Cyd wiped the sweat from his brow and grinned at the sight of the two giant fire-breathing bulls lying in the dirt, foam dribbling from their mouths. It had been a while since he'd let loose like that.
"Man," he sighed, stretching his arms. "I forgot how good it feels to just punch something until it stops breathing fire. One moment of 'Ora Ora' bliss. Worth it."
Medea crouched nearby, staring in stunned silence at the twitching bulls. "I think you crossed the line between 'training' and 'manslaughter' about fifteen minutes ago."
"That's why I asked you to bring healing potions," Cyd said, shrugging as he pointed at the unconscious cattle. "I'd rather not explain two flaming bovine corpses to your dad."
Medea grumbled and pulled out a sleek glass vial from her satchel—the kind of high-grade healing potion usually reserved for near-death warriors. "I was saving this for you, you know. Thought you'd be the one coughing up blood."
Cyd chuckled. "Guess you miscalculated." He stepped back as she poured the potion over the bulls. The thick blue liquid shimmered across their singed hides. Within seconds, the fire-bulls were blinking, alive again—and immediately looking like they regretted it.
With absolutely zero warning, Cyd kicked one of them square in the skull. Thunk! The bull's head dented the dirt like a cannonball.
"HEY!" Medea shrieked, jumping so high she almost tripped over her own robes. "What was that for?!"
"Follow-up lesson," Cyd said casually, yanking the dazed bull's head up again. "We're doing trauma-based obedience training."
He pulled out the cloth—a scrap of Jason's old tunic soaked in potion. The same one he'd used during the first… session. He waved it in front of the bulls like a matador.
"Oh no. Not again," Medea whispered.
The bulls caught the scent—and immediately collapsed to their knees, shuddering like they'd seen Tartarus itself. One whimpered. Yes, whimpered.
"Ah. Conditioning complete." Cyd nodded. "Pavlov would be proud."
Medea shook her head, mournfully eyeing the half-empty satchel beside her. "I made those potions thinking I'd be fixing you up. Turns out they were for the bulls all along…"
"Well," Cyd said, flipping the empty bottle toward her, "they were kinda your dad's living flamethrowers. Think of it as population control."
"You're lucky you're useful," she muttered, catching the vial.
They stood there in the steaming dirt of the bull pen, the air tinged with burnt hair and magic residue.
"But this doesn't solve everything," she said finally. "Even if Jason somehow rides these bulls without becoming steak tartare, the dragon's teeth are still a problem."
"Right. The undead soldiers." Cyd rubbed his chin, glancing toward the massive arena nearby. "What would you do?"
Medea grinned and snapped her fingers. The ground around them shimmered purple for a second, then returned to normal. "Hex the teeth. Subtle spell work. When they sprout into those lovely murder-happy warriors, they'll go for each other first."
"Good idea," Cyd said, already walking toward the coliseum's arched entrance. "But wouldn't your dad just claim Jason cheated and throw the match?"
"Only if it's obvious." She caught up to him, the hem of her cloak fluttering. "That's why I'll make the enchantments invisible. From the outside, it'll just look like the soldiers turned on each other from sheer bloodlust."
"I like it," Cyd said, pushing the massive doors open. The arena yawned before them—stone seats, crimson banners, and a dirt pit still stained with the last gladiator match.
"I'll also amplify the aggression," Medea added, waving her wand. A crimson glyph flashed across the dirt and faded. "Bigger. Meaner. Twice the size, twice the hate. They'll be frenzied."
"Smart," Cyd said, eyeing the glowing marks. "But won't Jason just get shredded?"
"Duh," she said. "That's what normally happens."
"I brought a failsafe." He dug into her potion stash without asking, pulling out a small purple flask.
"Hey! That one's weird. Doesn't even count as a real potion. It's just acidic enough to mess with soil for a couple of days. What's that got to do with—wait. Wait."
He smiled, unscrewing the bottle and slowly pouring it out in the center of the arena.
"You're…using it to taint the ground?" she guessed. "The soldiers grow from the soil where the dragon's teeth are planted. If the dirt's acidic—"
"Then their bones soften before they even finish forming," Cyd finished. "They'll swing at Jason, but their limbs will feel like wet noodles."
Medea blinked, stunned. "Huh. That… might actually work."
Cyd turned to her, smirking. "Wanna bet on it?"
Medea arched an eyebrow. "Bet?"
"If I win, you help me craft more potions and—uh—non-lethal trick gear. Maybe something to temporarily turn enemies into squirrels."
She snorted. "And if I win?"
He tilted his head.
"You stay in Colchis," she said, eyes glittering. "With me."
Cyd paused, then grinned. "Deal."
He tossed the empty bottle to her and clapped his hands. "Alright, Princess. Let's rig this trial like it's the finals of Mount Olympus' Gladiator Games."
Medea grinned, a blush rising beneath her serious expression. "Don't die before you lose that bet, Cyd."
He winked. "Wouldn't dream of it."