Chapter 44: The Final Trial
The hero had won.
Just like in a thousand songs, the impossible trial had been passed. Jason stood panting in the center of the arena, surrounded by a blizzard of bone dust and glittering fragments. He was stripped to the waist, his skin slick with sweat and mottled with dark, angry bruises. Even brittle, the Spartoi had hit like falling trees. Every breath was a fire in his ribs. Every bruise was a testament to a blow he hadn't fully dodged. There had been no effortless, godlike victory. There had been desperate scrambles, near-misses that drew gasps from the crowd, moments where a shattered bone spear had come within an inch of his throat. It had looked real. It had felt harrowing. And that, more than anything, sold the lie.
The people roared. Their cheers were a physical wave of sound crashing against the stone walls. Even the most skeptical Colchian had to admit it: against all odds, the foreign prince had done it.
High above, King Aeëtes sat stiffly in his throne, his jaw working. There was no angle, no trick he could point to. The bulls had been docile? Strange, but not proof. The Spartoi had shattered? Unprecedented, but the hero's strength was legendary, wasn't it? The man was covered in the honest wounds of battle. To deny him now would make Aeëtes look not cautious, but a sore loser before his entire kingdom. The social pressure was a vise.
With a grimace that he tried to turn into a regal smile, Aeëtes stood. He raised a hand, and the crowd's din slowly subsided into an expectant hush.
"Jason, son of Aeson," the king's voice boomed, stripped of its earlier mockery, now flat and formal. "You have… completed the tasks set before you. By the laws of hospitality and challenge, the Golden Fleece is yours."
A fresh, triumphant roar erupted from the Argonauts' section. Jason, chest heaving, allowed himself a moment of pure, unadulterated relief. He looked up, past the king, to the princess beside him.
Heroes loved beautiful women. It was practically a requirement of the job. And Medea was stunning—ethereal, intelligent, her lavender hair like a silken banner. In the afterglow of victory, with the adulation of the crowd washing over him, Jason felt a familiar, arrogant spark. This display of prowess, this overcoming of the impossible… surely it would have stirred something in her.
He met her gaze.
Her violet-blue eyes were not wide with admiration. They were slits of pure, venomous antipathy. The look she shot him wasn't just cold; it was personally offended.
[Why aren't you dead?] the glare seemed to scream.
As one of the few who knew the truth, the entire spectacle was a tedious farce. Every "danger," every "close call," had been meticulously staged by Cyd. Everyone in this arena—her father, the crowd, even Jason himself—was a puppet dancing to a tune only the pale-haired man could hear. It was brilliant, but it made the victorious hero below look like a preening fool who'd stumbled through a scripted play. And worse… she'd lost their bet.
Perhaps her glare was too potent, too specific. Jason's brief moment of vanity shriveled and died. The cheers felt hollow. He knew, in the pit of his stomach where truth hid, that without Cyd, he'd be a charcoal sketch on the sand. He looked away, shamefaced.
"Don't fret, my dear," Aeëtes said softly, misinterpreting his daughter's glare as shared outrage. He patted her hand. "The trial is passed. I cannot dispute it. But that doesn't mean he gets to simply walk away with it."
Medea blinked, her murderous focus on Jason broken. "What?"
"The Fleece," Aeëtes continued, his voice rising to address the arena once more, "is not kept in my treasury. It hangs in the Sacred Grove of Ares, a tribute to the God of War. I have declared it yours, Jason. But if you want it… you must go and take it. From its guardian."
The king spread his hands, a gesture of false magnanimity. "You have performed two miracles today. Perform a third. The miracle of… surviving the dragon."
Medea's blood ran cold. Her father was reneging. Not technically—the Fleece was Jason's now—but by putting the final, lethal step back into Jason's hands, he was ensuring the hero's journey ended in a draconian digestive tract.
While Medea reeled, Aeëtes finished his announcement to a now-muttering crowd. The Argonauts' celebration stuttered and died. Jason's victorious smile vanished, replaced by the pale, sickly look of a man who's just been told the fine print.
Go take it himself?
The Fleece hung in a grove guarded by the Sleepless Dragon, a beast so ancient and terrible its very breath was said to wilt trees. If he had the power to waltz past that, he wouldn't have bothered with plowing fields and punching skeletons. He'd have just stolen the damn thing and been halfway back to Greece by now.
"Ah. I see."
The voice came from above. Perched on a stone column at the edge of the arena, hidden from the royal box by a clever angle, Cyd nodded to himself. He'd expected something like this. Aeëtes wasn't a man to lose gracefully.
As the crowd dispersed, a somber Jason found him. The hero's earlier swagger was gone, replaced by the pragmatic dread of a man staring at a cliff edge.
"Cyd… what now?" Jason asked, looking up at him. "After all you did to get me through the trial…"
"No, no," Cyd said, hopping down. He landed lightly, dusting off his hands. "The bulls were spooked by your scent. The Spartoi were shattered by your hands. Those bruises on your ribs are your proof of peril. You passed the trial." He clapped Jason on the shoulder, the gesture firm and strangely genuine. "You earned this moment."
The words hit Jason with unexpected force. Compared to his back-slapping, glory-hogging crew, Cyd's acknowledgment felt like a blessing from Heracles himself. For a second, he felt a pang of loss for the demigod who'd been his real anchor.
"But passing the trial means nothing if we sail home empty-handed," Jason said, shaking his head, the practical leader reasserting himself.
"That's not your problem anymore," Cyd said, his tone shifting, becoming quieter, more focused. "Your job was to pass the test. To be the public victor. Now, you celebrate. You let your men get drunk. You prepare the Argo to sail. You act like the returning conqueror you're supposed to be. That's the hero's role."
He tapped Jason's chest with a finger. "Getting the Fleece… that's my trial."
Jason's eyes widened. "You're going after it alone? Cyd, you can't! That thing is—"
"I'm not planning to have a fair fight with it," Cyd interrupted, a faint, humorless smile on his lips. "And everyone has their own trials to face. You faced yours. Now…" He raised his left wrist. The bracer gleamed in the afternoon light. Of the thirteen blank crystals, only three held a soft, inner glow. "...it's my turn."
---
Medea's Tower.
"So?" Medea was perched on the edge of her bed, chin resting on her fists, glaring at Cyd where he sat cross-legged on her expensive rug. "What's the grand plan? Seduce the dragon? Ask it nicely?"
"I was thinking more… punch it until it stops moving," Cyd said after a moment of apparent consideration. He held up a single finger.
THWACK.
A heavy, leather-bound grimoire, easily three inches thick, sailed through the air and smacked him squarely in the face. It bounced off with a dull sound and landed on the floor.
Seated comfortably in Cyd's lap, Medusa merely tugged her hood a little lower. She could have caught the book, but she shared a silent consensus with the princess: sometimes, a good thump was therapeutic.
"Are you lucid now?" Medea asked sweetly, already hefting another, equally formidable tome.
"You know, I'm pretty sure I'm knife-proof," Cyd mumbled, rubbing his nose and setting the first book aside. "But maybe don't point that disintegration matrix at me? The humming is unsettling."
"Do you have any idea what you're saying?" Medea snapped, dismissing the intricate, deadly spell-circle that had begun to form in the air between them. "That's a dragon. The fire-breathing oxen were pets compared to it. It's not a beast; it's a force of nature that happens to have scales and teeth."
"I know," Cyd sighed, the flippancy leaving his voice. He looked down at his own hands, flexing them. "But I don't have a lot of options. Negotiation is off the table. Stealth is impossible. That leaves direct conflict."
Medea's fingers twisted in the fabric of her skirt. "You could die," she said, the words small and stark in the quiet room.
"Probably," he admitted, his voice soft. He wasn't boasting. It was a simple assessment of risk.
"I'm coming with you," she said suddenly, the declaration bursting from her.
"Woah, hold on," Cyd said, scooting backward across the rug, Medusa clinging to him. "No offense, Princess, but I draw the line at being turned into a newt 'for my own good.'"
"I'm not going to drug you!" she huffed, insulted. She thrust her hand out, palm up. "Do you have any materials? Anything at all? I'll make you something. A tool, a charm, anything."
"Materials…" Cyd dug into the small pack he carried and pulled out a worn leather pouch. He upended it into Medea's waiting palm. Dozens of teeth, each as long as her finger and whiter than marble, clattered into a small pile. They were cold to the touch and unnaturally heavy for their size. "Teeth from the Nemean Lion. Would those work?"
Medea stared at the small mountain of legendary dental work. Her eye twitched. "...Yes. These will… work." She scooped them back into the pouch, her mind already racing through potential applications. "And when you go to the grove, I'm coming with you."
"I will protect Cyd," Medusa said, her voice firm from within her hood.
"Do you know the way?" Medea asked bluntly.
Medusa was silent for a long moment. Then her small hand slowly lowered.
"When are you going?" Medea asked, hefting the pouch of teeth.
"Tomorrow. At first light."
"Then I'll be up all night," she declared, running a hand through her silken hair in a gesture of both frustration and determination. "But don't think you can slip away while I'm exhausted. I have potions that banish fatigue. I won't so much as blink."
"Oh, I'd never dream of leaving you behind," Cyd said, his tone so innocent it was profoundly suspicious. He began to examine a loose thread on his tunic with great interest.
"Good. Because the potion," Medea said, plucking a slender, crystalline vial filled with an effervescent blue liquid from her desk, "is right here." With a defiant smirk, she tucked the vial securely into the neckline of her dress.
Cyd's eyes followed the movement, then snapped up to her face. His expression became one of grave seriousness. "On second thought, the grove is far too dangerous. You should absolutely stay here."
"Then I'll go tell my father everything," she said sweetly, leaning forward. "How you cheated for Jason. How you manipulated the bulls and sabotaged the arena. He might not have proof, but he'd love an excuse to have Jason and all his friends drawn and quartered in the main square. I'm sure he could make it look justified."
Cyd stared at her. The sweet, clever princess was gone, replaced by a ruthless negotiator who held all the cards and knew it. He saw the steel in her eyes. She would do it. Not out of malice, but to force his hand.
A long, slow sigh escaped him. He slumped in defeat.
"...Just… stay way back.….And you run at the first sign of trouble."
Medea's smile turned genuine and triumphant. "We have a deal. Now get out. I have work to do, and you're cluttering my floor. And take your… your tiny bodyguard with you." She nodded towards Medusa.
As Cyd stood, scooping Medusa into his arms, he paused at the door. "Thank you, Medea. Really."
"Don't thank me yet," she said, not looking up as she began arranging the lion's teeth on her worktable, her mind already racing through enchantment formulae and binding rituals. "Thank me when you're holding the Fleece and the dragon is dead. Now go. Some of us have miracles to engineer."