Life isn't always dramatic. But sometimes—every now and then—it is. Those moments hit like a thunderclap in a clear sky, where everything flips over in a heartbeat. Some people laugh. Some cry. And everyone remembers.
That's why we love stories.
But this wasn't a play, and no one was on stage. This was the Colchian arena—stone, sand, and fire. No curtains, no lines, no second takes. Just a hero trying not to get incinerated, a pair of fire-breathing bulls that looked like they ate nightmares for breakfast, a king in his high seat with fingers steepled like a judge, and a princess praying the hero would get curb-stomped.
And Cyd?
He stood near the back, that same calm, unreadable look on his face, the morning sun catching in his snow-white hair. Waiting. Watching. Smiling slightly, like he already knew the ending.
Jason didn't. Jason was about to die.
"HOW?!" King Aeëtes slammed his fist into the armrest of his obsidian throne.
A moment ago, the fire bulls had been raging monsters, spitting flame and dragging screaming servants down the halls. Now they were… drooling? Kneeling? Literal smoking wrecks at Jason's feet?
Jason looked like he'd just sneezed them into submission.
And the worst part? He looked just as confused as everyone else.
There was no trick, no spell he could've cast without anyone noticing. No time to tame them. No secret plan. The bulls had simply walked up to him, glared, then crumpled like wet paper.
The best Aeëtes could do was pretend the bulls had been… scared.
Yeah. By Jason's "heroic aura." Whatever that meant.
Medea, sitting two thrones down and wearing the smuggest look a teenage witch could manage, leaned in and patted her father's arm.
"Don't worry, Father," she whispered. "He won't survive the dragon tooth soldiers."
Of course, she knew exactly why the bulls had flopped like lazy dogs. Cyd had tampered with their senses the night before. A simple spell here, a nudge of scent and memory there—and now, they reacted to Jason like he was Zeus himself.
The dragon teeth, though? That was a different game entirely.
Aeëtes nodded. "You're right. The bulls were beasts. Predictable. But the dragon tooth warriors are constructs. Pure magic. No mercy. No flaws."
Jason, blissfully unaware that several people were already signing his obituary, was having the time of his life. He'd yoked the bulls, plowed the battlefield like a farmer during spring planting, and sprinkled the dragon's teeth into the soil like confetti.
The bulls, meanwhile, were still foaming quietly and trying to remember how walking worked.
Jason raised his arms. "Great King Aeëtes! As you can see, the task is complete. The field is plowed, the dragon's teeth are planted, and the fire cows—uh, bulls—are under control. I await your judgment."
Up in the stands, his fellow Argonauts burst into wild applause.
They had no idea what was about to happen.
"Not so fast," Aeëtes said, rising slowly. "The trial has only just begun. Look behind you."
Jason frowned, confused—and turned.
Crack.
From beneath the soil, pale skeletal hands punched through the ground, clawing toward the sky. Dozens of them. Then shoulders. Torsos. Heads with hollow eye sockets. Their bones gleamed in the sunlight—taller than Heracles, broader than any man, with jagged obsidian swords in their grip.
And worst of all? They were growing.
Two times normal size. Thanks, Medea's magic.
"Oh come on," Jason muttered, stumbling backward.
The Argonauts sat down in perfect unison.
"Yeah, nope," one said. "We couldn't do that."
Aeëtes leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. "If you survive this, the Golden Fleece is yours."
But you won't.
Jason turned back toward the crowd—toward the one face he needed to see. Cyd.
He was still watching. Still silent. No signals. No hand signs. Just a look. Calm. Steady.
[Trust me.]
Jason's eyes widened. That single wordless message cut through the panic like a blade.
Then the first of the dragon tooth warriors charged.
"OH NOPE—!"
Jason bolted.
They came after him like freight trains made of rage and dead things. Every swing of their bone-forged blades carved grooves in the stone. One strike hit the ground behind him, exploding like a landmine.
"Cyd, I swear if you're lying to me, I'm gonna haunt you!"
Medea crossed her arms smugly. "He's done. Should've listened to me. I told him to lace the teeth, not the dirt."
She glanced over at Cyd—who, annoyingly, still didn't look stressed.
Jason ducked. Rolled. Nearly got sliced in half. He had no weapon. No armor. Nothing but sandals, instinct, and hope.
The warriors were relentless. Bone swords slammed down inches from his head. He jumped over one slash and nearly landed on another.
Cyd sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "He's missing it…"
Did no one see the cracks?
The dragon warriors looked tough, sure, but their surface was already spiderwebbing. Their bones were too big, stretched thin by the growth spell. Combined with the acidic soil Cyd had laced—what had Medea called it, "useless?"—and the constructs were falling apart from the inside out.
Jason didn't know that, of course. He was busy running for his life.
Then—he tripped.
Too slow.
One dragon warrior raised its sword.
Jason looked up—and time slowed.
The blade descended in agonizing clarity. Every jagged edge. Every line of runes.
[Trust me.]
Cyd's white hair floated between them like a ghost. And Jason saw it—the fissures. The hairline cracks spidering down the warrior's arms, its chest, the sword itself.
It was already breaking.
"I'm sorry I doubted you," Jason whispered.
Then he raised his hands.
And caught the sword between his palms.
CRACK!
The blade exploded.
Bone shards flew in every direction. Jason stood unharmed, fists clenched around splinters.
"I believe in you, Cyd. Just like Heracles said. You're…"
Another warrior swung.
Jason spun, caught that blade too. Shattered.
"…someone I can trust!"
Medea shot to her feet, eyes wide. "Impossible!"
Aeëtes frowned deeply. "He doesn't have divine strength. He's not Heracles. What is he?"
A good question. One Medea didn't like the answer to.
That "useless" potion Cyd had soaked the arena in? It had made the soil acidic enough to weaken the bone constructs. And the growth spell had only made them more brittle. By the time they'd reached Jason, they were walking glass statues with swords.
Cyd stretched his arms lazily, ignoring the stunned crowd as he started toward the exit. A few people tried to high-five him.
He walked right past.
"Jason," he muttered under his breath, "your stage now."
In the arena, Jason had stopped running. He stood in the center of a crumbling ring of dragon warriors, fists clenched, breathing hard.
They came at him again.
He didn't run.
This time—he fought.