The salty sea breeze still clings to your skin as you work to drive the final stake into the soft earth. The secluded island around you teems with life - ripe fruits hang heavy from branches, their sweet aroma mixing with the tang of saltwater, while vibrant greenery carpets the landscape in every direction. The climate is perfect, neither too hot nor too cold, a welcome respite from the rolling deck of your ship.

You've barely driven the stake halfway when Telemachus speaks up behind you, his tone betraying his aristocratic upbringing. "Hm. Is it genuinely necessary to share tents for everyone? I feel like we can put up one more, so I could have my own space for slumber."

You glance back to find him standing with hands on hips, his posture radiating the entitled impatience of someone raised with private chambers and personal servants. His fine tunic remains unwrinkled despite the journey, and not a speck of dirt mars his sandals - clearly unused to manual labor of any kind.

The sound of waves crashing against the shore fills the silence between you, along with distant laughter from the other sailors who've already completed their tasks. Your own hands are calloused and dirty from the work, while Telemachus hasn't lifted a finger to help secure the tent against the winds that inevitably pick up after sunset.

For all his progress since you first set sail, he still reverts to princely behavior when convenience demands it. This is the challenge you've come to expect - helping transform a sheltered prince into someone who might one day rule Ithaca wisely. Assuming you ever find his father, that is.