going to die out here!"

"Enough!" Peeta barked, his voice cutting through the rising chaos. The crew fell silent, their gazes shifting from him to one another. Peeta's chest heaved as he fought to maintain control, his fingers digging into the railing. His eyes burned with the intensity of his thoughts—thoughts of Katniss, of Rye, of the home he had left behind.

"I've been gone for fourteen years. Fourteen years. I'll die before I let this storm steal my chance to see them again." His voice softened as he spoke the last words, but his gaze never wavered. "This ship is not turning back."

There was a long, tense silence. The wind howled around them, the sails billowing in defiance of the storm, but none of the men dared challenge their king further. Some looked at Peeta with respect, others with fear, but they knew the force of his resolve. They had followed him into battle, through the darkness of Troy. Now, they would follow him through this tempest, whether they agreed with him or not.

Peeta turned back toward the storm, his hands gripping the railing tightly, the ship groaning under the pressure of the waves. The conflict on the ship wasn't over, but for now, the crew had quieted, and the only thing that mattered was the journey ahead. He had to get home. No matter the cost.

The storm raged on as they pressed forward, the crew working in tense unison, pushing themselves to their limits. Peeta could feel the toll it was taking on each of them—the exhaustion, the fear, the uncertainty. He had been a king, but here, on this ship, with the storm crashing around them, he was just a man, trying to return to the only place that ever mattered to him.

As the hours passed and the storm showed no signs of letting up, Peeta found himself alone on the deck again, his thoughts drifting to Katniss. The woman who had stood by his side, even when he was unsure of himself. The mother of his child, whose face he could almost picture, despite the years that had separated them. The thought of her, of Rye, was the only thing that kept him steady in the face of the storm, the only thing that kept him from losing hope.

But even as he clung to that hope, a sense of dread lingered in the back of his mind. He wasn't just battling the storm. He was battling time. Fourteen years. What had changed in his absence? Would his return be as much of a homecoming as he longed for? Or would it be just another battle he couldn't win?

The ship crested a monstrous wave, and for a moment, it seemed as if it would break apart. But Peeta's grip tightened on the railing, and he found his resolve again. They weren't turning back.

Not until he was home.

---

The storm raged for what felt like an eternity. The ship pitched violently, waves crashing over the deck and threatening to rip the mast from its base. Thunder roared in the heavens, a deafening drumbeat against the howling wind, while lightning slashed across the sky, illuminating the terrified faces of Peeta's men.

Peeta held fast to the ship's railing, his knuckles white as he braced against the storm's fury. He had fought countless battles, faced death on the fields of Troy, but here—against the unrelenting sea—he felt powerless.

"Hold the line!" Theros bellowed as he fought to keep the ship's wheel steady. "We're nearly through it!"

But Peeta wasn't so sure. The wind was relentless, tearing at their sails and pushing them farther off course. If they didn't make land soon, they wouldn't make it at all.

A massive wave swelled in the distance, towering above them like a mountain of water, its crest curling with deadly intent.

"Brace yourselves!" Peeta roared.

The wave crashed down upon them, sending the ship reeling. Peeta was thrown backward, his body slamming against the mast. Pain exploded in his ribs, but he forced himself up, gripping the slick wood for balance. Around him, his men were scrambling to stay aboard. One of them, a young sailor named Maron, lost his grip and slid toward the edge of the ship.

Peeta lunged, catching the man's wrist just before he tumbled into the churning sea.

"Hold on!" Peeta shouted over the wind.

Maron's eyes were wide with terror, his grip slipping. Peeta strained, his muscles burning, but the deck was slick, and the storm was against them.

Then—

A hand reached past Peeta's and yanked Maron back onto the deck. Finnick. His friend nodded at Peeta before hauling the younger sailor to his feet.

Peeta exhaled, then turned his gaze back toward the storm. The wind was beginning to ease, the sky slowly lightening from pitch black to an eerie gray. They had survived.

But as the storm passed, another tension settled over the ship—one that had nothing to do with the sea.

The sea was restless.

Peeta stood at the bow of his ship, gripping the wooden railing as waves crashed against the hull. The wind howled through the sails, sending salt spray across his face, but he barely flinched. The further they sailed from Troy, the more unease settled in his chest. It was as if the gods were watching, waiting.

And then there was his crew.

The men who had fought beside him, who had bled for their kingdom, were beginning to fracture under the weight of uncertainty. They had won the war, but the road home was long and treacherous, and not all of them still believed in the promise of Ithaca's shores.

"They whisper when they think I can't hear them," Finnick muttered, stepping up beside Peeta. His sea-green eyes were sharp, scanning the deck below. "There are those among us who aren't so eager to return."

Peeta frowned, following Finnick's gaze. He knew which men he was talking about. Brutus and his lot—veterans of the war, but men who had never truly pledged loyalty to him. They had fought for the spoils, not for honor. Now that the war was over, there was nothing binding them to Ithaca, to Peeta, or to their shared past.

"They grow restless," Peeta said quietly.

"They grow dangerous," Finnick corrected. "Men like Brutus—he doesn't see home the way you do. He sees opportunity. There's nothing left for him in Ithaca, so why go back?"

Peeta's jaw tightened. Brutus had been a fierce warrior in battle, but he had never been a man of trust. There had always been something in his eyes—an arrogance, a hunger for power.

"I've seen him speaking with the others," Finnick continued. "Not just the usual grumbling. There's talk of diverting the course. Of seizing the ship."

Peeta's grip on the railing turned white-knuckled. "And do they think I'll simply let that happen?"

Finnick smirked, but there was no humor in it. "They think you're too focused on home. That your mind is on Katniss and Rye, not on the men under your command."

Peeta exhaled sharply through his nose. "They underestimate me."

"They always have," Finnick agreed. "But it won't stop them from trying something."

A sudden gust of wind whipped through the sails, and the ship lurched, the wood creaking as if in protest. The waves were rising, the storm gathering strength. The gods were restless.

And so were the men.

The tension finally snapped on the third night.

The storm had hit them hard, driving them off course, sending their ship into unknown waters. The sky was black with fury, the rain a relentless sheet of ice against their skin. Lightning flashed, illuminating the deck where the crew fought to keep the ship from capsizing.

And then Peeta saw him—Brutus.

He stood near the mast, speaking in hushed tones with his men. Even in the chaos of the storm, Peeta could see the way their eyes darted toward him, the way their hands clenched around their weapons.

Finnick saw it too.

"This is it," Finnick muttered, stepping close. "They're going to make their move."

Peeta's heartbeat was steady, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword. He had seen enough battles to recognize the moment before blood was spilled.

Brutus took a step forward. "This storm is the gods' way of telling us to change course," he shouted over the wind. "We should not be heading to Ithaca. There is no home left for us there."

Peeta took a slow step toward him, rain dripping from his brow. "You don't speak for this crew."

Brutus sneered. "And you do?" He gestured around them. "Look at them! Look at what's left of your army! You promised them victory, but what do they return to? Empty homes? Forgotten names?" His gaze darkened. "You have nothing waiting for you but ghosts, Peeta. And still, you would drag us to a place that no longer remembers us."

Peeta's stomach twisted, but he didn't let it show.

"Ithaca is home," he said firmly. "It will always be home."

"For you, maybe." Brutus scoffed. "But for the rest of us? We could go anywhere. We could take anywhere."

The air went still.

There it was.

Brutus didn't want to go home because he no longer saw himself as a man of Ithaca. He wanted to be a conqueror, to carve out his own kingdom in the ashes of war. And he wasn't afraid to spill blood to make it happen.

"Stand down, Brutus," Peeta warned. "I won't say it again."

Brutus grinned. "Then don't."

And he lunged.

Steel rang against steel as Peeta met Brutus's blade. The ship rocked violently beneath them, the storm raging as if the gods themselves were watching. The crew scattered, some taking sides, others just trying to survive the madness.

Brutus was strong—his strikes were brutal, relentless. But Peeta had fought too many battles, had survived too many wars, to fall now.

He parried a heavy blow, twisting his sword and slamming his fist into Brutus's ribs. The larger man staggered back, snarling.

"You fight like a man desperate to return to something that doesn't exist," Brutus spat.

Peeta's eyes burned. "And you fight like a man who has nothing left to fight for."

Brutus roared and charged again, but this time, Peeta was faster. He dodged, twisted, and with one swift movement, drove his sword through Brutus's chest.

The mutineer gasped, his eyes wide with shock as he staggered backward. Peeta wrenched his sword free, watching as Brutus collapsed to the deck, the rain washing his blood into the sea.

Silence fell.

The men who had sided with Brutus stood frozen, their faces pale. Finnick stepped forward, his own blade drawn. "Anyone else?" he challenged.

No one moved.

Peeta exhaled, his shoulders heavy with exhaustion. "This ship sails for Ithaca," he declared. "Anyone who wishes to leave may do so now. But if you stay, you follow my command."

One by one, the men lowered their weapons.

The storm began to ease.

Finnick stepped beside Peeta, wiping rain from his face. "Well," he said, shaking his head. "That was dramatic."

Peeta let out a breath, a tired smirk tugging at his lips. "You expected anything less?"

Finnick chuckled. "Not from you." He clapped Peeta on the shoulder. "Come on, King of Ithaca. Let's get you home."

Peeta turned his gaze back toward the horizon, his heart steady.

No matter the storms, no matter the betrayals—he would get home.

To Katniss. To Rye.

To Ithaca.

The sea had been calm for days. Too calm.

Peeta stood at the stern of the ship, staring out at the horizon. A strange stillness had settled over the waters, as if the very ocean was holding its breath. The air was thick with something unnatural. Even Finnick, who spent his life on the sea, had grown uneasy.

"We shouldn't be here," Finnick muttered, tightening his grip on his trident. "Something isn't right."

Peeta nodded. "I feel it too."

Before Finnick could respond, the sky darkened.

It was sudden—unnatural. Clouds churned above them, thick and red, casting the world in a crimson hue. The wind howled like a wounded beast, and the sea roared, waves crashing against the hull with violent force. The crew scrambled, shouting in confusion, but Peeta's blood ran cold when he heard it.

A voice. Deep and resounding, like war drums echoing through the heavens.

"MORTALS."

The very air trembled with the power of the word. The crew fell to their knees, gripping their weapons, eyes darting in terror.

A figure materialized upon the deck, towering and wreathed in flames. His bronze armor gleamed under the crimson sky, his spear crackling with divine energy. His presence alone radiated bloodlust.

Ares.

The god of war.

Peeta tightened his grip on his sword, heart pounding, but he did not kneel. He met Ares's gaze with steady defiance.

Ares smirked. "Still bold, even after all these years." His voice was like a blade cutting through the wind. "You think you've earned your way home, Peeta? That the gods have no more trials for you?"

Peeta said nothing.

Ares lets out a dark chuckle. "You were forged in war, and yet you seek peace." His smirk twisted into something cruel. "You disappoint me."

With a snap of his fingers, the air split open. Shadows twisted and coiled across the deck, taking form—warriors clad in ancient armor, their eyes glowing red, their blades dripping with the ichor of past battles.

Ares spread his arms. "If you wish to see your home again, prove yourself worthy of it."

And then the warriors attacked.

The deck erupted into chaos. Peeta barely had time to shout an order before the first enemy was upon him. He blocked the strike, twisting his sword and cutting the warrior down, but more came.

Finnick fought beside him, his trident a blur of deadly precision, but the enemy forces seemed endless.

Calyx, one of the young sailors, was there, too. Fighting as best as he could.

Peeta caught sight of him in the thick of battle, his young face set with determination as he parried and struck, fighting like a man desperate to prove himself.

Peeta cut down another enemy and turned just in time to see Calyx get knocked to the ground.

"Calyx!" Peeta roared.

The boy scrambled to his feet, barely dodging another strike. He fought well—but he was young, and the warriors of Ares were relentless.

Then Peeta saw it.

A warrior—larger than the rest, his blade glowing with an eerie red light—raised his sword, preparing to strike Calyx down.

Calyx tried to move, but he was too slow.

Peeta didn't think. He moved.

He sprinted across the deck, shoving past enemy soldiers, reaching Calyx just as the warrior's blade came down.

Steel met steel.

Peeta blocked the strike, the force of it rattling his bones. With a swift motion, he turned his sword and drove it through the warrior's chest.

The enemy fell.

Calyx gasped, wide-eyed and breathless. "M-my king—"

"Stay behind me!" Peeta ordered, swinging his sword at another attacker. "You're not dying here."

Calyx swallowed hard but obeyed, fighting beside Peeta as the battle raged on.

The crew held their ground, cutting through the enemy forces, but they were tiring. Peeta knew they could not fight forever.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it ended.

Ares lifted his hand, and the enemy warriors vanished into smoke. The wind died, the sea calmed, and silence fell over the ship.

Peeta, breathing heavily, turned to face the god.

Ares was grinning. "That fire in your eyes… that is what I wanted to see."

Peeta clenched his jaw. "You've had your fight. Now leave."

Ares let out a laugh, tossing his spear effortlessly from hand to hand. "For now," he mused. "But the gods are not done with you, Peeta. Enjoy your victory while it lasts."

And with that, he was gone.

The crew stood in stunned silence, the weight of what had just happened settling over them. Peeta exhaled slowly and turned to Calyx.

"You're not ready," he said, voice firm but not unkind.

Calyx lowered his gaze, ashamed. "I thought I was."

Peeta placed a hand on his shoulder. "You will be."

Calyx looked up, and this time, he nodded.

Finnick sighed, leaning against the railing. "Well, that was terrifying."

Peeta chuckled dryly. "You expected anything less?"

Finnick smirked. "Not from you."

Peeta turned back toward the sea, heart steady.

The gods would test him. The journey would not be easy.

But no matter what, he would make it home.

Darius, still gripping his blade with trembling fingers, staring blankly at the spot where Ares had disappeared. "That wasn't natural," he whispered, his voice raw. "None of this is."

"No," Peeta agreed. "It wasn't."

A seasoned warrior, stepped forward, his face lined with fatigue. "What does this mean? Will the gods come for us again?"

Peeta exhaled sharply. "They already have. And they let us live." He looked out at the endless stretch of ocean, where the horizon bled into darkness. "For now."

The men murmured among themselves, uncertainty thick in the air.

"We should make an offering," one of the older sailors suggested. "To Poseidon, to Ares—to whoever will listen."

"Would that even be enough?" Darius asked, his voice unsteady. "We've angered them. Zeus sends the gods after us! What if—what if we never make it home?"

The words settled like a weight upon them all.

Peeta clenched his jaw. He would not let fear consume them. Not now. Not when they had survived too much to falter.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice steady, commanding. "The gods may test us, but they will not break us. I swore to you all that I would bring us home, and I will." His eyes burned with determination. "We do not surrender to fate. We carve our own path."

The men nodded, some hesitantly, others with renewed resolve.

The warrior sighed, rolling his shoulders. "Then we'd best get moving."

Peeta nodded. "Tend to the wounded. Get some rest. We sail at dawn."

The crew dispersed, some still whispering prayers, others merely grateful to have survived another day.

Peeta lingered at the bow, staring out at the sea. The gods had tested him, forced him to face his past. He had overcome this trial, but he knew it would not be the last.

Still, there was only one thought that mattered.

Katniss. Rye.

Home.

He would see them again.

No matter what the gods had planned next.

---

The sea stretched endlessly in every direction, a vast expanse of blue that shimmered beneath the midday sun. The ship sailed smoothly now, the storm from days before a fading memory, but tension still clung to the deck like a ghost.

Peeta noticed it the moment he stepped out of his quarters that morning.

The laughter wasn't the usual lighthearted banter of a crew at ease. It was sharper, mocking. He followed the sound to the main deck, where a small group of older sailors had gathered near the mast, jeering at someone in their midst.

Calyx.

The boy was young—nineteen, barely more than a child compared to the seasoned warriors surrounding him. He had joined the crew just before they left Troy, eager to prove himself, but Peeta could see the way his shoulders hunched under the weight of their taunts.

One of the men shoved a wooden practice sword into Calyx's hands, smirking. "Come on, boy. Show us what you've got."

Another scoffed. "He'll probably drop it before he even swings."

Calyx's grip on the sword tightened, his jaw clenched in silent frustration.

Peeta had seen enough.

"Let's see what he can do, then," he said, stepping forward. His voice was calm, but it carried the weight of authority, and the men immediately straightened. "Calyx, with me."

The boy's head snapped up in surprise. "M-my king?"

Peeta simply held out his own wooden training sword. "You wanted to be part of this crew, didn't you?"

Calyx swallowed hard and nodded.

"Then let's train."

The older sailors quickly backed away, their teasing silenced as Peeta led Calyx to an open space on the deck. Finnick appeared nearby, leaning against the railing with an amused smirk but saying nothing.

Peeta tossed his cloak aside and lifted his sword, doing an expert sword twirl as he gets into a stance. "Attack."

Calyx hesitated. "But—"

Peeta didn't give him time to finish. He struck first, a light but firm blow that Calyx barely managed to block. The boy stumbled back, eyes wide.

"You hesitate," Peeta said. "You second-guess. That's why they mock you."

Calyx gritted his teeth and adjusted his stance. "Again."

Peeta nodded approvingly. "Good."

This time, Calyx attacked first. His strikes were unrefined, but there was determination in every movement. Peeta deflected them easily, correcting his footwork, guiding him through the motions. As they trained, the teasing sailors gradually fell silent, watching.

After nearly an hour, Calyx was drenched in sweat, panting, but his movements were sharper, his stance stronger.

Peeta lowered his sword. "You're better than you think."

Calyx blinked in surprise. "I—I am?"

Peeta smirked. "With time and practice, you'll be better than them." He nodded toward the older sailors. "And that's what they fear."

Calyx glanced at them, realization dawning in his eyes. He straightened his back, standing a little taller.

Finnick clapped slowly from the side. "Well, well. Look at you, Peeta. A mentor in the making."

Peeta rolled his eyes but turned back to Calyx. "Train with me every morning."

Calyx's breath hitched. "You'd train me?"

Peeta shrugged. "Why not? You want to be stronger, don't you?"

Calyx nodded quickly.

"Then be ready by dawn." Peeta sheathed his sword and walked away.

Calyx stood frozen for a moment, then turned to the older sailors. They no longer looked at him with mockery.

They looked at him with respect.

And for the first time since setting sail, Calyx felt like he truly belonged.

Wind howls against the sails, unnatural and vengeful. The sea had turned against them once more, waves rising like great hands, clawing at the ship with an unrelenting fury. The sky, once clear, darkened with ominous clouds, and in the distance, lightning split the heavens apart.

Peeta's grip on the wheel was tight, his knuckles white. The battle with the Ares had left his men shaken, even a month later, but they had pressed forward, refusing to surrender to the whims of the gods.

Then the storm came.

Not by chance.

This was no ordinary storm.

Poseidon's wrath.

A monstrous wave slammed into the ship, sending men sprawling. The mast groaned under the force, ropes snapping as rain lashed against their skin like a thousand tiny whips.

"Hold on!" Peeta shouted over the deafening roar of the wind.

Darius, still young, still full of fire despite the horrors they had faced, fought desperately to secure a loose rope. His red hair was plastered to his forehead, his eyes fierce with determination.

Another wave crashed into them.

The ship lurched.

Darius lost his footing.

Peeta saw it too late.

"DARIUS!" he bellowed, lunging forward, but the younger man was already tumbling toward the railing.

For a moment, it seemed as if the sea would claim him.

Then—he caught hold of the side, fingers barely gripping the wood as the water tried to rip him away.

Peeta scrambled toward him, heart pounding. He grasped Darius's wrist, holding him with all his strength. Rain poured down between them, salt and blood mixing in the storm.

"Hold on!" Peeta gritted through his teeth, pulling with everything he had.

But the gods were cruel.

A jagged piece of broken mast, hurled by the storm itself, struck Darius's side with sickening force. His breath hitched—a strangled gasp of pain—his grip faltering.

"No, no, no—" Peeta tightened his hold, but Darius's strength was fading fast.

His wide, frightened eyes met Peeta's.

"Tell them… I tried," Darius whispered, barely audible over the storm.

Then his fingers slipped from Peeta's grasp.

The sea swallowed him whole.

Peeta's scream of rage was lost in the wind.

He dropped to his knees, fists clenched against the soaked wood of the deck, rain hammering against him as the fury inside him burned hotter than ever before.

He had fought, sacrificed, endured. And still, the gods demanded more.

Still, they took.

Peeta lifted his head toward the heavens, his blue eyes blazing.

"IS THIS NOT ENOUGH?!" he roared into the storm, his voice raw with grief and fury. "HOW MANY MORE WILL YOU TAKE FROM ME?!"

Thunder rumbled in answer.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the wrathful sea, and for a moment, Peeta thought he saw a figure standing atop the waves—a towering silhouette with eyes like the depths of the ocean itself. Poseidon.

The storm surged forward, a final, violent crash against the ship—before, just as suddenly, it ceased.

The waters stilled.

The wind died.

The gods had made their move.

Peeta's chest heaved, his entire body trembling with unspent rage.

He would not forget this.

He would not forgive this.

He rose to his feet, turning to his men—drenched, battered, eyes filled with the same sorrow and fury he carried.

"We keep moving," Peeta said, his voice hoarse but unyielding. "We do not stop. Not until we are home."

And in his heart, a promise burned.

He would see Katniss and Rye again.

In Ithaca...

Rye sat in the great hall, his hands clenched into fists on the table, his jaw tight as he watched the scene before him.

The suitors were gathered in their usual places, drinking his father's wine, eating his family's food, speaking in voices far too loud for men who had no right to be here.

And worst of all—they were vying for his mother.

Katniss sat at the head of the hall, her expression as unreadable as ever, her dark hair braided back with a golden band, her posture regal and unyielding. She had not given any of these men even a sliver of encouragement, and yet they returned day after day, pressing their affections on her like vultures picking at a meal.

Rye's fingers dug into the wood of the table.

One of them, a nobleman named Damon, stepped forward, bowing far lower than necessary. "My lady, surely you must see reason. A queen should not be left alone for so long."

Katniss's expression did not change. "I am not alone."

Damon's gaze flickered briefly to Rye, who glared at him, but the man only chuckled. "Ah, but a woman needs more than a son for companionship, does she not?"

Rye's blood boiled. He wanted to stand, to slam his fist into Damon's smirking face, to drive all these men from his father's hall—

But his mother had forbidden it.

"Sit," she had told him. "Watch. But do not interfere."

So he did. And it was killing him.

Another suitor, Orestes, lifted his goblet. "You delay the inevitable, my queen. If your husband were alive, he would have returned by now."

A muscle in Katniss's jaw twitched, but still, she remained composed. "My husband is not dead."

Rye swallowed hard. She had never wavered in that belief. Not once, in fourteen years.

But how could she be so sure?

Rye had no memory of his father. He had only stories—tales of a great warrior, a cunning leader, a man who had left for war when Rye was just a child.

And Rye had waited for him.

For years, he had believed—truly believed—that his father would return. But as time passed, doubt crept in. And now, as he sat in his father's own hall, watching these men act as if Peeta Mellark was nothing but a ghost, something bitter and hollow settled inside him.

What if they were right?

What if his father was never coming home?

And worse—what if he was failing him?

Rye was seventeen now, nearly a man grown, and yet he sat here, doing nothing while these parasites insulted his father's name. He should be driving them out, making them pay for their arrogance. If his father were here, would he not do the same?

But his mother had tied his hands.

"Let them believe they are in control," she had told him. "The more they underestimate us, the greater their fall will be."

He wanted to trust her. But patience was not his strength.

"Perhaps it is time," Damon said, "to accept that you are a widow."

Rye shot to his feet before he could stop himself, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor.

Silence fell over the hall.

The suitors turned to him, some amused, others wary. His mother, however, only looked at him calmly, waiting.

He took a breath, trying to quell the fury rising in his chest. But when he spoke, his voice was sharp, biting.

"You speak of my father as if he is forgotten," Rye said, his blue eyes blazing. "But his blood runs through my veins. And I will not forget."

Damon smirked. "Oh, young prince. But what will you do?"

Rye's hands clenched at his sides.

Nothing.

Not yet.

Because his mother was watching.

And so, with every ounce of restraint he possessed, he sat back down.

The suitors laughed, turning back to their wine, unconcerned.

But Rye did not miss the way his mother looked at him then—just for a moment.

There was pride in her eyes.

And something else.

Something sharp. Calculating.

And in that moment, Rye knew—his mother was planning something.

Something that would make them all regret ever stepping foot in this hall.

And gods help them when the day finally came.

Because whether it was by his mother's hand—or his father's—there would be a reckoning.

And it would be merciless.

Peeta

The sea stretched endless before them, but Peeta knew better than to trust its calm. The gods were not finished with him.

Darius was dead.

Taken by the sea.

Taken by the gods.

And Peeta had cursed them for it.

Now, as his ship cut through the water, he could feel the weight of his defiance pressing upon them all. The men were silent, the air thick with something unspoken. Even the wind carried a warning, whispering through the sails like a voice only Peeta could hear.

You are still ours, mortal.

A storm had been their punishment before. What would it be now?

"Land ahead!" a voice called from the bow.

Peeta moved forward, narrowing his eyes at the sight of an island rising from the horizon. It was lush, green, and eerily still. No birds. No sound of waves crashing against the shore.

Just silence.

A trap.

He knew it.

And yet, they had no choice.

The men needed rest, supplies. Hope.

And so they steered toward the shore, weapons close at hand.

The moment Peeta stepped onto the sand, he felt it.

Power.

Old and watching.

His fingers twitched toward the hilt of his sword. "Stay together," he ordered. "Be ready for anything."

The trees whispered as they moved through the dense forest, the path winding like it had been waiting for them.

Then, a voice.

Soft. Alluring.

"Brave sailors… why do you tremble?"

The men stopped. Some shuddered. Others paled.

Peeta turned sharply, his pulse pounding.

A woman stood before them, cloaked in golden silk, her hair dark as the depths of the sea. Her eyes—impossibly deep, impossibly ancient—studied him with amusement.

A goddess.

Or something worse.

"You have angered the gods, Peeta of Ithaca," she purred, stepping closer. "And yet you still defy them."

Peeta did not flinch. "I am going home."

The woman smiled, slow and knowing. "Are you?"

The trees behind them rustled, though there was no wind.

And then, Peeta understood.

This island was not a gift.

It was a test.

Or a curse.

And the gods were far from done with him.

The air thickened around them, humming with unseen power. Peeta's grip on his sword tightened as he studied the woman before him. She was beautiful, but not in a way that was meant to comfort. No, this was the beauty of a predator, something that lured men in before sinking its teeth into them.

The men behind him shifted uneasily, their exhaustion making them weak to whatever enchantment clung to the air.

Peeta clenched his jaw. He could feel it too.

A pull.

A whisper.

Stay.

The woman tilted her head, as if hearing his thoughts. "You and your men are weary," she said, stepping forward. "Lay down your burdens. Rest. You have fought enough, Peeta of Ithaca."

Peeta exhaled sharply, planting his feet more firmly. "We will not stay."

Her lips curled into something like amusement. "Ah… but your men may feel differently."

Peeta turned sharply—too sharply—and his stomach lurched when he saw his men.

Their eyes were glazed, bodies swaying as if they were drunk on something unseen. One dropped his sword. Another took an eager step forward, drawn in by the promise of relief.

"No," Peeta growled, stepping in front of them. "They are not yours to take."

The woman—this goddess, this creature—sighed, as if disappointed. "Always fighting." Her eyes flickered like the waves before a storm. "You defied Poseidon. You cursed his name."

Peeta's jaw tightened.

She smiled. "Did you think that would go unpunished?"

The ground trembled beneath them.

The trees seemed to groan.

And suddenly, the air grew thick with the scent of honey and wine, intoxicating and suffocating all at once.

One of his men groaned, dropping to his knees. Another staggered forward, eyes glassy.

"Enough," Peeta snarled, stepping toward the goddess, sword raised.

She did not flinch.

Instead, she leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper.

"You will stay, Peeta Mellark," she breathed. "Or you will watch them fall."

Peeta's pulse pounded in his ears. He looked back at his men, their limbs trembling, their minds slipping.

And for the first time in a long, long time—

Doubt crept in.

Peeta's grip on his sword tightened until his knuckles burned. His men were slipping—he could see it in their unfocused eyes, the way their bodies swayed, drawn toward something unseen. The gods had laid their trap well.

But he was not a man who surrendered.

"You will not have them," he growled.

The woman—this goddess, or whatever she was—tilted her head, her dark eyes gleaming. "But they are already mine, Peeta Mellark."

She stepped forward, raising a slender hand. A breeze swept through the trees, carrying a sweet, cloying scent—one that made Peeta's vision blur for the briefest moment. He shook his head against it, but the men behind him…

One of them let out a sigh and fell to his knees.

Another staggered forward, reaching toward the woman as if she were salvation itself.

Peeta lunged.

The tip of his sword met empty air.

The woman had not moved, and yet she was suddenly somewhere else—behind him, beside him, everywhere at once.

"You still fight," she murmured, almost in admiration. "So much like your father."

Peeta stilled.

His father.

His father, who had been swallowed by the sea when he was a boy.

His father, who had left and never returned.

The goddess smiled knowingly. "Did you think you were the first Mellark to challenge the will of the gods?" She let the words settle before whispering, "Did you think you were the first we tried to break?"

Peeta's heart pounded. He refused to let the words take root.

"Enough of your tricks," he snapped. "Enough of your poison."

He turned to his men, voice sharp and commanding. "Look at me!"

A few of them blinked sluggishly.

"Do not listen to her. Do not breathe her in. Do not let them win." His voice was fire and steel, the weight of his father's crown behind every word.

The goddess exhaled, almost amused. "And yet they do."

One of his men—a boy barely out of his twentieth year—let out a strangled sound before collapsing, his body limp against the ground.

Peeta's blood turned to ice.

"No." He dropped to his knees, shaking the boy's shoulders. "Wake up."

Nothing.

He whipped his head toward the goddess, his fury crackling like a storm. "Bring him back."

She only watched him.

His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths. "You want me? Fine. Take me." He lifted his chin, eyes blazing. "But let them go."

A beat of silence.

Then, the goddess's lips curled. "Now, we are getting somewhere."

The air around him shifted, thick with unseen power. Peeta clenched his jaw, knowing with full certainty—

This was far from over.

The air was thick, humming with power Peeta could not see but could feel pressing against his skin. The goddess studied him, her dark eyes gleaming like the depths of the sea that had swallowed so many before him.

Peeta did not flinch.

He had lost too much already. Darius. The boy now limp in his arms. His men were slipping, lured by a power beyond mortal comprehension. He could not lose more.

"I said take me," he ground out, voice sharp as the edge of his sword. "Let them go."

The goddess smiled—slow, knowing.

"Oh, Peeta Mellark," she mused, stepping forward, silk robes brushing against the dirt. "You misunderstand."

Peeta's muscles coiled, ready for an unseen attack. "Then explain."

She reached out, fingers brushing along his jaw. He barely suppressed a flinch at the chill they left in their wake.

"You have already been taken."

The ground beneath him trembled. The wind howled through the trees.

And suddenly—

He was somewhere else.

The ship.

Gone.

The island.

Gone.

His men.

Gone.

Only the goddess remained, standing before him in a space that was nowhere and everywhere at once.

Peeta's heart pounded, his pulse a war drum in his ears. He stepped back, only for the world to shift beneath him, making him stumble.

"What have you done?" His voice was steel, but his mind churned.

The goddess watched him, the ghost of amusement in her gaze. "You defied Poseidon." Her tone darkened, the air thickening with power. "You dared to curse the gods."

Peeta gritted his teeth. "Because you took my men. You took my friend."

"And now," she said smoothly, "we have taken you."

His stomach twisted.

His men.

Finnick.

Calyx.

Were they free? Were they still on the island? Were they—

"You do not need to worry for them," she interrupted his thoughts. "They are beyond my reach now."

He did not trust her.

But he had no choice.

His jaw tightened. "Then what do you want with me?"

She smiled, stepping closer. "A game."

Peeta did not blink. "I don't play games with gods."

"Oh, but you do," she countered, her voice a whisper against his skin. "And you already have."

The wind roared, the world shifting again—

And suddenly, Peeta saw something that made his blood run cold.

A vision.

Katniss.

She stood in the great hall of their palace, her shoulders rigid, her eyes sharp as she faced down the suitors that plagued their home.

Rye, now seventeen, stood beside her, his fists clenched, barely holding himself back.

And Peeta—

He was not there.

Not yet.

The gods had not yet decided if he would ever return.

Peeta's hands curled into fists.

He had fought for fourteen years.

And he would fight for fourteen more if it meant getting back to them.

The goddess smiled, tilting her head. "Do you see now, King of Ithaca?"

Peeta exhaled sharply. "Yes."

Her grin widened. "Then let the game begin."

And the world shattered around him.

---

Peeta felt the ground beneath him dissolve like sand slipping through his fingers, the air around him growing impossibly dense. The world was no longer a place he recognized; it was a maze of swirling shadows and blinding light. The vision of Katniss and Rye remained, their figures distant and unreachable, like ghosts trapped in a dream.

But the goddess was there, always there, her presence like a weight on his chest.

"You think you can defy us," she murmured, her voice drifting through the chaos around him, wrapping around him like a silken thread. "You think you can simply refuse our will and walk away. But you, Peeta Mellark, are a part of this world we have crafted. A piece of the puzzle we control."

Peeta's jaw clenched. He wasn't a god, but he was a king. He had led men. He had lost everything, and he had survived. And he would survive this too.

He had no choice.

"What do you want?" His voice was steady, though his heart beat wildly in his chest.

She smiled, that cruel, knowing smile. "What we want is simple. You, Peeta, will play our game. You will face trials, obstacles, choices. Every decision you make will alter the course of your fate—and the fate of your people."

He glared at her, defiance burning in his eyes. "And if I refuse?"

Her smile deepened, but there was no humor in it. "Then you will never see your family again. Your son will grow up without a father. And your wife…"

She trailed off, her voice fading into a whisper. The words echoed in his mind, louder than the chaos around him. Your wife will be lost.

A pang of panic surged through him, but he swallowed it down. He couldn't afford to show weakness.

Peeta stood tall, his eyes hard as stone. "Then I will fight. I'll fight to my last breath. For Katniss. For Rye. For my kingdom."

The goddess's eyes flickered, the faintest glint of surprise passing through them. "You are stronger than we thought. But strength alone will not be enough."

She raised a hand, and the swirling chaos around him began to take shape. A path emerged from the darkness, leading forward, toward an unknown destination.

"This is your path now," she said, her voice like ice. "Every step you take will be a test. The gods will watch you. And if you fail…"

She didn't need to finish the sentence. Peeta already knew. If he failed, there would be no homecoming. No reunion.

The vision of Katniss and Rye flickered again, just out of reach, and something inside him snapped.

"I will not fail," Peeta vowed. "I will return to them."

The goddess chuckled softly, her laughter sending chills down his spine. "We shall see."

And then, without warning, she was gone.

Peeta was left standing on the path, the weight of his promise pressing down on him. The journey ahead was uncertain, the trials waiting like shadows in the distance. But he had no choice but to keep moving forward.

For Katniss. For Rye. For his home.

And if the gods thought they could break him, they would soon learn just how wrong they were.

Peeta's feet moved before he could think, carrying him down the path that had materialized before him. The air around him was thick with a heavy silence, the kind that made every step feel like it echoed, even though there was no sound. He could still feel the eyes of the goddess, watching from the shadows, though she was no longer visible.

The world around him shifted constantly, changing in ways that made it hard to tell which way was forward. One moment, the path was a winding trail through a forest of dark trees, their branches twisting unnaturally high into the sky. The next, the ground beneath him cracked open into vast chasms, swallowing all light. He moved carefully, cautiously, trying not to lose his footing in the ever-shifting world the gods had created for him.

His thoughts returned to Katniss. To Rye. To the life he had left behind. Every moment away from them was a moment he could never get back.

"I will return," he muttered under his breath, his grip tightening on the sword at his side. The weapon felt heavier now, not from the weight of the steel, but from the pressure of the choices before him.

A sound broke the silence.

It was a whisper, too soft to be anything other than a breath of wind at first, but as it drew nearer, Peeta realized it was a voice—a voice he had heard before.

"Peeta…"

The voice was familiar, but it was wrong, warped by some strange distortion that made it unrecognizable. He looked around, but there was no sign of anyone, no shadow of a figure to chase down.

"Peeta… you can't escape us."

The voice came again, and this time, Peeta could hear the malice in it. He spun, searching for the source, but there was only darkness, an empty landscape stretching in every direction.

"They are not safe," the voice continued, a low, mocking tone curling through the air. "Your son, your wife… they will be lost without you."

Peeta's heart clenched, a fierce anger rising inside him.

"No," he growled, stepping forward. "I will not listen to your lies."

The voice laughed, and it was a sound that made the very ground beneath his feet seem to shudder. The landscape shifted once more, and Peeta found himself standing in a great hall, the walls stretching endlessly into a shadowed sky.

At the far end of the hall stood Katniss, her back to him, a distant figure. He could see her—he could feel her presence like a pull, the one thing in this place that felt real.

"Katniss!" He called out, but his voice was swallowed by the oppressive silence.

She didn't turn.

"Katniss!"

He stepped forward, but each movement seemed to slow, as if the very air around him were thickening, pulling him back. He gritted his teeth, pushing harder, forcing his body to move against the invisible chains that held him in place.

And then, just as he was about to reach her—

A figure stepped between them.

A dark shadow, tall and looming, its features hidden in the folds of an unnatural cloak. It blocked his path, its presence suffocating.

"You will not reach her, Peeta Mellark," the figure said, its voice like gravel scraping against stone.

Peeta froze, his eyes narrowing. "Who are you?"

The figure's cloak fluttered, revealing sharp, glinting eyes—eyes that seemed to burn with an ancient, cruel fire. "I am the one who keeps the balance, the one who watches the threads of fate."

"You're a god," Peeta spat, disgust and determination in equal measure.

The figure did not respond, only stepped closer, its presence an almost physical weight against Peeta's chest.

"You will not take her from me," Peeta said fiercely, forcing himself to stand tall in the face of the dark figure's power.

The figure tilted its head, considering him. "You think your strength will win here? That your defiance will save your family?"

"I don't care about the gods," Peeta said, every word a vow. "I will return to them. You won't stop me."

For a long moment, the figure seemed to study him.

Then, without a word, it raised a hand.

A flicker of light shone from the tips of its fingers, illuminating the entire hall, but it was not warm. It was cold, harsh, and filled with an ancient sorrow.

The image of Katniss flickered again. She was still facing away from him, but now, she was not alone. The shadow of another man stood beside her, a figure too familiar, too close.

Peeta's heart pounded.

"Don't…" he whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of the vision.

The figure stepped back, and the image of Katniss and the other man faded into the darkness.

Peeta's breath was ragged. "You're lying," he snarled. "I won't let you—"

The figure raised its hand again, and this time, there was no light. Only darkness. Pure, oppressive darkness.

"You are already too late, Peeta Mellark," it said, its voice like the last breath of a dying star.

And then, without warning, the darkness consumed him.

In Ithaca...

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the palace grounds. The day was drawing to a close, but within the walls, the tension was thick, hanging in the air like a storm on the horizon. Katniss stood by the open window of the great hall, her eyes scanning the horizon, searching for something she couldn't name.

Her hands were restless, folded and refolded in front of her, the stillness of her body betraying the turmoil inside. She had long since given up waiting for Peeta's return, yet a part of her still searched the horizon every day. It had been years since the battle of Troy, years since the gods had torn him away, but the space beside her was still hollow, empty.

"Mother," Rye's voice cut through her thoughts, pulling her back into the present.

She turned to find him standing near the door, his expression tightly controlled but the anger in his eyes unmistakable. At seventeen, Rye had grown tall and strong, much like his father, though his features still carried the remnants of his childhood—softness, innocence, the things Peeta had once protected.

But that innocence was fading. The suitors had been relentless in their pursuit of her, and Rye was no longer a child. The sight of them, their glances, their hands that lingered too long when they thought she wasn't looking—it tore him apart.

"What's wrong, Rye?" Katniss asked, stepping toward him, her voice soft but filled with concern.

He didn't meet her eyes, instead turning toward the open hall, where another suitor was already approaching her—one who had become far too familiar with the palace over the past few weeks.

"They're not giving up," Rye muttered, his voice dark. "It's the same every day. I can't stand it anymore. They keep looking at you like you're theirs to take."

Katniss sighed and placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch firm yet gentle, reminding him of the strength she had passed on to him. "You know I won't let them get away with anything, Rye."

"I don't care," Rye snapped, his temper flaring. "They don't even listen when you say no. They just think you'll fall for their flattery, or worse, their force." He clenched his fists, the muscles in his arms tightening.

Katniss saw the raw anger in his eyes, the frustration he couldn't express, and the protective instinct that mirrored his father's. But she knew that the more he fought against it, the more it would burn within him. She knew what he was feeling—she had felt the same, a lifetime ago, when Peeta had been taken from her, when their family had been torn apart.

"I won't let them hurt you, Rye," she said softly, her voice filled with determination. "But you need to promise me something. Don't let your anger control you. I won't have you risking everything for something that isn't worth it."

Rye's jaw tightened, but he nodded, though reluctantly. He turned away, staring out the window, his back to her. He wasn't ready to let go of the fire inside him, the burning desire to protect her from the world he couldn't control.

Katniss watched him, her heart heavy. She didn't know how much longer she could protect him from the world. The suitors, the gods, the endless pressure—it was all too much. But she couldn't let him see how broken she was beneath the surface. He needed her to be strong.

She took a deep breath, then said, "Rye… I need you to promise me something else."

Rye turned to look at her, his eyes still burning with frustration but softening when they met her gaze.

"I need you to trust that your father will come back to us."

For a moment, there was only silence, and in that silence, Katniss could see the doubt in his eyes. She could feel the weight of that doubt pressing down on her too, but she refused to let it show.

"Father…" Rye began, his voice unsteady. "What if he doesn't come back? What if the gods never let him return to us?"

"I can't promise you when, Rye. I can't promise you that things will be easy. But I can promise you that your father loves you. And he will come back. He will."

Rye didn't answer. Instead, he looked down at the floor, his fists still clenched. Katniss could see the conflict in him—his need to believe her, but also the fear that had taken root after so many years without Peeta's presence in their lives.

But just as quickly as it came, his expression hardened. He took a deep breath and nodded, though it didn't reach his eyes.

"I'll try, Mother. But it's hard. Every day, I see those men. They keep getting closer."

Katniss moved closer to him, placing her hands on his shoulders. "And we will keep fighting them off, together. But I need you to focus, Rye. Focus on what's important. On what's real. Not the things that try to take away your peace."

Rye's eyes softened for a moment, but the anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface.

"I'll try," he said again, though the doubt in his voice lingered.

Katniss smiled at him, her hand resting on his shoulder. "That's all I can ask. You're strong, Rye. Just like your father. Don't let anyone tell you differently."

She could see the faintest flicker of pride in his eyes as he nodded, though it was quickly buried by the weight of the world that had come too early to his shoulders.

And though she knew that their lives were far from settled, that they would continue to face dangers both mortal and divine, Katniss held on to that promise—that one day, Peeta would return.

Until then, she would protect Rye. She would keep him safe from the suitors and from the gods, as much as she could. And when Peeta returned, they would rebuild, together.

Peeta

The darkness swallowed Peeta whole. It was endless—no sound, no ground beneath his feet, no air in his lungs. He was weightless, drifting through an abyss that stretched beyond comprehension. It wasn't just an absence of light; it was an absence of everything.

And then—pain.

A searing bolt ripped through his chest, as if fire had been driven into his ribs. His body convulsed, and suddenly, he was falling. The void shattered around him, the blackness peeling away like smoke as he tumbled through a sky that was neither day nor night.

He hit the ground hard, his body slamming onto rough stone. His breath came in ragged gasps as his vision swam, the edges of his world twisting and reforming.

Peeta groaned and forced himself onto his hands and knees. His fingers curled around gravel, real and solid beneath him. He was somewhere new.

The air was thick with the scent of salt and fire.

A great storm raged above him, the sky split by veins of gold lightning. Thunder rumbled like the growl of an angry beast, and in the distance, towering waves crashed against jagged cliffs.

The gods were furious.

Peeta pushed himself up, wincing at the sharp pain in his ribs. He recognized this place—or at least, what it was meant to be. A realm between worlds, a place where mortals were never meant to stand.

He wasn't alone.

The figure from before stood atop a broken column, his cloak billowing in the howling wind. His glowing eyes bore into Peeta, unyielding, merciless.

"You were warned," the figure said.

Peeta straightened, his stance unshaken. "And I told you—I won't stop."

The figure tilted its head, almost amused. "Defiance, even now? After everything you've seen?"

Peeta clenched his fists. "Katniss is my wife. Rye is my son. No vision, no trick, no god will change that."

The figure sighed, as if disappointed. "Then you leave us no choice."

The ground beneath Peeta split open.

A great hand of molten rock burst from the earth, its fingers curling around his leg. Before he could react, a second hand emerged, seizing his arm. The heat burned through his clothes, searing his flesh, but he bit back the pain, refusing to cry out.

From the fissures in the earth, a form began to rise. A monstrous figure, forged from flame and stone, its body pulsing like the heart of a volcano.

Peeta recognized it at once.

Typhon.

A god of destruction, a beast of chaos.

Peeta gritted his teeth. The gods truly mean to break me.

The great beast let out a roar that shook the heavens, its molten gaze locking onto Peeta. The hands gripping him tightened, dragging him closer to the pit.

Peeta fought against them, twisting, pulling—but he wasn't strong enough.

The gods' laughter echoed across the stormy sky.

And then, something changed.

A whisper, carried by the wind, brushing against Peeta's ear.

"Hold on, Peeta."

The voice was faint, but it was real. Familiar.

Katniss.

Something surged inside him, something more powerful than the fire that burned his skin. He wasn't just fighting for himself—he was fighting for them.

With a final, desperate growl, Peeta wrenched his arm free. He grabbed the blade at his side and, with all his strength, plunged it into the molten hand gripping his leg.

The beast let out a deafening bellow as the blade sank deep, and in that moment of hesitation, Peeta tore himself free.

He staggered back, gripping his sword, his breath heavy.

Typhon glared at him, its fiery form writhing with rage. The ground trembled as it began to rise to its full height, towering over him.

Peeta tightened his grip on his weapon. He had defied the gods once.

He would do it again.

And he would return home.

Peeta stood his ground as Typhon loomed over him, its molten body radiating unbearable heat. The earth trembled beneath its monstrous form, lava oozing from the cracks in its skin like searing wounds that refused to close. The gods' laughter still echoed in the air, a cruel, mocking symphony.

The beast struck first.

A massive hand of stone and fire swung toward Peeta with the force of a falling mountain. He barely had time to throw himself to the side, rolling across the scorching ground as the impact shattered the earth where he had stood. Rocks and embers flew in all directions, burning his arms as he shielded his face.

He couldn't win in sheer strength.

He needed to be smart.

Peeta scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding. He darted toward the broken ruins scattered across the battlefield, using the jagged stone for cover as Typhon turned, tracking his movements with burning eyes.

"You cannot run forever, mortal," the gods' voice echoed from the storm above.

Peeta knew that.

But he wasn't planning to run.

With every step, he searched for something—anything—that could give him an advantage. His gaze flickered to the towering cliffs at the edge of the battlefield, where jagged rock met the raging sea below.

That's it.

Peeta turned sharply, sprinting toward the cliff's edge, forcing the beast to follow.

Typhon roared, its massive form crushing stone as it advanced.

Closer.

Peeta could feel the heat at his back, the flames licking at his skin.

Closer.

His lungs burned as he pushed himself forward, gripping the hilt of his sword.

Now!

At the last second, Peeta spun, dropping to one knee as he slashed at the ground beneath him—where the stone was weak, fractured by the monster's earlier strike.

The ground gave way.

A deafening crack split the air as the cliffside crumbled beneath Typhon's weight. The beast let out a roar of surprise as the ground vanished from under its feet, sending its molten body plunging toward the crashing waves below.

Peeta barely had time to leap back before the entire ledge collapsed, taking Typhon with it.

For a moment, there was nothing but the roar of the sea.

Then, a massive hiss—steam rising in thick clouds as the water swallowed the fiery god. The earth shook violently, as if the very world was gasping from the battle.

Peeta stumbled backward, gripping his sword as he stared at the churning waves below.

It was over.

Or so he thought.

A voice, ancient and full of rage, filled the air.

"You dare strike down what we have sent?!"

Peeta turned as the sky split open.

A figure emerged from the storm—tall, draped in golden armor, lightning crackling at his fingertips. His eyes burned with divine fury.

Zeus.

The King of the Gods.

Peeta barely had time to react before the first bolt of lightning struck.

Peeta barely had time to throw himself to the ground before a bolt of lightning struck where he had stood. The sheer force of it sent him tumbling backward, his ears ringing from the deafening crack of thunder. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and burning stone.

He forced himself to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. His body ached, his burns searing with every movement, but he kept his grip tight on his sword.

Above him, Zeus hovered like a vengeful storm given form. His golden eyes burned with divine fury, his armor gleaming with the light of a thousand suns. His spear of lightning crackled in his grip, radiating power that could unmake worlds.

"You have defied us too many times, mortal," Zeus thundered, his voice shaking the heavens. "You were given your path. You were given your trials. And yet you resist."

Peeta wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, his breaths ragged. He refused to kneel, refused to show weakness, even as the god's power bore down on him.

"I refuse to be a pawn in your games," Peeta growled. "I refuse to let you keep me from my wife and son."

Zeus sneered. "And for that, you will suffer."

Another bolt of lightning tore through the sky.

This time, Peeta couldn't dodge.

The strike hit him square in the chest. Agony ripped through his body as the force sent him flying. He crashed into the remains of a broken column, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. His vision blurred, his limbs weak.

For the first time, he felt helpless.

His grip on his sword loosened. His breaths came in ragged gasps as his body trembled from the raw power coursing through his veins. The gods had finally decided to break him.

But then, through the haze of pain, he heard it.

A voice—small, distant, carried by the wind.

"Come back to us, Peeta."

Katniss.

Her voice was soft, a whisper against the chaos, but it struck him deeper than any god's wrath.

And then—another voice.

"Father… please."

Rye.

Peeta's eyes snapped open, and his hand tightened around his sword. His heart pounded, not from fear, but from something greater—resolve.

He forced himself to stand.

The gods may have held power over the world, but they did not hold power over him.

Zeus narrowed his eyes as Peeta straightened his back, his stance unwavering despite the pain. "You should not be standing."

Peeta spat the blood in his mouth on the floor before lifting his chin. "And yet, here I am."

Zeus's grip on his spear tightened. The storm raged around them, lightning flashing, the heavens trembling in fury. "Then let us see how long that defiance lasts."

Another bolt of lightning crackled to life in the god's palm.

But this time, Peeta was ready.

He tightened his grip on his sword and charged.

Zeus hurled another bolt of lightning, the raw power splitting the sky as it tore toward Peeta. But this time, he didn't run. He couldn't run. If he wanted to return home, if he wanted to see Katniss and Rye again, he had to fight.

He raised his sword.

The moment the lightning struck, his blade—glowing with divine energy—caught the bolt. The force of it sent vibrations up his arm, burning his fingers, but he held on. The sword absorbed the power, crackling with white-hot energy.

Zeus's eyes narrowed in disbelief. "Impossible."

Then, a second voice echoed across the battlefield.

"It is not impossible when a mortal has earned my favor."

The storm above them shifted. A golden light broke through the swirling darkness, and from it emerged Athena.

The goddess of wisdom and war descended gracefully, her armor gleaming like silver moonlight. A golden spear rested in her hand, a shield strapped to her arm. Her piercing gray eyes met Zeus's, unyielding, unwavering.

"Enough of this, Father," Athena said coldly. "This man has proven himself time and time again. You throw your storms at him, send your monsters, and yet he survives. If that is not worthy of the gods' respect, then what is?"

Zeus's jaw tightened. "You dare interfere?"

"I dare balance the scales." Athena turned her gaze to Peeta. "I have watched you fight, Peeta of Ithaca. Your mind is as sharp as your blade, your heart stronger than any force the gods have placed before you. And so, I grant you my blessing."

A surge of power rushed through Peeta's veins. The burns on his skin faded, his muscles no longer ached, and his sword—still crackling with Zeus's lightning—shone with a divine glow. Strength unlike anything he had ever known coursed through him.

Zeus let out a growl of frustration, lightning dancing along his fingers. "You think the favor of one goddess will be enough to stand against me?"

Athena merely smirked. "Shall we test that theory?"

Peeta took a steady breath, adjusting his grip on his sword. "I didn't come here to fight gods," he said, meeting Zeus's furious gaze. "I came here to go home."

The sky rumbled, the storm still hungry for destruction. Zeus's fury was legendary, but even he could not deny Athena's intervention.

A tense silence hung in the air.

Then, finally, Zeus lowered his lightning spear. His expression remained furious, but his pride would not allow him to continue a battle that Athena had so boldly disrupted.

"Very well," Zeus said through gritted teeth. "You may continue your journey. But do not mistake this for mercy, mortal. The gods do not forget."

With that, the storm above vanished.

The sky cleared, the weight of divine fury lifting. Peeta exhaled, his body still humming with the energy of Athena's blessing.

Athena stepped toward him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "You are closer than you think," she said. "But your journey is not over. Keep your wits about you, for the gods will test you again."

Peeta nodded. "I'll be ready."

With a final glance toward Zeus, Athena turned and disappeared into the ether, her presence fading like a wisp of smoke.

Peeta stood alone, the battlefield now eerily silent.

Then, he looked toward the horizon—the direction of Ithaca.

Home.

He sheathed his sword and turned toward his waiting ship.

It was time to finish his journey.

---

The sea stretched endlessly before Peeta as he stood at the bow of his ship, the salty wind whipping through his hair. The storm had passed, leaving behind an eerie calm. The sky was clear, the waves gentle, but Peeta knew better than to trust it.

Zeus had granted him passage, for now. But the gods did not forget.

His crew moved quietly around the deck, shaken but alive. They had survived yet another divine wrath, but not without cost. The men mourned Darius, their fallen brother, and the weight of the journey pressed heavy on their shoulders.

Peeta's grip on the railing tightened. Every day he spent at sea was another day Katniss and Rye endured their own battle. Rye was seventeen now. A boy on the cusp of manhood, forced to watch strangers invade his home, trying to steal what was his father's. Peeta clenched his jaw. He knew his son—knew the fire that burned in him. Rye would not sit idly by. He would fight if Katniss didn't stop him.

And Katniss…

Peeta exhaled. His body ached for her. Fourteen years without her warmth, without the feel of her in his arms, her steady presence beside him. He had left her with a kiss and a promise. He refused to break it.

He would return to her.

A voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"My King!" Calyx pointed toward the horizon. "Land ahead!"

Peeta's pulse quickened. Could it be Ithaca? Could he have finally reached home?

He squinted against the sun, hope rising in his chest—until he caught sight of jagged cliffs and thick mist rolling over the water. His stomach sank.

This was not Ithaca.

A deep unease settled over him. The gods were not done with him yet.

"Lower the sails," Peeta ordered. "We approach carefully."

His men obeyed without question, their movements swift and disciplined. They had learned by now—nothing was ever as it seemed on this cursed journey.

As they neared the shore, the mist thickened, curling around the ship like grasping fingers. The air grew heavy, and a strange silence settled over the water. No gulls cried. No waves crashed. It was as if the world itself was holding its breath.

Then, a soft voice carried through the mist.

"Travelers of the sea… you have come far. But will you come further?"

Peeta's blood ran cold.

The voice was beautiful. Enchanting. It curled around his senses like warm honey, drawing him forward. He could see shadows moving through the mist—feminine shapes, their hands reaching out—beckoning.

His men stiffened, some already inching toward the voices, their eyes glazed.

Sirens.

Peeta gritted his teeth. He had heard the stories—creatures of the deep, luring sailors to their deaths with voices sweet as nectar.

They could not afford to lose more men.

"Cover your ears!" Peeta bellowed. "Now!"

Some men obeyed immediately, stuffing wax into their ears, gripping onto the ship to anchor themselves. But others were already too far gone. Their lips parted as if answering a lover's call, their hands reaching for something unseen.

One by one, they stumbled toward the edge.

Peeta cursed. He had no choice. He grabbed a length of rope and lashed himself to the mast, securing his position. He needed his mind clear. He needed to think.

Then, from the mist, they emerged.

Women waded through the shallow waters, their luminous eyes locked onto the ship. Their lips parted, singing a melody so heartbreakingly sweet that—for a moment—even Peeta felt his resolve waver.

His fists clenched against the ropes. No. No, I will not fall to this.

But his men—his men were drowning.

One by one, they threw themselves overboard, desperate to reach the sirens. The water swallowed them whole, their cries lost beneath the song.

Peeta's heart pounded. He had to stop this—

Then, he saw her.

Through the mist, standing on the deck, Katniss.

His breath caught. She was here. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders, her storm-gray eyes fixed on him. Her lips—lips he had kissed, lips he had ached for—curved into a soft, knowing smile.

"Peeta."

His whole body jolted, the sound of her voice slicing through his defenses.

How? How was she here? He had left her behind in Ithaca. He had just seen her in his dreams, waiting for him on the shore. But now—

"Peeta, untie yourself." Her voice was a whisper, a plea. "Come home to me."

He needed to.

The ropes dug into his skin as he struggled against them. Why had he tied himself down? Why was he resisting? She was here.

She was here.

"Katniss—" His voice broke. He had missed her, gods, he had missed her. If he could just touch her—if he could just—

A flicker.

A shift in the mist.

Peeta's pulse slammed against his ribs.

Something was wrong.

Katniss's voice—her real voice—was sharper, edged with fire. Not soft and honeyed like this.

And her eyes.

Gray, yes. But missing the storm.

Missing her.

Peeta's stomach dropped.

"No." His voice was hoarse. "No, you're not her."

The thing wearing Katniss's face tilted its head, lips curling into something sickly sweet. "I am, my love."

Lies.

Peeta knew his wife. He knew her better than he knew himself.

Katniss would never call him my love. She would never ask him to untie himself. She would grab his face, curse the gods, and tell him to fight like hell.

This was not his Katniss.

His jaw tightened. They almost had me.

"You think you can wear her face?" Peeta snarled, voice shaking with rage. "You think you can take her from me?"

The siren-Katniss only smiled, stepping closer, her bare feet leaving no imprint on the wood. "You want to touch me, don't you?"

Peeta's stomach churned.

And then he did something he never thought he would do.

He shut his eyes to Katniss's face.

And thought of her voice instead.

"You are home, Peeta. Stay."

That was Katniss. Not this.

With a roar, Peeta threw his weight back against the mast, forcing himself away from the false Katniss, from the temptation of her face, the whisper of her voice.

His nails dug into his palms, desperate to hold onto reality.

He heard a hiss—a shriek of rage—and when he opened his eyes, she was gone.

The sirens shrieked as the illusion shattered, their beautiful faces twisting into something monstrous, their mouths opening wider than humanly possible. The spell was breaking.

Peeta had won.

His gaze snapped to the ship's hull, to the barrels of wax stored below deck. The only way to fight a siren's song was to block it out completely.

"Calyx!" he shouted, straining against the ropes. "Get the wax—plug your ears!"

The young sailor hesitated, his expression dazed.

"Now!" Peeta roared.

Calyx shook himself, his willpower barely holding, and scrambled below deck.

Peeta could do nothing but watch as more of his men succumbed, their bodies slipping beneath the waves. Damn the gods. Damn this cursed journey.

Then, Calyx returned, arms full of wax. He shoved it into his ears, then moved swiftly, forcing it into the ears of those still onboard.

One by one, the men snapped out of their trance.

But the damage was already done.

Half of them were gone.

Peeta's stomach twisted as he watched the sirens retreat, their song fading into the mist, their work done. The sea returned to its unnatural silence, mocking him.

Guilt clawed at his chest.

He had lost more men.

But the journey could not stop.

"Set sail," he ordered hoarsely, untying himself from the mast. "We leave this cursed place."

The men obeyed, shaken but determined.

As the ship drifted away from the mist-covered shore, Peeta turned his gaze forward once more.

The gods would throw every obstacle in his path.

But he would not stop.

Not until he was home.

The island was a paradise.

Lush forests stretched endlessly, golden sands shimmered under the sun, and the air was thick with the scent of blooming flowers. It looked like the kind of place one could rest, heal—even forget the burdens of war.

But Peeta knew better.

From the moment their ship had run aground, they had been trapped. No matter how they tried, the winds would not carry them from the shore. The sea itself refused them passage.

And then she came.

Circe.

She was beautiful in a way that felt unnatural, like something sculpted by the gods themselves. Her golden hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her eyes gleamed with something ancient, something dangerous. She had greeted them with a smile, offered them food and drink, and then spoken the words that sealed their fates.

"You cannot leave unless I allow it."

That had been three days ago.

Now, Peeta stood in the grand hall of her palace, his jaw clenched as Circe reclined lazily on her throne of polished obsidian. The torches flickered in the breeze, casting eerie shadows along the walls. Behind him, his men—his brothers—stood silent, waiting.

Circe traced a finger along the rim of her goblet, watching him. "You are the one they follow," she mused. "The King of Ithaca. The man who longs for home more than life itself."

Peeta didn't answer.

Her smile widened. "I will make this simple, Peeta." She leaned forward. "Stay with me, and your men may leave. Refuse, and none of you will ever set foot off this island again."

A cold weight settled in Peeta's chest.

He had fought wars. He had lost friends. But this—this choice—was unlike anything he had ever faced.

Stay, and his men would live. Leave, and they would all die here, forgotten.

Circe tilted her head. "What is one life, weighed against so many?"

Peeta exhaled slowly. He thought of Katniss. Of Rye. Of the home he had dreamed of for fourteen years.

Would they ever know what had happened to him? Would Rye remember his father's face, or would he grow up believing him dead?

His hands curled into fists.

You will never see them again.

He closed his eyes, swallowing back the grief already rising in his throat.

Then, finally—

"I'll stay."

A sharp intake of breath from behind him.

Then—

"No."

Peeta turned just as Finnick surged forward, rage in his eyes. The other men barely managed to grab him in time, holding him back as he fought against them.

"You can't do this, Peeta!" Finnick roared, his voice raw with desperation. "You can't!"

Peeta's jaw tightened, his heart hammering against his ribs. "I don't have a choice."

Finnick's struggles only grew more violent. "The hell you don't!"

Peeta looked away. If he kept looking at Finnick—at his oldest friend—he might break.

He turned back to Circe, whose expression was one of victory.

But before he could take another step—

"I'll take his place."

The voice was young. Steady.

Peeta froze.

Slowly, he turned.

Calyx stood at the front of the group, his chin high, his grip tight at his sides. He was shaking—Peeta could see it—but his eyes were clear. Determined.

Peeta's stomach twisted. "No."

Calyx stepped forward. "You said it yourself. One life for many."

"No." Peeta's voice was sharp, cutting. "You don't know what you're saying."

"I do." Calyx's voice wavered, just slightly, but he didn't stop. "You have to go home, Peeta. You have something waiting for you. A wife. A son."

His gaze softened.

And that was when Peeta saw it.

The golden hair. The blue eyes.

For a brief, horrifying second, all he could see was Rye.

His son, standing there—too small, too young, too good—offering himself in his father's place.

Peeta's breath hitched, his stomach lurching. No. No, no, no. His mind screamed against the thought, but his heart was already breaking.

Because it wasn't Rye.

It was Calyx.

But it felt the same.

"You were more of a father to me than I ever had," Calyx said softly.

Peeta's legs nearly gave out.

No, no, no.

Calyx forced a small smile. "And if I can do something to get you home, then that's what I'll do."

Peeta shook his head violently. "You don't—"

Calyx stepped closer. "Please. Don't let me die for nothing. Make it worth something"

The words hit Peeta like a dagger. His throat closed.

"No," he whispered, but Finnick was there—grabbing his arm, holding him back.

Calyx turned to Circe, his hands trembling but his voice steady. "If I stay, will you let them go?"

Circe studied him, amused. "You would do this?"

Calyx nodded once.

She laughed softly, shaking her head in wonder. "Fascinating." Then, after a long pause— "Yes. I will honor the exchange."

Peeta thrashed against Finnick's grip, panic flooding his chest. "No!"

Calyx turned back to him, eyes shining. "Go home."

Then, before Peeta could fight his way free, Calyx crossed the threshold of Circe's dais.

And it was done.

Circe's power surged through the room like a storm, the air crackling with unseen energy.

Peeta fell still, his breath ragged.

Calyx turned, just once, offering Peeta a small, sad smile.

And for the second time in his life, Peeta lost a boy with golden hair and blue eyes.

Then Circe lifted a hand, and a golden light engulfed Calyx.

And he was gone.

The silence was unbearable.

Peeta felt like he was drowning.

A hand gripped his shoulder—Finnick.

"We have to go."

Peeta's knees nearly buckled.

Calyx was gone.

Gone.

And yet—he had saved them.

Saved him.

Peeta swallowed the scream clawing its way up his throat and turned away.

Katniss.

Rye.

He had to go home.

Even if a part of him would never forgive himself.

The waves carried them forward, but Peeta felt as if he were sinking.

Ithaca lay just on the horizon, a mere speck in the distance, but it did not fill him with joy.

Only dread.

The weight in his chest was unbearable.

Calyx was gone.

The young man who had stood beside him through every storm, every hardship, every loss—gone. Left behind in his place.

Peeta gripped the railing of the ship, his knuckles white. He could still see Calyx's face in his mind, smiling, even as the mist swallowed the island.

"Make it worth something."

The words haunted him.

How could he?

How could he ever make any of it worth it?

The wind howled around him, the sea restless beneath them. His men—what remained of them—were quiet, worn thin by loss and time. Fourteen years. That was how long it had been since they left the shores of Ithaca.

And in that time… Peeta had done so much.

Too much.

Blood stained his hands, and no saltwater could ever wash it away.

The young men barely older than Rye that he had slain on the fields of Troy.

The ones he had tricked into their deaths with the Trojan Horse, his mind sharper than his blade.

The way the city had burned—cries of women and children filling the air, the scent of ash and blood clinging to his skin.

The gods had used him as a tool for destruction. He had been a warrior. A leader. A pawn in their game.

And then there was Poseidon's son.

The blow had not been meant to be fatal. Peeta had not known who he was at the time. But the sea god had known. And when Peeta had struck, fate had been sealed.

Poseidon had never let him forget it.

Four years of torment.

He had watched his men die, one by one. Some by storm, some by war, some by the monstrous creatures Poseidon had set upon them.

And those he could not protect—those who had trusted him, who had followed him blindly—were the heaviest ghosts of all.

He closed his eyes.

Calyx's face flickered behind his eyelids.

Peeta sucked in a sharp breath, forcing himself to stare at the horizon instead.

Ithaca.

Katniss.

Rye.

Did they even remember him? Did they still love him?

He had spent years clinging to the thought of them, surviving for them. But now that Ithaca was within reach, he wasn't sure he deserved to set foot on its shores.

A king should return victorious.

But he was coming back broken.

The sea stretched endlessly before them, its surface restless under the glow of the moon. The wind pushed their ship forward, the sails catching the current that would bring them home.

Ithaca was close.

Peeta could feel it.

But he didn't rejoice.

He stood at the bow, gripping the wooden railing, his knuckles white. The salty air burned his eyes, but he didn't blink. He couldn't.

Because when he did, all he saw was Calyx.

He should have fought harder. He should have found another way.

"You were more of a father to me than I ever had."

The words were a curse, branding themselves into his soul. He had spent fourteen years dreaming of his son, longing to hold him, to tell him the stories of their people—to see him grow into the man he was meant to be.

And yet, on Circe's island, he had left another boy behind.

A boy who reminded him of Rye.

Another boy he had failed.

Peeta exhaled sharply, shutting his eyes. But it only made things worse.

Because then he saw everything.

Troy.

The burning city. The screams.

The young men barely past childhood—warriors, yes, but still so young—who had fallen beneath his blade. The ones he had slain on the battlefield, their blood staining his hands.

The trap.

The Trojan Horse had been his idea. His plan. His strategy. He had been the one to suggest slipping into the city under the guise of surrender, had convinced the others it was the only way to end the war. And it had worked.

But at what cost?

Peeta clenched his jaw. He could still hear the crackling flames, the cries of men and women as Troy burned. He could still feel the weight of his sword as he struck down soldiers who had once believed themselves victorious.

He had been their ruin.

And then there was Poseidon's son.

Peeta's fingers curled tighter against the railing.

The storm had been wild that day, the sea thrashing against their ship. They had been fighting to survive, to keep from capsizing. Poseidon's son—Arion—had risen from the depths, wielding the fury of the ocean itself, demanding their deaths in the name of the gods.

Peeta had fought him. Had injured him.

And for that, Poseidon had cursed him.

One disaster after another had plagued their journey home. Monsters, storms, betrayal—so many had died, their bodies lost to the sea.

And now Calyx.

Peeta's stomach twisted. How many more had to die for him?

For his homecoming?

For his sins?

A voice broke through his thoughts.

"You should rest."

Finnick.

Peeta didn't turn. "I can't."

Finnick sighed, stepping beside him. The silence between them stretched, the waves below the only sound.

Then—softly—Finnick said, "He wouldn't want you to hate yourself for this."

Peeta flinched.

Finnick exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "Calyx made his choice. We all have." His voice wavered. "You think I don't feel the weight of the men we've lost? I do. But if you drown yourself in guilt, then what was it all for?"

Peeta swallowed against the tightness in his throat.

"We're almost home," Finnick murmured. "Almost there."

Peeta finally forced himself to look up.

There, in the distance—Ithaca.

It didn't feel real.

He had dreamed of this moment, imagined it in a thousand different ways. But now that it was here—

A deep, low rumble shook the air.

The sea fell eerily silent.

Peeta's stomach dropped.

Finnick tensed beside him. "No." His voice was a whisper, laced with dread.

The men on deck froze. Some reached for their weapons. Others merely stood, their faces pale as the sea itself.

And then—

The waves split apart.

Water surged upward, spiraling into the sky, forming a towering figure of muscle and fury.

Poseidon.

His presence crushed the air around them, his eyes glowing like storm-lit seas.

Peeta barely had time to react before the god's voice thundered through the sky—

"You are not welcome here, son of Ithaca."

The wind howled, the ship groaning beneath the force of the storm that suddenly swirled around them.

Peeta stepped forward, ignoring the way his body trembled. He would not kneel. Not to the god who had stolen years of his life.

"We are almost home," Peeta called, his voice steady. "You have taken enough."

Poseidon's lip curled. "I have taken nothing. It is you who have taken from me." His voice darkened. "You murdered my son. You led the slaughter at Troy. You have doomed those who followed you."

Peeta's jaw locked, but he said nothing. Because it was true.

Poseidon raised his hand.

The sea surged, waves rising higher, ready to strike—

But before the god could bring his wrath down upon them, Finnick stepped in front of Peeta, trident in hand.

"You'll have to go through us first," he said coldly.

The men behind him followed suit, drawing their weapons, their faces set with grim determination.

Peeta's breath caught.

Even after everything, they were still willing to stand by him.

Poseidon's eyes narrowed. He regarded them for a long, tense moment, the waves still churning beneath him.

Then—

"So be it."

The storm struck.

And Peeta braced himself for the final battle.

The sea exploded around them.

Waves crashed against the ship, the deck tilting wildly beneath their feet as the storm roared. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the chaos—the men shouting, weapons clashing against summoned creatures of the deep, and at the heart of it all—

Poseidon.

He moved like the ocean itself—unrelenting, powerful, unstoppable. Every swing of his massive trident sent waves crashing over the deck, knocking men off their feet, throwing them into the depths below.

And Peeta was losing.

His sword was slick with seawater and blood, his body battered from the onslaught. He had fought many battles in his life—Troy, the endless skirmishes of their cursed voyage—but none like this.

Because this wasn't a battle.

This was a god playing with him.

Peeta barely had time to raise his shield before Poseidon's trident struck again. The force of it sent him skidding across the deck, slamming into the railing. He coughed, the taste of iron thick on his tongue.

"You still stand?" Poseidon's voice boomed, mocking. "How stubborn mortals are."

Peeta forced himself up, gripping his sword tightly despite the way his arms trembled. His vision blurred for a moment—Calyx's face flashing before him, then Rye's, then Katniss's—

No.

He would not die here.

With a raw, desperate cry, Peeta lunged.

He struck with all the strength left in him, aiming for the god's chest—but Poseidon was waiting.

The god twisted, dodging the blow with ease.

Then—pain.

White-hot agony ripped through Peeta's side as Poseidon's trident slashed across him, tearing into flesh and bone. Peeta staggered, gasping. His legs buckled, the world spinning.

Poseidon loomed over him.

"You took my son from me," the god murmured, voice low and dangerous. "Now, I take you from yours."

The trident lifted.

Peeta could do nothing.

He was going to die.

"No!"

A blur of motion—Finnick.

Peeta barely had time to register it before Finnick threw himself between them.

Poseidon's trident struck deep.

Right into Finnick's chest.

Peeta's breath caught. The world stopped.

Finnick choked, blood spilling from his lips. The trident glowed, pulsing with divine power, and Finnick's body seized. But he didn't scream. He just looked at Peeta.

And then Poseidon yanked the weapon free.

Finnick crumpled.

Peeta caught him before he hit the deck.

"Finnick—!"

Finnick's weight was heavy against him, his breath already shallow. Peeta pressed a hand against the gaping wound, but the blood wouldn't stop—there was too much.

Poseidon watched, impassive. "Now you understand," he said, voice like the crashing tide. "You have taken from me. And now I have taken from you."

Then, like the sea itself, Poseidon vanished.

The storm calmed. The waves stilled.

But Peeta didn't notice.

Because Finnick was dying in his arms.

Peeta pressed harder, shaking his head. "No, no—stay with me—"

Finnick exhaled weakly, a small, familiar smirk twitching at the corner of his lips. "You're… so damn stubborn," he rasped. His fingers weakly gripped Peeta's arm. "You… you have to go home."

Peeta's throat tightened. "Not without you."

Finnick coughed, more blood trickling from his lips. His grip on Peeta's arm tightened, desperate now. "Peeta—promise me." His voice broke. "Make sure… Annie knows. Make sure they know. My son. My daughter. Tell them…" He inhaled sharply. "Tell them how much I love them."

Peeta's eyes burned. He shook his head. "Tell them yourself."

But Finnick only smiled—that damn smile. "You know I can't."

Peeta bit back a sob, gripping Finnick's tunic.

And then—Finnick's breath shuddered.

His hand slipped from Peeta's arm.

And the light in his sea-green eyes dimmed.

Gone.

Peeta broke.

A ragged, wordless cry tore from his throat as he pulled Finnick's body close, as if holding him tighter would bring him back. His closest friend. His brother. The boy he had grown up with. The man who had stood beside him through war, who made him laugh when the pain of missing Katniss and Rye got too much to bear, through exile, through this gods-forsaken journey.

And now he was gone.

Peeta clutched Finnick's lifeless body, the weight of everything crashing down upon him.

And for the first time in fourteen years—

He wept.

The deck was still slick with blood.

Peeta sat in the dark, his back against the mast, the weight of Finnick's lifeless body heavy in his arms. The sea had calmed, but the silence was unbearable.

His men stood around him, battered, grieving—but alive.

Finnick had given them that.

Poseidon had left them with their victory, but it was a hollow, wretched thing.

Peeta should have died.

Instead, Finnick had chosen to take his place, and now—Annie had no husband. His children had no father.

Because of him.

Peeta's grip tightened around Finnick's tunic, his forehead pressing against his friend's cooling skin. "I'm sorry," he whispered, voice broken. "I'm so sorry."

No answer.

There never would be.

Ithaca was on the horizon, the land he had spent fourteen years trying to return to, but for the first time, Peeta felt no relief. Only a deep, gnawing emptiness.

Home had come at too great a price.

Back in Ithaca...

Rye clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. His breath came in sharp bursts, his heart hammering in his chest as he stared at Orestes and the other suitors who stood before him. The dim torchlight flickered against the stone walls of the great hall, casting long, distorted shadows over the intruders.

Orestes, tall and lean with a wolfish smirk, stepped forward, his voice laced with mock sympathy. "It's been fourteen years, boy," he drawled. "Your mother's had plenty of time to choose. But if she won't pick a husband—" His smirk widened into something cruel. "Then we will take her ourselves."

Rye's entire body tensed. His rage burned so fiercely it was a wonder he didn't burst into flames where he stood. His hand instinctively moved toward the dagger at his belt, his blood roaring in his ears. How dare they? How dare they speak of her like this?

But before he could react, before he could unsheath his blade and drive it into Orestes' throat, his mother's voice rang out, clear and commanding.

"Enough."

Katniss stood tall at the entrance to the hall, her dark hair flowing down her back, her expression as sharp as the edge of a blade. There was no fear in her eyes—only cold, measured fury. She did not need a weapon to be dangerous; her presence alone was enough to silence them.

"You will leave this hall. Now," she said, her voice steady.

The suitors hesitated, exchanging glances, but Orestes merely chuckled, though there was something forced about it. "You can't keep this up forever, Katniss. Eventually, you'll have to choose." His gaze flickered to Rye, a warning glinting in his eyes. "And your boy won't always be here to protect you."

Rye took a step forward, murder in his eyes, but Katniss held up a hand. "Go," she said again, sharper this time.

Orestes and the others lingered for a moment longer before finally turning, slinking back into the night like scavengers who had been denied their meal. The moment the doors shut behind them, Rye let out a sharp exhale, his whole body still trembling with barely restrained fury.

Katniss turned to him, her expression unreadable. "Are you all right?"

Rye let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "No, Mother, I am not all right." His tone felt foreign coming from his mouth—he has never spoken to her like that, but the weight of the moment demanded it. "How can you just let them talk like that? They threatened to rape you." His voice cracked with anger. "And you stopped me from doing anything about it."

Katniss studied him, her sharp eyes tracing over his face as though she were memorizing every detail. Then, slowly, she reached for him. He wanted to resist, to pull away, but he couldn't. The moment her hand touched his arm, he felt himself loosen, if only slightly.

"I know you're angry," she said quietly. "I am too. But you are not their equal, Rye. Not yet."

Rye grit his teeth. "I could've taken them."

Katniss sighed. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. But there were many of them, and they are looking for an excuse to spill your blood, not just mine." Her fingers tightened around his arm. "And I will not lose you."

His jaw clenched. "And I'm just supposed to stand back and let them threaten you?"

"For now." Her voice was gentle but firm.

Rye let out a frustrated breath, raking a hand through his curls. "I hate them," he muttered. "I hate them all. And I hate that I can't do anything."

Katniss stepped closer, and when she spoke, her voice softened. "You remind me so much of your father."

Rye swallowed hard. He looked at her then, really looked at her, and saw it—the sadness beneath her strength, the years of waiting, of enduring, of carrying the weight of an entire kingdom on her shoulders.

"I'm not him," Rye said after a long pause.

"No," Katniss murmured, "but you have his heart." She reached up, brushing a curl from his forehead. "And that is something they should fear."

Rye closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself lean into her touch. Then, without thinking, he pulled her into a tight embrace. She stiffened for only a moment before melting into him, her arms wrapping around him just as tightly.

For a brief moment, he felt like a child again, safe in his mother's arms, when the world was not yet so cruel.

But as he held her, the words still echoed in his mind.

What if they come back?

Rye woke to rough hands yanking him from his bed. His body jerked instinctively, but before he could make sense of what was happening, a fist struck his ribs, knocking the wind from his lungs. He gasped, twisting, but more hands grabbed him—too many, too strong.

He thrashed, kicking out, but another blow came—his stomach this time. His body folded in on itself as they hauled him from his room. He was too disoriented to see how many there were, but he knew. The suitors. They had come back.

A sickening dread settled in his gut as he was dragged down the dark halls of the palace, his bare feet scraping against the cold stone.

Then, he saw her.

Mother.

She was in the andrón, the men's hall, where his father had once hosted feasts for his warriors. But now, she was tied to the couch, her arms stretched above her head, her wrists bound with thick rope. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her breaths shallow, her dark hair wild around her face.

"Mother!" Rye surged forward, but the suitors tightened their grip, forcing him to his knees before her.

Katniss' eyes widened in terror as she strained against the bonds. "Let him go! He's just a boy!"

Orestes stepped forward, that smug, self-satisfied sneer on his face. "Not just a boy. A problem." He crouched before Rye, grabbing his chin roughly. "You've had quite the mouth on you these past years, boy. Always so ready to defend her honor." He smirked. "Now you get to watch as she loses it."

Rye saw red. He lunged, catching Orestes off guard, sinking his teeth into the man's hand. Orestes howled in pain, recoiling, but Rye wasn't done. He twisted free just enough to grab the dagger from one of the men restraining him.

The blade flashed in the dim light.

Rye drove it into the nearest suitor's throat.

The man choked, gurgled, and fell back, crimson pooling beneath him.

Chaos erupted.

Hands gripped Rye's hair, yanking him back, and a heavy fist crashed against his face. Stars burst behind his eyes. Another punch landed, then another. He felt his ribs crack under the relentless assault. He collapsed, gasping, his vision swimming.

"No! Stop!" Katniss' screams cut through the ringing in his ears. "You'll kill him!"

Orestes stood over him, rolling his injured wrist. He sneered down at Rye before kicking him hard in the ribs. Rye coughed, tasting blood.

"I think it's time the boy learned his place," Orestes said. He gestured to his men. "Hold him. He should see this."

Two of the suitors seized Rye by the arms, forcing his battered body upright. His vision was blurred, his head spinning, but he could still see Orestes as he turned toward Katniss.

She was panting, twisting against the ropes, her eyes wild with fury and terror.

"Get off me, you bastard!" she spat as Orestes climbed onto the couch, settling over her.

"Shh," he murmured mockingly, dragging a knife from his belt.

Rye struggled, but the men held him firm.

Orestes ran the cold blade down Katniss' side, cutting through the fabric of her dress.

She bucked beneath him, her muscles taut with resistance, but the ropes held fast.

Orestes leaned down, pressing his lips to her neck. Katniss jerked her head away, her breath ragged.

Rye's heart pounded so hard it hurt. His fingers clawed at the hands holding him. His entire body ached, but he reached for her.

"M-Mother…" His voice was hoarse, weak.

Katniss' gaze snapped to him, and for a split second, all her struggle ceased. Her eyes softened, her expression shifting into something Rye had rarely seen—pure, unguarded grief.

Then, she fought harder.

"Get off me, you filthy coward!" she snarled, twisting her body violently enough to nearly throw Orestes off her.

Orestes growled in frustration and raised a hand to strike her—

Then, a scream.

A bloodcurdling, agonized scream from outside the doors.

Orestes froze. The other suitors stiffened.

Another scream followed—then the unmistakable sound of steel slicing through flesh. A body collapsing. More shouts.

The men inside exchanged uneasy glances.

"What was that?" one of them whispered.

Orestes scowled. "Go check."

Two of the suitors left, weapons drawn.

Silence stretched thick in the room.

Then—another scream. But this time, it was not of pain. It was of pure, unfiltered terror.

Then—silence.

Nothing but the crackling torches and the rapid breathing of those in the room.

Rye's stomach twisted.

Something was coming.

And it wanted blood.

Orestes' head snapped toward the door as another scream rang through the palace halls—then silence. A tense, suffocating stillness settled over the room.

He cursed under his breath and, in a swift motion, climbed off Katniss. But before she could struggle free, he yanked her head back by the hair and pressed his knife against the delicate skin of her throat.

"Not a step closer," he warned loudly, eyes darting to the closed door. His grip tightened around the blade.

Rye gritted his teeth, ignoring the agony in his ribs as he tried to push himself up. He had to stop this—

A brutal kick to his stomach sent him sprawling onto the cold floor. The last remaining suitor sneered down at him before planting his foot on Rye's back, pinning him in place.

Then—

The door creaked open.

Slowly. Deliberately.

A figure stepped inside, bathed in the flickering torchlight.

Peeta.

Covered in blood that is not his own.

His golden curls were damp with sweat, his tunic torn and stained red. His sword was drawn, the tip trailing the ground, leaving behind a streak of crimson. His chest rose and fell steadily, but his eyes—his eyes were nothing but shadowed fury.

Katniss gasped, barely able to choke out, "Peeta—"

Orestes pressed the blade tighter against her throat, cutting her off. A single drop of blood welled against the steel.

Peeta's jaw clenched. His gaze flickered to Rye, then back to Orestes. He took a slow, deliberate step forward.

Orestes tensed, tightening his grip on Katniss. "Don't move!" His voice wavered, just slightly. "One more step, and I—"

Peeta halted.

His lips parted as if he was considering something, and then, almost casually, he angled his sword downward.

Rye felt it before he saw it—something shifting near his fingertips.

A dagger.

Peeta had nudged a fallen blade toward him with his foot, so subtly that neither Orestes nor the suitor pinning him had noticed.

Rye's fingers curled around the hilt.

Peeta spoke then, voice low and laced with something lethal.

"You thought you could rape my wife. Kill my son." He took another step. "Take my kingdom."

Orestes swallowed, his fingers twitching on the hilt of his dagger.

Peeta tilted his head, as if considering him. "Tell me, Orestes… do you fear the gods?"

Orestes hesitated. "I—"

Rye struck.

With a sharp cry, he slashed the dagger across the suitor's ankle, severing the Achilles tendon. The man howled in agony, collapsing onto the floor, clutching his leg.

Orestes stumbled back, dragging Katniss with him. His wild eyes darted between Rye and Peeta, his grip on the knife faltering.

Peeta moved.

Like a storm breaking loose, he crossed the room in an instant.

Katniss twisted in Orestes' hold at the last second, giving Peeta the perfect opening. He grabbed Orestes by the wrist, wrenching his arm away from Katniss' throat. Orestes barely had time to gasp before Peeta slammed him against the stone pillar.

His sword pressed against Orestes' chest, right over his hammering heart.

"Mercy," Orestes rasped, wide-eyed. "Please—"

Peeta leaned in, voice like ice.

"You showed my son none."

Orestes opened his mouth—

Peeta drove his sword straight through his chest.

Orestes choked, blood spilling from his lips. His eyes widened in disbelief before his body slumped, lifeless.

Peeta wrenched the blade free, letting Orestes' body crumple to the floor.

Silence.

For a long moment, nothing moved.

Then—

"Peeta."

Katniss' voice was barely a whisper. Peeta turned just in time to catch her as she stumbled forward, the ropes still dangling from her wrists. He took the dagger at his belt and quickly cut the ropes, her body falling limp. He cradled her against him, burying his face in her hair.

Rye, still gasping, pushed himself to his knees. His entire body ached, but he forced himself to his feet. Peeta's arms tightened around Katniss, his chest rising and falling as he held her. Then, after a long moment, he turned his gaze to Rye.

Rye hesitated, his breath uneven.

Peeta's expression softened—just slightly. Then, he stepped forward and pulled Rye into his embrace as well.

No words were spoken.

None were needed.

Their family was whole again.

Peeta stood waist-deep in the warm water, watching the deep red of blood swirl away as he scrubbed his arms. His reflection in the still surface of the bath was almost unrecognizable—scarred, weary, aged beyond his years. His body bore the marks of his journey, of battles fought and survived. But what weighed heavier than the wounds were the memories.

His hands trembled as he ran them over his face, washing away the grime, the sweat, the blood of men who had threatened his home. The scent of iron still clung to him, but it was fading, replaced by something else. Something familiar.

Home.

Peeta emerged from the water, drying himself before dressing in a clean tunic, the fabric foreign against his skin after so long in armor. He ran a hand through his damp curls, breathing deeply. He was ready. Katniss was waiting for him.

As he opened the door, a figure was waiting just outside his chamber.

Rye.

Peeta stilled, his breath catching as he took in his son—bruised and battered, but standing tall. There was something raw in Rye's blue eyes, something that mirrored Peeta's own heartache.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, Rye lowered his gaze, his hands clenching into fists. "I—I wasn't strong enough." His voice was barely above a whisper, thick with guilt. "They took me from my bed. I tried to fight, but there were too many. I tried to protect her, but—" His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his fists trembling at his sides. "I should've done more."

Peeta's heart twisted. He stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Rye's shoulder, feeling the tension beneath his grip.

"Rye," he said softly.

His son wouldn't look at him. "I should have—"

"Stop," Peeta interrupted gently, his voice steady. "You did protect her."

Rye's head snapped up, confusion flickering in his eyes.

Peeta's grip tightened, his expression filled with something deep, something unshakable. "You protected your mother for years when I couldn't. You stood by her. You faced those men without fear, even when they tried to break you. That isn't weakness, Rye." Peeta shook his head, his voice thick with emotion. "That's strength."

Rye's lip trembled slightly, but he bit down on it, forcing himself to hold firm. Peeta recognized the stubborn set of his jaw—Katniss's expression, one he had fallen in love with long ago.

"I failed her," Rye whispered.

"No," Peeta said, his voice unwavering. "You kept her safe. I saw it in her eyes, Rye. She endured because of you. And I—" His voice broke for just a moment before he steadied himself. "I am so proud of you."

The dam inside Rye cracked.

Before Peeta could say another word, Rye stepped forward, wrapping his arms tightly around him. Peeta exhaled sharply at the sudden embrace but didn't hesitate to hold his son close, his arms strong and steady around him.

Rye clung to him, his breath uneven, his body still sore from the beating he endured. But here, in his father's embrace, he felt safe.

Peeta pressed a hand to the back of Rye's head, holding him tighter. "I'm here now," he murmured. "You don't have to carry this alone anymore."

Rye nodded against his shoulder, unable to speak.

For a long moment, they simply stood there, father and son, neither willing to let go.

Finally, Rye took a shaky breath and pulled back just enough to meet Peeta's gaze.

"She's waiting for you," he said, his voice quieter now, steadier. "In the courtyard. Under the willow tree."

Peeta felt his heart squeeze at the mention of the tree.

He gave Rye's shoulder one last squeeze before stepping back. "Then I won't keep her waiting."

Rye nodded with a knowing grin, stepping aside to let him pass.

As Peeta walked toward the courtyard, he felt something settle deep within him—a peace he hadn't known in years.

He had returned.

And now, it was time to go to her.

The night air was cool, the scent of the sea still clinging to Peeta's skin as he stepped into the courtyard. The world was quiet, as if holding its breath.

And there she was.

Katniss stood beneath the willow tree, her dark hair unbound, cascading over her shoulders. The moonlight filtered through the swaying branches, casting silver patterns across her skin. She was still, waiting, but Peeta could see the way her fingers curled slightly at her sides, the barely restrained tension in her posture.

Waiting for him.

Peeta's breath caught in his throat.

He had dreamed of this moment. On the battlefield, at sea, in the darkest depths of his journey, he had longed to stand before her again. To feel the warmth of her skin beneath his hands. To hold her against him and know—finally know—that he had made it back.

And yet, now that she was here, just a breath away… he couldn't move.

Because how could he touch her with hands that had spilled so much blood? How could he claim her love when he had become a man shaped by war, by death, by the cruelty of gods who had tried to keep them apart?

His jaw clenched, his hands forming fists at his sides as he fought the overwhelming need to reach for her.

"I—" His voice was rough, raw. "I don't deserve this. I don't deserve you."

Katniss's head tilted slightly, her brows drawing together in confusion.

Peeta exhaled sharply, looking away, unable to meet her gaze. "You don't know what I've done," he murmured. "The things I've—" He swallowed hard. "Everything I did, everything I became—it was all to get back to you. But I don't know if I can ask you to love me after—"

"Stop."

The single word was quiet but sharp, cutting through his confession like a blade.

Peeta forced himself to look at her.

Katniss's gray eyes were fierce, burning with something deeper than anger, something unshakable. "You think I don't know?" she asked, stepping closer. "You think I haven't heard the stories? The whispers? That I don't know the price you paid to come home?"

Peeta swallowed, his throat tightening.

Katniss shook her head, her expression unwavering. "I don't care what the gods think. I don't care what they whisper about you or what you think you've become." Her voice wavered, just slightly, but she held firm. "I've spent fourteen years waiting for you. Fourteen years aching to feel your arms around me again."

Peeta felt his breath hitch, his resolve cracking at the raw emotion in her voice.

Katniss stepped even closer, her fingers reaching, hovering just above his chest as if afraid he might vanish like a ghost. "Do you know how many nights I stood here, looking at that horizon, waiting to see the sails of your ship?" Her voice trembled now, thick with all the years of longing. "How many times I begged the gods to bring you back to me? And now you're here, standing in front of me, and you think I'll let you push me away?"

Peeta felt the sting behind his eyes, the weight in his chest threatening to crush him. "Katniss—"

But she didn't let him finish.

Instead, she grabbed the front of his tunic and pulled him to her, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that stole every last thought from his mind.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't careful. It was raw, desperate, filled with years of waiting, of longing, of pain.

Peeta sucked in a sharp breath against her lips before he caved completely, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her against him as if he'd die if he let go.

She was real. Warm. Solid.

Home.

His hands threaded into her hair, holding her closer, deepening the kiss, pouring every broken piece of himself into it. Katniss responded just as fiercely, her fingers gripping his tunic as if trying to fuse them together, as if she could make up for every lost year in this single moment.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested together, their breaths ragged.

Peeta's hands trembled where they held her. "I thought I'd never make it back to you."

Katniss's fingers brushed his cheek, her touch achingly gentle. "You did."

He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, letting the truth of it sink into his bones.

He was home.

And she was still his.

The room was dimly lit, the flickering glow of the oil lamp casting golden light across the tangled sheets and their bare, sweat-slicked skin. The air was thick with warmth, with the scent of salt and cedarwood, and the echoes of their whispered gasps still lingered between them.

Katniss lay draped across Peeta's chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns along his skin, her dark hair spilling over them like a curtain. His arm was wrapped around her, holding her close, his fingers grazing the curve of her back.

For the first time in fourteen years, Peeta felt… at peace.

But it didn't last.

Because now, in the quiet, the weight of everything he had done, everything he had become, pressed down on him.

His fingers twitched against Katniss's spine, his throat tightening. "I need to tell you," he murmured.

Katniss shifted slightly, her cheek still pressed to his chest. "Tell me what?"

Peeta stared at the ceiling, his free hand gripping the sheet beneath them. "What I've done." His voice was low, rough. "The men I've killed. The choices I made. The things I had to do to survive."

Katniss didn't move, but he felt her listening.

His chest rose and fell beneath her as he forced himself to continue. "I designed the Trojan Horse," he confessed, his voice hoarse. "That was my idea." He lured them into a false victory, and then—he slaughtered them in their sleep.

He swallowed hard. "I killed men who were barely older than Rye is now."

Katniss's fingers stilled against his skin, but she didn't pull away.

Peeta forced himself to keep going.

"I angered the gods, Katniss," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I let my pride get the better of me, and I lost my men because of it. I had to watch them die, one by one. I held Darius as he bled out in my arms. I left Calyx behind with Circe, knowing I was sending him to a fate worse than death."

His breath shook. "I don't know how many people have died because of me. How many lives have been ruined. And yet I still fought my way back to you, still clung to the hope of seeing you again." His voice cracked. "But I don't deserve to be here."

Katniss finally moved then, pushing herself up so she could look at him. Her gray eyes burned in the dim light, unwavering, unshaken.

"Do you regret it?" she asked.

Peeta swallowed. "What?"

"Do you regret it?" she asked again, softer this time.

Peeta hesitated. He thought about the bloodshed, the war, the ghosts of men he had left behind. He thought about Finnick. The friend who had thrown himself between Peeta and death, who had given up everything so Peeta could live.

He thought about the gods who had tried to break him, the years lost at sea, the weight of the choices that haunted him.

And then he thought about her. About Rye. About the home he had fought so desperately to return to.

"No," he admitted, voice hoarse. "I don't regret coming back to you."

Katniss held his gaze for a long moment before she sighed, shaking her head. "Then stop trying to push me away."

Peeta blinked. "Katniss—"

"I don't care," she interrupted. "I don't care about the gods, or what they say, or what they think. I don't care about the men you killed or the battles you fought." Her fingers curled against his chest. "The only thing I care about is that you came back."

Peeta's breath hitched as she leaned closer, pressing her forehead against his. "You are still the man I love," she whispered. "You are still the man who made me laugh when I had nothing, who held my hand when I was scared. You are still the man I have waited fourteen years for."

Peeta closed his eyes, his throat aching. "I don't deserve you."

Katniss let out a soft, breathy laugh, one that held no amusement—just exhaustion and love. "And I don't care."

Peeta opened his eyes, and Katniss was staring at him with that same unwavering determination that had always undone him.

Her fingers brushed his cheek, her touch featherlight, grounding. "You are home, Peeta," she murmured. "Stay with me?"

Something inside Peeta cracked, something he had been holding together for years, and before he could stop himself, he pulled her against him, wrapping his arms tightly around her. Katniss melted into him without hesitation, pressing her lips to his jaw, his cheek, anywhere she could reach.

Peeta exhaled shakily, his lips pressing against the crown of her head.

"Always." He feels her lips turn up against his chest at his response.

He was home.

And for the first time in years, he let himself believe he could stay.

Nine Months Later

Cries of newborns filled the chamber, blending with Katniss's ragged breathing as she lay exhausted against the pillows. The scent of sweat and blood still clung to the air, but Peeta barely noticed. His entire world had shrunk to the tiny, wriggling bundles in his arms.

Twins.

A boy and a girl, only minutes apart, both with Katniss's dark hair and his features softened in their tiny faces.

Peeta sat on the edge of the bed, still in awe, still breathless. His tunic was wrinkled from where Katniss had gripped it during labor, his hands trembling from how tightly he had held hers. He had seen war, he had faced gods and monsters, but nothing—nothing—had ever shaken him the way this moment did.

Katniss, utterly spent, turned her head toward him, her gray eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion but filled with a warmth that made his chest ache. "Are they okay?" she murmured, her voice hoarse.

Peeta swallowed past the lump in his throat. "They're perfect," he whispered.

One of the midwives approached, reaching to take the infants to be properly cleaned, but Peeta hesitated, reluctant to let go. It was only when Katniss gave him a knowing look—a look that said, They're not going anywhere, Peeta—that he carefully, reverently, allowed them to be taken.

Then, as the chamber was cleaned and the chaos settled, the door creaked open.

Rye.

He stepped in hesitantly, his eyes darting between his mother, still recovering in bed, and Peeta, who beckoned him forward with a small nod. The boy had grown in the last nine months, shoulders broader, expression wiser beyond his years. But now, as he took careful steps toward the bedside, Peeta saw something else—something softer, something vulnerable.

The midwife returned, placing the now-swaddled infants back in Peeta's arms before quietly retreating from the room. Peeta glanced down at them, then back up at Rye, whose blue eyes were wide, uncertain.

"Do you want to meet them?" Peeta asked gently.

Rye swallowed hard, then nodded. Slowly, cautiously, he stepped closer until he was right beside the bed.

Peeta turned slightly, shifting the newborns so that Rye could see them properly.

"They're so small," Rye murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Peeta chuckled softly. "You were that small once, too."

Rye snorted, his lips twitching, but his gaze never left his new siblings. He reached out hesitantly, then glanced at Peeta for permission. Peeta nodded, and Rye carefully touched the baby girl's tiny hand. The moment her fingers curled weakly around his, something shifted in Rye's expression.

"They need names," Katniss said softly, watching them with tired but loving eyes.

Peeta met her gaze, and in that instant, they didn't even need to speak. They had already known, long before this moment, what they would name their children.

Peeta turned back to Rye, his voice steady but full of meaning. "Your sister—her name is Elara."

Rye smiled, the name rolling off his tongue as he whispered, "Elara…"

"And your brother," Katniss added, her eyes locking onto her firstborn. "His name is Calyx."

Rye stiffened, his head snapping up. His gaze flickered between them, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. He knew that name. He knew what it meant to his father.

Peeta placed a hand on Rye's shoulder, squeezing gently. "He's named after a great man," he said. "A man who was brave and kind. A man who stood by me when I thought all hope was lost." He paused, then added, "Just like you did, Rye."

Something broke in the boy's expression, something Peeta recognized all too well—the struggle of carrying burdens too heavy for one so young.

Rye looked down at his new siblings again, blinking rapidly. He exhaled shakily, then straightened, shoulders squared with determination.

"I swear," he murmured, voice thick with emotion, "I'll protect them. With my life."

Katniss reached for him then, drawing him down so she could press a kiss to his forehead. "You already have," she whispered.

Rye closed his eyes, exhaling against her shoulder before pulling back. He looked at Peeta, something unspoken passing between them—a silent understanding, a promise renewed.

Peeta smiled softly, then extended his free arm.

Rye hesitated for only a moment before stepping into it, and Peeta pulled him close, holding him just as tightly as the newborns in his other arm.

For the first time in years, their family was whole again.