The sea ahead offered only two paths, both leading to destruction. On one side stood Scylla, a monster with twelve long tentacles and six heads, each with three rows of sharp teeth. She lived in a high, inaccessible cave and snatched sailors from the decks of passing ships. On the other side was Charybdis, a massive whirlpool that sucked the entire ocean into its gullet and spat it back out three times a day.
Ulysses stood at the bow, paralyzed by the arithmetic of death. If he steered toward Charybdis, he would lose every man on the ship. If he steered toward Scylla, he would lose six men, but the rest might survive.
He chose Scylla.
He didn't tell his crew what was coming; he knew that if they saw the monster, they would panic and steer directly into the whirlpool. He held the ship steady as they glided past the cliff. Suddenly, six blurred shapes whipped down from the heights.
He heard the sickening snap of bones and his men screaming his name as they were dragged into the dark. It was the most horrific moment of the entire journey.
As they sailed on, the survivors looked back in shock, while Ulysses kept his gaze forward, his heart cold with the weight of his choice.
He realized that a king's duty is not to be a hero, but to survive the impossible math of existence.