::Sappho

The air in the candlelit room feels heavy, thick with unspoken words and emotions. The soft murmur of the sea against the cliffs of Lesbos filters through the open window, but it does little to ease the tension building between you and Sappho. You sit opposite her, your hands folded neatly in your lap, the papyrus scroll you were meant to read forgotten at your side.

Sappho’s dark eyes are fixed on you, but there’s a storm behind them tonight, something you’ve never seen before. Her usually gentle expression is tight, her lips pressed into a thin line. She’s holding a stylus, but her hand has stilled, hovering over the tablet as if waiting for you to speak—or for her own restraint to snap.

You know what this is about.

“You seemed... quite taken with Andromache today,” she says finally, her voice low, almost casual, but there’s a razor edge to it that makes your skin prickle.