That night, the Argo was lit up like a festival barge.
There was singing, shouting, and heroes stumbling around with wine cups in hand like they'd already claimed the Golden Fleece. The actual trial? A minor inconvenience scheduled for tomorrow.
Jason grinned as he raised his drink under the stars, a little too comfortable for someone facing death-by-fire-breathing-cattle at dawn.
"Cyd's the kind of guy you just trust."
That's what Heracles had said. Back when Jason didn't believe him. But now? He was starting to see it. The way Cyd had stepped in with no hesitation—how calm and clear his eyes were, without a hint of deceit. Not calculating. Not cruel. Just… certain.
"A pure-hearted hero, huh?" Jason murmured, toasting the night sky.
He didn't notice that the very hero he was toasting to was sneaking through the darkened corridors of the Colchian palace, hood drawn, boots quiet on the marble floor.
Cyd, on the other hand, was very aware that sneaking into the pen of two flame-snorting hell-bulls was probably not in the standard hero handbook. But hey, if the gods were ever interested in playing fair, none of them would be here.
The fire-bull pen sat on the palace's eastern grounds—stone-walled, blackened from years of flame, and oddly… unguarded. Suspiciously so.
"You know there's no one guarding this place, right?"
Medea's voice cut through the silence like a thrown dagger. She walked past him into the pen's outer ring, dark purple robes swaying, eyes bright with curiosity.
Cyd sighed and scratched the back of his neck. "My little princess, should you really be out this late? What if your attendants check your room?"
"There's a double in my bed," Medea said cheerfully, peering at the soot-stained walls. "Sleeping like a log."
Back in the palace, one of Medea's handmaidens peeked through the princess's bedroom door. Sure enough, the shadowy shape of a girl lay beneath the covers, long violet hair draped over the edge of the bed. Satisfied, the maid quietly closed the door.
Meanwhile, Medea turned back toward Cyd, chin up like a curious cat. "So? What's the plan? Even the strongest warriors in Colchis couldn't tame those bulls."
"That's because they never tried removing the flames," Cyd replied, already stepping toward the pen. His voice was calm. Casual. Like he was explaining how to milk a goat.
At his approach, the air temperature shifted—an invisible line of heat rising with the snorts of something very large, very awake, and very on fire.
"They're up," he said simply.
"Hey—wait! I have a potion that might help with—"
"Just mask the noise. Like we agreed," he said, turning his head just enough to smile at her. "I got this."
Medea huffed but snapped her fingers. A wide, silent pulse spread across the ground like a violet ripple. A massive, runic circle glimmered to life under their feet, then vanished like mist. "Soundproofing done. But seriously, you should at least—"
Thunk.
Cyd picked up a nearby stone and chucked it into the bull pen like he was skipping rocks across a lake.
BOOM.
The explosion flipped the entire pen like a child's toy box. Blackened beams and chunks of earth shot into the air. Two enormous bulls—both covered in cracked bronze-like hides and wrapped in streaming coils of fire—crashed to the ground with a thunderous snort.
"Easy," Cyd muttered, rolling his shoulder.
"You can't just suppress their fire permanently—that's cheating!" Medea protested, eyes wide.
"I'm not cheating," he said, casually. "I'm teaching."
The bulls roared and charged.
With flames wreathed around them like battle armor, they moved fast—blindingly fast. Their hooves slammed against the stone and left cracks behind them.
But Cyd didn't move. Not until the last second.
With a swift, brutal grace, he stepped forward and caught both bulls by the horns. Fire engulfed his arms, licking at his sleeves—but it didn't burn him.
"Too hot-headed," he muttered, and slammed their heads into the ground.
Medea's jaw dropped.
This wasn't magic. Or divine interference. This was something else—raw, terrifying strength. He wasn't resisting their power; he was overwhelming it.
Human hands weren't meant to stop fire bulls. Human arms weren't supposed to push back monsters made of molten fury. But there Cyd was, standing calmly in the flames, barely breaking a sweat.
"Stay. Down." He yanked the bulls up again, only for them to immediately blast him with twin jets of flame directly to the face.
"Cyd!!" Medea shouted.
But before she could even reach him, the bulls were slammed back into the ground again—snouts-first.
"Did you call me?" Cyd looked over his shoulder, hair not even singed.
"N-nothing!" Medea squeaked, backing up.
Cyd cracked his neck. "Okay, now we're awake. Let's get to work. Hand me that potion."
Medea fumbled to pull it from her belt and handed it over like a nervous intern.
"Thanks." He soaked a cloth in it—Jason's discarded tunic, she noticed—and swiftly wrapped it around one bull's head, sealing it like a muzzle. The bull snorted, fire sputtering, then caught the scent.
It froze.
The other bull lunged—until Cyd kicked it square in the jaw and sent it crashing into a stone pillar.
"One at a time," he muttered, grabbing the muzzled bull by its horns and swinging it like a sack of potatoes straight into the ground.
"MOOOOO!!!"
A sound like a trumpet and a fire alarm had a very loud, painful baby.
The wrapped head steamed under the potion-soaked fabric, but nothing burned. Not even the hand holding it.
Cyd narrowed his eyes. "Still spitting fire, huh?"
With a grunt, he heaved the bull into the air, then launched a barrage of punches mid-spin.
"Ora ora ora ora—!"
Fists flew like thunderclaps. He rotated the bull midair like it was a rotisserie roast, pounding every inch with surgical brutality.
The second bull watched in horror. It tried to retreat.
Too late.
Its companion crashed to the ground, groaning and fireless. Foam bubbled from its lips. The cloth slipped off its head as it collapsed, eyes spinning like a broken toy.
Cyd turned, now facing the second bull.
It looked back with tiny, trembling eyes.
"Your turn," he said, smiling.