How do you survive when winning or losing both end in disaster?
Easy—draw.
Cyd lifted his left hand toward the sun, letting the light catch the orange crystal embedded in his wrist. Warm runes shimmered to life across his arm, glowing like liquid sunlight.
"A draw's perfect," he said with a soft sigh.
"Perfect?!" Atalanta stomped up to him and yanked him down by the collar. "Are you messing with me?!" Her glare could've set a tree on fire. "I don't need your pity—and I don't cheat. You remember the deal, right? If I won, I was going to kill you!"
Wow. Angry lioness vibes. Noted.
Cyd blinked down at her, mentally preparing for bite marks.
"But it was a draw…"
He took it back. Draws were terrible.
"Then we race again!"
"And if we tie again?" he asked carefully.
"Then it means we both lose," Atalanta snapped. "You can do whatever you want with me—after I kill you!"
Cyd slapped a hand over his face. So I get one wish and a funeral in the same package. Great.
"Okay, okay… but just to be clear," he said, lifting both hands, "I wasn't trying to insult you or anything."
"I know," Atalanta said flatly. Her voice softened just a hair. "Same rules as before. But this time—I'm not holding back."
Five minutes later…
They hit the finish at the exact same moment again, dirt and leaves flying in the wind trail behind them.
Cyd turned, panting. "So… another tie."
Atalanta was kneeling, shoulders trembling—not from exhaustion, but frustration. Her stare was locked on the ground like it had personally betrayed her.
He offered his hand. "Mind if I make a tiny request?"
She didn't look at him. For a second, he thought she might snap his arm in two. But then, slowly… she took his hand.
That was a victory in itself.
"Would you, uh… mind hunting a little extra? For Heracles, I mean. Guy's got the appetite of a small warband."
Atalanta froze. "What—?!"
"Not for me! Totally not for me! Just the big guy!" he backpedaled furiously as she glared daggers at him.
"I said I'd do it," she gritted out. "I will."
And with that, Atalanta spun on her heel and stormed into the woods, muttering threats about roasting Cyd on the next spit.
Cyd sighed in relief, watching her go. "Is it bad that I don't feel like I did anything wrong?"
He walked back toward the Argo and spotted Heracles still standing at his post.
"Where's Atalanta?" Heracles asked without turning his head.
"She's hunting. I figured I'd let her take the lead and come help you hold down the ship."
Heracles nodded approvingly. "She's got a good head on her shoulders."
"…Sure," Cyd muttered, wondering if "good" was the right word for a girl who threatened to murder him mid-flirt.
Meanwhile, inside the city…
Jason lounged like a king, draped in silk and women.
"Now this is what I call living," he said with a satisfied groan. All that talk about golden fleeces, glory, and the honor of the Argo? Forgotten.
Let's be honest: Jason had never been in it for heroism. He wanted a crown, and what did crowns bring? Power. Wealth.
Women.
But here? He didn't need any of that. No throne, no fleece. Just a city full of women who treated him like a god.
Why go back to danger and uncertainty when this paradise offered everything he wanted?
"To Tartarus with the fleece," he muttered, laughing.
He didn't see the silver-haired girl in the shadows watching him with disgust. She leaned against a marble pillar, eyes cold.
Jason shivered suddenly and glanced around—but the figure was already gone.
"Queen's still a virgin, huh?" one of the women whispered in his ear.
Jason grinned. Perfect. Power, riches, and a queen to boot. He was set.
Back at the campfire…
"Whoa—Atalanta, you're amazing!" Cyd gaped at the pile of game she'd dragged in. Boars, birds, even a stag.
Atalanta, catching her breath, looked ready to smash his face in with one of the boar legs—but stopped herself. She sniffed and turned away with a huff.
Not mad? Cyd blinked. He'd called her "Atal," too—just slipped out. Usually, that kind of familiarity earned him an arrow to the knee. But now she was… blushing?
Or was that just the firelight?
Either way—progress!
Heracles built a fire pit with all the ceremony of lighting a candle. He set up a grill salvaged from the Argo while Atalanta carved up the meat with practiced hands.
Cyd? He stood with a bowl, waiting.
"Atal, if you wouldn't mind—"
She handed him a roasted boar leg so fast it nearly hit him in the teeth.
She's totally not mad.
Cyd took it with a grin.
Then she caught his expression.
"What?" she said, squinting. "You want me to feed you like one of those airheaded women in the city?"
"No! No no no! I wasn't—!"
"Open your mouth," she growled.
"Wha—"
"Open. It."
Cyd had no time to argue. He opened his mouth as the giant boar leg was shoved against his face like it was a battering ram.
"You humiliated me today," Atalanta muttered, sitting on top of him, squashing his chest with her knees. "I swear I'll repay it one day. In full."
"Guh—too big—! I'm sorry! Mercy!"
"Need me to cut it for you, little hero?" she sneered, poking his cheek with the meat.
"I regret everything—!"
Not far away, Heracles grabbed a leg of his own and walked off toward the treeline.
Cyd reached toward him like a drowning man.
"Don't leave me with her!"
From the ship, a silver-haired girl sat silently on the rail, watching the fire-lit scuffle with a quiet smile.
"Looks like he made his choice," she whispered.
And the night carried on, full of laughter, fury, and the scent of roasting boar.