Neoptolemus’ mouth curled—not quite a smile.
“I was twelve when I first killed a man,” he said. “The Achaeans brought me to Troy, put a spear in my hand, and told me to avenge my father.”
Telemachus didn’t know how to answer that. He looked at Pyrrhus' bare arms, the way the band flashed in the dimming light.
He thought of his own twelfth year—chasing birds off the terrace, shadow-fencing with olive branches, waiting for a ship that never came.
A child tucked away, far from battle.
Neoptolemus tilted his head. “You want to see what it made of me?”
Telemachus blinked.
Pyrrhus' eyes gleamed.
“Come on, son of Odysseus. Show me what kind of man you are.”