Chapter 55
The morning sun spilled through the window, painting the rumpled silk bedsheets in stripes of gold. The beautiful wedding gown, now looking like a discarded rag, was unceremoniously wadded into a ball and tossed into a corner. In its place, the hunter's familiar, practical clothes were donned with swift, efficient movements. From beneath the bed, she retrieved her quiver and bow—items she'd thought, with a strange pang, she might never touch again.
She tested the bowstring with a practiced pluck. The twang was sharp, resonant, and satisfying in the quiet room.
Feels good.
"Good."
Creeak—
Atalanta pushed open the heavy bedroom door and strode into the hallway, her boots thudding decisively on the polished stone. Servants passing by froze, their eyes widening with a mixture of shock and awe.
The hero Cyd had left the feast early last night. There were even whispers of torn wedding garments found in a hallway. The conclusion was obvious: the great hero, burning with passion, had rushed to his bride, perhaps not even waiting to properly undress. By all logic, the royal couple should have been… occupied… until dawn. So then…
Can a woman really walk like that… after her first night?
Truly, heroes can do things we mortals cannot!
"Wait a minute…" murmured one older maid, narrowing her eyes as she watched Atalanta's retreating back. Her stride was strong, athletic, and utterly unchanged. "The princess… she moves exactly like she did before."
Curiosity overpowered protocol. One bold maid peeked into the now-open chamber, then simply stood in the doorway, stunned.
Servants had their own circles, their own gossip, especially about heroes. When would a hero's gaze fall upon them? It wasn't a rare fantasy. Even Heracles was known to have celebrated victories with a maiden or three. Stories of heroes inviting serving girls to join the wedding night festivities were practically a genre of their own. To lie with a hero was an honor; to bear a hero's child was a ticket to a better life.
Cyd's arrival had been like a lightning strike in their midst. He wasn't just a hero; he was the Pure White Hero, kind, powerful, and strikingly handsome. At the feast, they had employed every subtle (and not-so-subtle) trick they knew. We won't ask for anything. You get pleasure, we get a story. What Greek hero could possibly resist?
Cyd had resisted. Thoroughly.
The defeated maids had consoled themselves: compared to Princess Atalanta, they were simply outclassed.
But the room before the maid now told a different story. It was neat, orderly. The air held only the faint scent of extinguished lamps and cool morning, none of the expected… aftermath. The only sign of disorder was the balled-up wedding dress in the corner.
Where is the groom?
The realization hit her like cold water. She turned and sprinted for the king's chambers.
---
King Iasos's brain short-circuited. The information was too much, too contradictory.
Cyd left the feast early. Torn clothes were found. But the princess walks normally. The room is clean. The groom is… gone?
One fact finally broke through the mental static.
Cyd ran away.
He fled in the middle of the night, when every man in the kingdom assumed he was in the throes of marital bliss!
Are you even a man?!
Somewhere by a river, Cyd sneezed violently. The sudden jerk caused him to lose his balance, and a veritable wave of fish, as if summoned by divine mischief, chose that moment to leap from the water, swamping him in a silvery, flopping cascade.
Lord Poseidon is being particularly "helpful" today…
"And Atalanta?!" Iasos roared, massaging his temples. "Where is my daughter? Why didn't she stop him?"
"The princess took her bow and left at first light, Your Majesty. We… we assumed she was going hunting, so we didn't…" The maid's voice trailed off, her neck shrinking into her shoulders.
Though a neglectful father, Iasos wasn't a complete fool. A chilling understanding dawned on him.
He slumped back into his throne, the ornate wood groaning under his sudden weight. "She is hunting," he said, his voice flat and hollow. "And she's probably never coming back."
---
Should she live as the princess who loved a hero, or as the free hunter? Which choice would cause less pain?
Atalanta didn't know. She couldn't choose between her vow and the unfamiliar emotion tightening her chest. So, for the first time, she had handed the choice to someone else. But the truth was… the scales in her heart had already tipped. Towards Cyd.
She could have refused the trial outright. If her resolve had been truly unshakable, she could have simply walked away from her neglectful parents and their political games without a backward glance. But she had agreed.
She had chosen a contest of speed—one of her greatest strengths—and had even planned a "loser dies" clause to weed out the unworthy. But she knew her speed wasn't absolute. Wasn't there one person who had already surpassed it? Yet she chose a race. She could have proposed a hunt, where his inexperience would have guaranteed his defeat. But she didn't. She chose a sprint, and she chose to hold it under the midday sun, when his borrowed power was at its peak.
She had wanted to lose. She had wanted to tell him, in the only language her pride allowed, how she felt.
Because he hated trouble. Being a princess, being a queen, would drag him into the spotlight, into politics—a world of endless nuisance. For him, she had been ready to lay down her bow, the very symbol of her freedom. That was the depth of her unspoken pledge.
That's why Artemis had rushed to Cyd. The goddess, a maiden who disdained marriage but not the heart's affections, had seen the pure, tortured love in her follower. She didn't want the girl she'd watched grow to suffer. So she broke her own rules, hoping Cyd would go, would stay.
And Cyd had refused. He had rejected that love.
He'd even said something ridiculous like "So hunt me."
Was that his answer to her confession of being lost? Preposterous. Who did he think he was? A naive fool playing the pure hero? Then why… why did those words fill the hollow space inside her with such fierce warmth?
Atalanta pressed a hand to her chest, leaning against the rough bark of an oak tree at the forest's edge. Her hunter's instincts were screaming. This was the path he'd taken last night.
And he hadn't even bothered to hide his trail. His footprints in the soft earth were clear, leading away from the city in a straight, almost nonchalant line.
"You didn't even try to mask your scent. Are you taking this seriously?" she muttered, her eyes scanning the undergrowth. A single, stark white hair caught the sunlight on a fern. She plucked it, the strand fine and strong between her fingers. "But I am. I will hunt you."
She closed her fingers tightly around the hair, her nails digging into her palm.
This… is my love.
---
"Yikes! Nope! Chills! I'm being watched for sure!" Cyd shuddered violently, a full-body convulsion that sent his carefully roasted fish tumbling into the dirt. "We need to move. Now."
The sensation was unmistakable—a prickling on the back of his neck, the gut-deep certainty of a predator's focused gaze. It reminded him of the Nemean Lion, that relentless beast that had chased him for days, not because it could kill him, but out of sheer, stubborn fury.
"Why?" Medusa asked from beside their small campfire, tilting her head. A tiny smear of fish oil glistened at the corner of her mouth.
"Because! Something really, really troublesome has its eyes on me," Cyd said, reaching over to gently wipe the oil away with his thumb.
"It's Atalanta, isn't it?" Medusa stated flatly, pulling her dark hood lower.
"Impossible," Cyd said, shaking his head with forced conviction. "Sure, I pinned her to a bed, escaped our wedding, and said something cocky like 'hunt me' to her face, but—"
He could feel Medusa's judgmental stare piercing right through the thick fabric of her hood.
"Okay, fine! We're leaving!"
Without another word, he scooped Medusa into his arms. She gave a small, undignified squeak as he turned and sprinted straight for the nearby shoreline, not breaking stride as he hit the water and plunged beneath the waves, the sea swallowing them both.Chapter 55
The morning sun spilled through the window, painting the rumpled silk bedsheets in stripes of gold. The beautiful wedding gown, now looking like a discarded rag, was unceremoniously wadded into a ball and tossed into a corner. In its place, the hunter's familiar, practical clothes were donned with swift, efficient movements. From beneath the bed, she retrieved her quiver and bow—items she'd thought, with a strange pang, she might never touch again.
She tested the bowstring with a practiced pluck. The twang was sharp, resonant, and satisfying in the quiet room.
Feels good.
"Good."
Creeak—
Atalanta pushed open the heavy bedroom door and strode into the hallway, her boots thudding decisively on the polished stone. Servants passing by froze, their eyes widening with a mixture of shock and awe.
The hero Cyd had left the feast early last night. There were even whispers of torn wedding garments found in a hallway. The conclusion was obvious: the great hero, burning with passion, had rushed to his bride, perhaps not even waiting to properly undress. By all logic, the royal couple should have been… occupied… until dawn. So then…
Can a woman really walk like that… after her first night?
Truly, heroes can do things we mortals cannot!
"Wait a minute…" murmured one older maid, narrowing her eyes as she watched Atalanta's retreating back. Her stride was strong, athletic, and utterly unchanged. "The princess… she moves exactly like she did before."
Curiosity overpowered protocol. One bold maid peeked into the now-open chamber, then simply stood in the doorway, stunned.
Servants had their own circles, their own gossip, especially about heroes. When would a hero's gaze fall upon them? It wasn't a rare fantasy. Even Heracles was known to have celebrated victories with a maiden or three. Stories of heroes inviting serving girls to join the wedding night festivities were practically a genre of their own. To lie with a hero was an honor; to bear a hero's child was a ticket to a better life.
Cyd's arrival had been like a lightning strike in their midst. He wasn't just a hero; he was the Pure White Hero, kind, powerful, and strikingly handsome. At the feast, they had employed every subtle (and not-so-subtle) trick they knew. We won't ask for anything. You get pleasure, we get a story. What Greek hero could possibly resist?
Cyd had resisted. Thoroughly.
The defeated maids had consoled themselves: compared to Princess Atalanta, they were simply outclassed.
But the room before the maid now told a different story. It was neat, orderly. The air held only the faint scent of extinguished lamps and cool morning, none of the expected… aftermath. The only sign of disorder was the balled-up wedding dress in the corner.
Where is the groom?
The realization hit her like cold water. She turned and sprinted for the king's chambers.
---
King Iasos's brain short-circuited. The information was too much, too contradictory.
Cyd left the feast early. Torn clothes were found. But the princess walks normally. The room is clean. The groom is… gone?
One fact finally broke through the mental static.
Cyd ran away.
He fled in the middle of the night, when every man in the kingdom assumed he was in the throes of marital bliss!
Are you even a man?!
Somewhere by a river, Cyd sneezed violently. The sudden jerk caused him to lose his balance, and a veritable wave of fish, as if summoned by divine mischief, chose that moment to leap from the water, swamping him in a silvery, flopping cascade.
Lord Poseidon is being particularly "helpful" today…
"And Atalanta?!" Iasos roared, massaging his temples. "Where is my daughter? Why didn't she stop him?"
"The princess took her bow and left at first light, Your Majesty. We… we assumed she was going hunting, so we didn't…" The maid's voice trailed off, her neck shrinking into her shoulders.
Though a neglectful father, Iasos wasn't a complete fool. A chilling understanding dawned on him.
He slumped back into his throne, the ornate wood groaning under his sudden weight. "She is hunting," he said, his voice flat and hollow. "And she's probably never coming back."
---
Should she live as the princess who loved a hero, or as the free hunter? Which choice would cause less pain?
Atalanta didn't know. She couldn't choose between her vow and the unfamiliar emotion tightening her chest. So, for the first time, she had handed the choice to someone else. But the truth was… the scales in her heart had already tipped. Towards Cyd.
She could have refused the trial outright. If her resolve had been truly unshakable, she could have simply walked away from her neglectful parents and their political games without a backward glance. But she had agreed.
She had chosen a contest of speed—one of her greatest strengths—and had even planned a "loser dies" clause to weed out the unworthy. But she knew her speed wasn't absolute. Wasn't there one person who had already surpassed it? Yet she chose a race. She could have proposed a hunt, where his inexperience would have guaranteed his defeat. But she didn't. She chose a sprint, and she chose to hold it under the midday sun, when his borrowed power was at its peak.
She had wanted to lose. She had wanted to tell him, in the only language her pride allowed, how she felt.
Because he hated trouble. Being a princess, being a queen, would drag him into the spotlight, into politics—a world of endless nuisance. For him, she had been ready to lay down her bow, the very symbol of her freedom. That was the depth of her unspoken pledge.
That's why Artemis had rushed to Cyd. The goddess, a maiden who disdained marriage but not the heart's affections, had seen the pure, tortured love in her follower. She didn't want the girl she'd watched grow to suffer. So she broke her own rules, hoping Cyd would go, would stay.
And Cyd had refused. He had rejected that love.
He'd even said something ridiculous like "So hunt me."
Was that his answer to her confession of being lost? Preposterous. Who did he think he was? A naive fool playing the pure hero? Then why… why did those words fill the hollow space inside her with such fierce warmth?
Atalanta pressed a hand to her chest, leaning against the rough bark of an oak tree at the forest's edge. Her hunter's instincts were screaming. This was the path he'd taken last night.
And he hadn't even bothered to hide his trail. His footprints in the soft earth were clear, leading away from the city in a straight, almost nonchalant line.
"You didn't even try to mask your scent. Are you taking this seriously?" she muttered, her eyes scanning the undergrowth. A single, stark white hair caught the sunlight on a fern. She plucked it, the strand fine and strong between her fingers. "But I am. I will hunt you."
She closed her fingers tightly around the hair, her nails digging into her palm.
This… is my love.
---
"Yikes! Nope! Chills! I'm being watched for sure!" Cyd shuddered violently, a full-body convulsion that sent his carefully roasted fish tumbling into the dirt. "We need to move. Now."
The sensation was unmistakable—a prickling on the back of his neck, the gut-deep certainty of a predator's focused gaze. It reminded him of the Nemean Lion, that relentless beast that had chased him for days, not because it could kill him, but out of sheer, stubborn fury.
"Why?" Medusa asked from beside their small campfire, tilting her head. A tiny smear of fish oil glistened at the corner of her mouth.
"Because! Something really, really troublesome has its eyes on me," Cyd said, reaching over to gently wipe the oil away with his thumb.
"It's Atalanta, isn't it?" Medusa stated flatly, pulling her dark hood lower.
"Impossible," Cyd said, shaking his head with forced conviction. "Sure, I pinned her to a bed, escaped our wedding, and said something cocky like 'hunt me' to her face, but—"
He could feel Medusa's judgmental stare piercing right through the thick fabric of her hood.
"Okay, fine! We're leaving!"
Without another word, he scooped Medusa into his arms. She gave a small, undignified squeak as he turned and sprinted straight for the nearby shoreline, not breaking stride as he hit the water and plunged beneath the waves, the sea swallowing them both.