Chapter 38: The Princess, The Plan, and the Potions
The princess Medea was having another late night.
It was a common state of affairs. The moon, her quiet companion, hung high over the palace of Colchis, silvering the labyrinthine gardens and the dark, restless sea beyond. In her tower chamber, the air was thick with the scent of crushed herbs, ozone, and old parchment. Dozens of delicate glass vials and clay pots lined shelves, containing liquids that shimmered with inner light or powders that seemed to drink the candlelight. Open tomes with crackling leather covers lay scattered across a massive oak table, their pages filled with intricate diagrams and spidery, ancient script.
Medea herself sat amidst the controlled chaos, a slender, elegant figure in a soft-purple chiton that left her shoulders bare. Her lavender-silver hair, tied in a high ponytail, spilled down her back like a waterfall of moonlight. Her violet-blue eyes, usually sharp with intelligent focus, were rimmed with the faint shadow of fatigue. She pushed a heavy book away with a sigh, the sound loud in the quiet room.
"Father has been so… irritable lately," she murmured to the empty air, resting her chin in her hand.
She knew the reason, of course. King Aeëtes wasn't a man who hid his anxieties well, and the palace walls had ears. Whispers slithered through the corridors like snakes: Jason. The Argonauts. The Golden Fleece. A ship of heroes was coming to take the kingdom's greatest treasure, and they were almost here.
Medea wished, with a quiet desperation, that she could ease her father's burden. But what could she do? She was just a girl. A princess who knew a bit of magic, could brew a few helpful potions, and craft clever little enchanted toys. Hardly a match for a ship full of legendary warriors.
She turned her head, gazing out the tall, arched window at the cold, bright moon. A profound sense of helplessness settled over her, as heavy as the velvet night outside.
"Troubled, my lady? Perhaps a stranger's aid might lift your spirits~"
A hand slapped onto the windowsill.
Not a knock. A sudden, solid smack of palm on stone, right at the edge of her vision.
"GYAAAH!"
Medea shrieked, the sound high and undignified. She jerked back, her chair tipping over with a crash. She hit the floor in a tangle of limbs and linen, a cascade of precious books and scrolls raining down around her.
"My dear princess, that 'seeing-a-horror' reaction wounds me deeply," a male voice said, conversational and utterly unperturbed.
A figure hauled itself over the sill and into her room with a soft grunt of effort. He stood, dusting off his plain tunic, and took a leisurely survey of her alchemical workshop. His eyes, a pale, unusual color, took in the bubbling alembics, the stacked grimoires, the hanging bundles of strange herbs. A slow, appreciative smile touched his lips.
"Quite the setup you've got. You must be very skilled."
"Y-you! What do you want?!" Medea scrambled backwards, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her hand closed around the nearest vial—a shimmering turquoise concoction that, if ingested, would transform a man into a rather confused-looking pigeon. She held it before her like a dagger. "Stay back!"
"Relax. The guards on this wing are… taking a nice, long nap. We can chat without interruptions." He offered a smile meant to be reassuring. It had the opposite effect. His words were calm, but the casual mention of neutralizing the palace guard turned Medea's blood to ice.
"They're… all of them? So quickly?" Her mind reeled. The security was supposed to be impeccable.
"I have an excellent partner." He shrugged, as if this explained everything.
Outside, perched on a shadowed gargoyle, Medusa swung her legs idly, her petrifying gaze having swept the battlements with bored efficiency a few minutes prior. All was still and very, very quiet.
Then why did you climb in through the window?!
"I understand now," Medea said, forcing steel into her voice. She rose to her knees, still clutching the potion. "You're one of them. One of the heroes come for the Fleece. It's useless. I won't let you use me to threaten my father!" Her eyes narrowed with a determination that belied her delicate appearance. She moved to uncork the vial, ready to drink its contents herself—a hostage is no good if they're a pigeon.
"Whoa, whoa, WHOA! Hold on!" The intruder lunged forward, not to grab her, but to slap the vial from her hand with a startlingly precise motion. It flew across the room, clattering against the stone wall (fortunately not breaking). "I'm not with Jason! I'm not one of them! And since when are you the 'dutiful daughter' type?!"
Medea stared at her empty hand, then glared up at him, indignant. "What is that supposed to mean? What's wrong with a child loving her father?"
Well, let's see, the man—Cyd—thought, a flood of future-knowledge crashing through his mind. In a little while, you're going to meet a handsome stranger and, with cheerful efficiency, help him steal said father's prize possession, chop your own brother into bite-sized pieces for a nautical distraction, and later trick someone into boiling your dad alive. So, yeah. The 'dutiful daughter' act is a bit of a surprise.
He looked at her now—this Medea. Not the betrayed witch of legend, steeped in vengeance and madness, but a clever, sheltered, slightly overwhelmed princess trying to protect her home with pigeon-potions. The cognitive dissonance was staggering. The popular tale painted her as a victim turned monster by Jason's betrayal. But looking at the cold calculation already in her eyes, the readiness to use herself as a magical bargaining chip… the seeds were already there. Jason hadn't created the darkness; he'd just been the spark that lit the fuse on a powder keg of brilliant, amoral potential.
So she was always a little bit black, he concluded. And Jason was still a world-class bastard. Both can be true.
Seeing him just stare at her with an odd, assessing look, Medea's fear began to curdle into irritation. He hadn't hurt her. He'd stopped her from harming herself. The threat, for now, seemed absent. With a huff, she began gathering the scattered books from the floor, stacking them protectively against her chest.
"Who are you, then?" she asked, her voice cooler.
"Sorry. Can't tell you that." Cyd bent down, offering his hand to help her up.
She ignored it, instead dumping the armful of heavy tomes onto his outstretched palm with a satisfying thump, then stood on her own. "I suppose it doesn't matter. I clearly can't stop you."
Huh. So the 'obedient to Jason' thing really was a [Love]-specific setting. Fascinating and terrifying.
Cyd set the books carefully on the edge of her table, then took several deliberate steps back, giving her space. He held up his hands, palms out.
"Don't be so glum. I'm actually here to help you."
"Help me?" She arched a perfect eyebrow. "You could start by helping me clean my room. Or by jumping back out the window you came from." She pointed.
Cyd didn't move. His expression shifted, the earlier casualness hardening into something more serious. "The Golden Fleece."
Medea went very still. All the color drained from her face.
"That thing?" Cyd continued, his tone becoming conversational again, as if discussing the weather. "It's not really a treasure. Not for you. Its only purpose here is to act as a beacon, drawing heroes like moths to a flame. Jason is just the latest."
"He won't get it," Medea whispered, her fists clenching at her sides. "Father will never give it up."
"Exactly. He won't give it. So what's the alternative?" Cyd rocked back on his heels. "They take it. That's why I'm here. To make sure that doesn't happen. Through… cooperation."
He'd studied the Argonauts. He knew their type. If they could take something by force, they would, with minimal conversation. But a whole kingdom was a different calculus. They'd try diplomacy first. They'd ask. And that's where proud kings like Aeëtes always made the same mistake: they issued impossible tasks, confident the hero would fail. They never learned. They couldn't just say "no" and mean it. If Heracles were still with them, they might have tried a direct assault anyway. But he wasn't.
"They can't take it by force," Medea insisted, but her voice lacked conviction. Her hand twitched toward the hidden pocket of her dress where a slender, carved wand rested.
"No, they probably can't," Cyd agreed. He didn't look at her hand; he kept his eyes locked on hers. "But others could. Other demigods. Other heroes with less… restraint. Heracles, for instance. He makes a habit of doing the impossible. And if he decided the Fleece was his by right of trial? He'd walk through your father's army, complete the 'impossible' tasks out of spite, and take it. He's an honest man, but he has a very clear definition of what 'his' is."
He snapped his fingers. The sound was sharp in the quiet room. "Even knowing that… you won't consider working with me?"
Medea's mind raced. The stranger was dangerous, yes. But he was in her room, unarmed, talking instead of threatening. He spoke of the Fleece not as a prize, but as a liability. And he was right. The thing had hung uselessly in the sacred grove for generations, a symbol that had become a target.
"What… what do you propose?" she asked finally, the fight leaking out of her shoulders.
"Get rid of the hot potato. Toss it to the guy with the biggest target on his back." Cyd reached over, plucked a random vial of cobalt-blue liquid from her table, and tossed it underhand to her.
"Hey! Be careful!" she yelped, fumbling to catch it. She cradled the vial, glaring at him. "So you are here to help Jason! You just said you weren't with him!"
"I'm not giving him the Fleece," Cyd said, his smile turning sharp, almost predatory. "I'm giving him the credit. There's a difference. The Fleece itself is useless to you. It's the legend, the attention, that's the problem. So we let Jason have the legend. We let him 'win.' We let everyone think he has it."
Medea stared at him. The idea was audacious. Blasphemous. And… intriguing. "Father would never agree to let it go. And Jason could never pass the trials Father would set."
"Leave that to me," Cyd said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. He took a step closer, but not threateningly. It was the lean of a co-conspirator. "I'll make sure he passes. I'll make sure he 'wins.' But I need a small favor from you. A bit of… magical assistance."
He smiled, and for the first time, Medea saw not an intruder or a hero, but a partner in a very dangerous, very clever game. The fear didn't vanish, but it was joined by a spark of something else—the thrill of using her intellect for something grander than curing headaches or charming songbirds.
A slow, calculating smile of her own began to touch Medea's lips. "A small favor? Do tell."