Y/n had lived on Circe's island long enough to know what that meant. Ships did not simply appear. Not here. Not unless they were invited—or cursed.

The vessel cut through the turquoise water with unnatural precision, its black sails taut against a wind that didn't seem to touch the rest of the island. It was a warship, sleek and scarred, with figures moving on its deck like ants in a frenzy.

Circe stood at the water's edge, barefoot, her dark hair whipping around her face. She didn't look surprised. She looked... amused.

They marched.