Chapter 53: The Race He Couldn't Run From
Never get entangled with beautiful women. Especially heroines. And for the love of all that's sane, avoid goddesses entirely.
He'd been telling himself that for years. It was his personal mantra.
Running away wasn't wrong. It was smart. It was recognizing your limits and making the rational choice to preserve your own skin. Sticking it out, being a hero, fighting for pride… what did that get you, besides a momentary rush and a likely early grave? So he ran. Always. It was his strategy for a simpler life.
He'd run from the Gorgons' island because staying meant becoming a plaything for two immortal, dangerously bored sisters.
He'd sought power because the world was a pit of wars, monsters, and sudden, brutal death. He needed to be able to run from that reality too.
And he'd gotten what he wanted. An unbreakable body. The skills to "protect himself." But in getting them, he'd stepped onto a stage he never wanted to see: the notice of the Olympians. For others, divine attention was a blessing, a fast track to glory. For Cyd, it was a spotlight in a play he hadn't auditioned for.
Hephaestus had been right. A blessing was just a curse waiting for its moment. The gods were fickle directors in an endless, often cruel drama. He was just a new actor with an interesting quirk. The play was long. When would their favor turn to boredom, to malice? For them, a whim. For him, a life destroyed. He wanted to live in peace. Without fear.
So he'd chosen the most outrageous path of all: make himself immune. Thirteen blessings. A completed bracer. On that day, perhaps, he would become the freest man in the world. The safest. No fear of conflict, no dread of a divine thunderbolt from a clear sky.
But some things, it seemed, you couldn't outrun.
The noon trial.
Under the eye of Apollo.
A contest of speed.
"I'm supposed to be invincible under the sun," Cyd muttered to himself as he walked into the packed stadium of Arcadia. The sand of the track was blinding white in the midday glare. At the far end, waiting at the starting line, was Atalanta. She stood with her hands clasped behind her back, watching him approach. No smile. No scowl. Just an intense, unreadable focus.
He stopped a few yards from her, a wry, tired smile touching his lips. "You're really serious about this?"
"Consider it… the final one," Atalanta said, tilting her head. A ghost of a smile, sharp and fleeting, crossed her face.
"The Pure White Hero…"
The whisper started somewhere in the stands, then swelled like a wave breaking. A roar of approval, excitement, and sheer relief erupted from the crowd. They'd been waiting. Hoping. The hero who had stood beside the huntress against the Calydonian Boar had finally come.
King Iasus shot to his feet, a triumphant grin splitting his face. This. This was it. The prize within his grasp.
"Then let this contest officially—" Iasus began, his voice ringing with pomp.
"WAIT!"
A new voice, strained and desperate, cut through the king's announcement. A man came stumbling into the arena's entrance, sweat staining his fine tunic. Hippomenes. He bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for breath before straightening to glare at Cyd.
"I am the challenger! I registered first!" he declared, puffing out his chest.
Cyd just blinked. "Huh?"
"He… did bring a significant bride-price," Iasus admitted, looking embarrassed. The political calculus was suddenly complicated.
"Then I'll just deal with him first," Atalanta said, her voice dropping to a dangerous purr. Her hand twitched toward the quiver at her hip.
"Hold on."
Cyd's eyes, sharpened by years of surviving divine nonsense, flicked to Hippomenes's belt. There was a small, finely worked leather pouch there, bulging oddly. It didn't sit right. A faint, unnatural shimmer seemed to cling to it, visible only in the harsh noon light. A divine trinket. Of course.
A slow, understanding smile spread across Cyd's face. "You know, since it's a race, what's one more runner? A little competition never hurt."
"I don't want anyone interfering in our business," Atalanta said, her eyes narrowing.
"He'll be eating our dust before we hit the first turn. He's a non-factor. Might as well let him embarrass himself publicly." Cyd shrugged.
Atalanta considered this, her gaze shifting from the arrogant Hippomenes to Cyd's calm, confident expression. She gave a short, sharp nod. "Fine. He can run."
"I object!" Hippomenes spluttered, his face reddening. "This is a sacred contest! Witnessed by the gods! Fair and just! A third party is an abomination!"
"Then why don't you empty that little bag of yours?" Cyd said, pointing directly at the suspicious pouch. "Let's see what 'fair and just' tools you brought."
Hippomenes paled, taking an involuntary step back. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Whatever tricks he has, they won't matter," Atalanta said, her voice dripping with disdain. "I will not lose to the likes of him."
Hippomenes's fists clenched. The fear was there, but it was buried under a layer of greedy certainty. No one can resist it. The three golden apples from Aphrodite herself. Their allure is absolute.
"Fine!" he spat out, forcing bravado. "Let him join! I won't lose either way!"
Cyd turned back to Atalanta. "One more thing. You mind if I… toss a few things during the race? You know, for fun?"
Hippomenes's heart skipped a beat. If Atalanta said 'no throwing,' his plan was dead. Worse than dead—if he used the apples and broke the rules, she'd likely put an arrow in him before he could explain.
Atalanta looked at Cyd, a faint, puzzled frown on her face. Then she shrugged. "Do whatever you want. It won't help you beat me."
"Perfect," Cyd said, his smile turning predatory.
Hippomenes nearly sagged with relief. It's locked. He's overconfident. Whatever he's planning to throw, it can't compete with Golden Apples.
With the three runners—Hippomenes quivering with nervous energy, Cyd looking relaxed, Atalanta poised like a drawn bowstring—arrayed at the start, Iasus raised his hand high.
"BEGIN!"
Hippomenes exploded from the line. He was fast—mortally fast, the kind of speed born of desperation and good training. The crowd gasped. But their gasps weren't for his speed. They were because the other two hadn't moved.
Cyd and Atalanta stood perfectly still, watching Hippomenes sprint down the track as if he were a mildly interesting insect.
"Pathetic," Cyd yawned, stretching his arms.
"I'm just going to shoot him," Atalanta said flatly, already nocking an arrow and drawing a bead on the diminishing figure.
"Give him a moment. I haven't thrown my thing yet." Cyd placed a hand on her bow, gently pushing it down.
Atalanta huffed but lowered the weapon. "Fine."
Ahead, Hippomenes risked a glance back. His heart hammered with a mixture of panic and elation. They're not moving! She always lets them get a head start, but this is too much! I can win! I can just… win!
The finish line, a simple strip of white cloth, was only fifty yards away. He could see King Iasus's astonished face. He could taste victory.
Too late now, white-hair! You see? The winner is—
His train of thought derailed violently.
Because there was now a head of white hair directly in front of him.
Cyd hadn't run. He'd simply appeared, standing casually three feet from the finish line as if he'd been there all along. The blessing of Helios, channeled through his own body, didn't just make him durable in sunlight—it perfected his form, optimized his function. His burst of acceleration wasn't a sprint; it was a localized distortion of space, a sunbeam given legs.
"You're too slow," Cyd said conversationally. Then his right arm, sheathed in the black dragon-scale gauntlet, shot out.
It wasn't a punch meant to kill. It was a piston strike, a brutal lesson in physics. Cyd's fist connected with Hippomenes's jaw at the exact moment the man was at his peak forward velocity.
The sound was a sickening CRUNCH-SMACK.
Hippomenes's head snapped back. His body, robbed of all forward momentum and given a new, rotational one, left the ground. He spun through the air like a discarded ragdoll, a full, graceless somersault. As he tumbled, the pouch at his belt burst open. Three perfect, radiant golden apples tumbled out, spinning end over end in the sunlight.
Cyd didn't even look at the spinning man. His left hand darted out, snatching each apple from the air with casual, impossible grace. He caught all three, his fingers closing around their cool, impossibly smooth skin.
Hippomenes hit the sandy track ten feet away with a bone-jarring thud and didn't move.
"What a farce," Cyd sighed. He walked over to the groaning, semi-conscious man, grabbed the back of his tunic with one hand, and with a grunt of effort, heaved. Hippomenes sailed through the air in a limp arc, clearing the low wall of the track and landing in a heap amongst the shocked spectators.
Iasus stared, open-mouthed, from the royal box. The man was probably alive. Probably. But it didn't matter. He'd lost. In this game, losing meant death. The king's interest in Hippomenes evaporated instantly. His eyes were locked on Cyd, who was now standing a single step from the finish line.
One step. Just one step back and he wins! Iasus thought, his mind racing. Atalanta was still at the starting line, frozen, watching. She could never close that gap now.
Atalanta hadn't moved. She stood at the start, utterly still, her eyes fixed on Cyd's back. She was waiting. Not to run. But for him to choose.
Cyd looked down at the strip of white cloth. Victory. Safety from Iasus's schemes. It was right there. All he had to do was take a casual step backward. It would be the easiest, most Cyd-like thing to do. Win by technicality, avoid the mess, walk away.
He looked at the three golden apples in his hand. They hummed with a potent, seductive magic. The magic of Aphrodite. A cheat's victory.
Then he looked over his shoulder, back down the long track, to where Atalanta stood waiting. Her expression was unreadable from this distance, but her posture—proud, tense, accepting—said everything.
He'd spent his whole life running from complications, from entanglements, from things that promised pain.
This time, he didn't want to run.
A genuine, warm smile broke across his face, cutting through the arena's tension. He opened his hand and let the three golden apples fall. They thudded into the sand, their divine glow seeming to dim in the overwhelming light of the real sun.
He turned his back on the finish line and began to walk, not with his earlier supernatural speed, but with a steady, deliberate pace, back towards the starting line. Back towards Atalanta.
The crowd's roaring confusion faded into a stunned, buzzing silence. Iasus looked like he'd been slapped.
Cyd walked the entire length of the track until he stood before Atalanta. He stopped, close enough to see the flecks of amber in her green eyes, to see the faint, incredulous hope warring with her ingrained defiance.
"As promised," he said, his voice soft but carrying in the quiet. "No distractions. No tricks. No one else."
He had run from gods, monsters, and his own destiny. But he would not run from this. From her. For the first time, staying felt like the only choice that made any sense at all.