Euryale rubbed her temples, sighing deeply. Her youngest sister still repeated the same excuse: "Humans vanish for a few days all the time, nothing strange about it." The same nervous voice, the same rehearsed smile.
And yet… she had believed her. Every time.
Until now.
"Yo~" came a lazy, sing-song voice, as if reality itself hadn't just cracked open.
Hermes.
The Trickster.
The liar no one could pin down and the messenger no one could outrun.
"We've got nothing to say to each other," Euryale muttered, already turning away.
But Hermes, of course, had come prepared.
"Oh, I just thought someone ought to deliver some news… to Cyd's mother." He yawned, stretching as if he'd just woken from a nap.
Euryale froze.
Her mouth opened, then closed.
"Cyd's here," she said sharply, forcing steel into her voice. "He's been on this island the whole time. Just… disappeared for a few years. That's all."
"A few years, huh?" Hermes tilted his head, lips twitching into a grin. "Funny. That's not what your sister told me."
A small, nervous head peeked from behind a tree.
"Um… Big Sis…"
"You little idiot!" Euryale snapped, voice rising with unspent worry and betrayal.
"I'm sorry!!"
Hermes stepped back, clearly enjoying the show. "Anyway. Just thought you'd like to know—Cyd's got himself a shiny new immortal body, courtesy of the River Styx. Learned to fight from Chiron. Oh, and he's on the Argo now, sailing with half of Greece's future legends toward Colchis to fetch the Golden Fleece."
Silence.
Then, Euryale looked up at the sky.
"So… he's going to be a hero."
"Maybe," Hermes shrugged. "Maybe one day, he'll come back here… not as a child, but a name the bards can't shut up about. I wonder what you'll say to him then."
She didn't respond. She turned—toward the youngest, who was still trembling.
"Medusa," Euryale said coldly, her voice like flint. "I've decided on your punishment."
"W-what?"
"You're going to find him."
A black cloak, darker than night, slid from Euryale's hand and wrapped itself around Medusa.
"Wait—but if I leave, what'll happen to you two? You can't cook! Or clean! Or even find socks!"
"Do you want to argue?" Euryale's gaze sharpened.
"EEP! Nope! I'm already gone!"
And she was. A blur of purple hair and clumsy panic.
Hermes watched her flee, chuckling. "Really? Sending the cursed girl after a rising hero? Bold play. Especially after she finally managed to stay alive all these years."
"It's none of your concern," Euryale murmured, closing her eyes.
"Don't assume everything will go the way you gods want it to," she added.
"Cyd…" she whispered, barely audible.
"You won't become a hero."
Meanwhile with Cyd.
Cyd tried to make himself as small as possible, tucked between two demigods who had no concept of personal space or wine limits.
"TO VICTORY!" Hercules roared, throwing one massive arm over Cyd's shoulder. In his other hand, he held a full wine barrel like it was a mug.
"OHHHHHH!" the other heroes cheered, slamming their goblets against the floor.
Cyd winced.
Across the fire, Atalanta leaned away from a drunken brute and scooted closer to him instead. It wasn't exactly comforting, but Cyd didn't argue. He wasn't in the mood to be heroic tonight—or ever.
"Hey!" one of the warriors suddenly stood, face flushed and confidence five drinks too deep. "Why's this guy celebrating with us?! He didn't even fight!"
"I didn't join in your plundering spree," Cyd muttered, eyes fixed on the fire. "Thought that made it clear."
The others had taken down a bandit camp—then decided to help themselves to the villagers' gold, their homes, and, disturbingly, their women. But it was okay, because they were "heroes," and apparently that made it all fine.
"Exactly! You didn't earn any of it!" the warrior growled, staggering forward. "And I'm sick of your smug little face!"
Cyd didn't flinch. "That's rich, coming from a guy who brags about how many ears he cut off."
"Say that again, you—"
"Sit down," Hercules said. The words weren't loud, but the room froze.
Jason stood too. "Do as he says."
Grumbling, the drunk stumbled back.
Cyd stood. "I'll get some air. Clearly, I don't belong here."
He didn't wait for them to object.
The other side of the ship was dark, lit only by the stars and the moon, silver clouds drifting like forgotten thoughts.
He let the wind brush his face, drawing the tension out of his shoulders.
Back there, it was all noise—laughter, bragging, the stench of blood and wine.
Here… silence. Peace.
So this is what a hero looks like, he thought. Drunk, greedy, and smug about it.
A soft sound behind him. He didn't turn.
"You saw it too," Atalanta said, stepping beside him, voice low.
"I don't want to be one of them," Cyd said.
"You didn't kill a single bandit," she pointed out.
"They didn't need me," he said. "They were already racing each other to the kill count."
She didn't respond for a moment. Then, quietly, "But you were the only one helping the wounded."
He smiled faintly. "Just a few kids."
"It's strange," she muttered. "You're strong. Fast. Sharp. You could've shown off. Claimed glory. But instead…"
Cyd looked at the white jade bracelet on his wrist.
"I don't need to prove I'm dangerous," he said. "I'd rather prove I'm human."
Atalanta didn't answer.
Instead, she stared at him, her eyes like wind-whipped emeralds—stormy and steady all at once.
"I thought you were boring," she admitted. "Now I'm not so sure."
He chuckled. "Most people are more comfortable thinking that."
"I saw the way those villagers looked at you," she said. "Like they believed in something again."
"That's not heroism," he said. "That's kindness."
"Whatever it is… it's rare."
The wind curled around them like a whispered promise.
Neither of them spoke for a while.
Finally, Cyd said, "So… when I do eventually run away screaming from all this madness, are you really going to shoot me in the head?"
"Absolutely," she replied without missing a beat.
"…Good to know."
But she was smiling, just a little. And for the first time in days, so was he.