The hero had won.
Just like in every ballad ever sung and every old tale echoing through marble halls, an impossible trial had been overcome—this time not by brute fate, but by blood, grit, and a healthy dash of luck.
Jason stood in the center of the shattered arena, shirt torn, chest heaving, bruises blossoming like war paint across his arms. Around him, the bone-white remains of the dragon's teeth warriors littered the ground. Cracks spidered through their skulls and torsos like broken porcelain. The crowd—local nobles, battle-hardened warriors, and half a dozen mouthy tourists—roared with a frenzy usually reserved for gods returning from the dead.
He raised a clenched fist toward the sky.
Today, Jason wasn't just a name. He was the victor.
Even Aeëtes, seated on his high obsidian throne with a scowl carved deep into his face, had to admit it: the hero had passed his trial. And he'd done it with flair—scraping through real danger, not some invincible stomp-fest. There were moments when it looked like he'd lose. That was what made it beautiful.
Jason's eyes drifted to the figure beside the king—Medea, the princess of Colchis.
Beautiful. Brilliant. And right now, glaring at him like she wanted to set him on fire.
If this were one of the songs, this would be the part where the princess blushed and tossed him a garland. Instead…
[Why aren't you dead?]
That was the look in her eyes.
And Jason, who had just battled monsters made of teeth and hate, suddenly felt very small.
Medea knew the truth. The whole trial had been a show. Every piece of it—from the flaming bulls to the so-called invincible soldiers—had been rigged by one person:
Cyd.
Everyone in the stadium had been fooled, including Jason himself. Medea realized now how thoroughly Cyd had orchestrated this whole act—keeping Jason alive, keeping her father appeased, and making sure nobody noticed it was all smoke and mirrors. And she'd lost the wager. That stung more than anything.
She'd gambled on Jason dying. Instead, he stood there, bruised but breathing, soaking in praise like a sun-drunk lion.
Jason, sensing her stare, shrank a little. It was hard to feel like a glorious hero when the girl you were trying to impress looked like she'd rather push you back into the dirt.
Yeah. He knew the truth too. Without Cyd, he wouldn't have made it past the bulls, let alone the dragon's tooth warriors.
"Don't worry, Medea," Aeëtes said, resting a hand on his daughter's. "The trial may be done… but Jason's not getting the Golden Fleece that easily."
Jason's brow twitched.
Wait. What?
Even Medea looked caught off-guard. She hadn't expected her father to pull another trick out of his sleeve—especially not now. Especially not with that look in his eyes.
"Yes, the Golden Fleece belongs to Jason," Aeëtes said calmly, standing. "But it's not mine to hand over. It's a sacred relic of Ares, God of War. If the hero wants it… he'll have to take it himself."
He gestured toward the eastern edge of the palace, where the tall shadow of a sacred grove loomed just beyond the city walls. "Let him face the guardian. If he truly is a hero… he'll slay the dragon."
The arena fell silent.
Jason stopped smiling.
Even the crowd—moments ago chanting his name like a hymn—went quiet. Because they knew exactly what guarded the tree that held the fleece.
Not a metaphorical dragon. A literal one.
Thirty feet of coiled, scaly death. Poison fangs. Breath that could melt steel. Eyes that didn't blink.
Jason swallowed. Hard.
If he could've walked into that grove and stolen the fleece without dying, he would've done it on day one and skipped the gladiator games altogether.
"A dragon," he muttered. "Of course there's a dragon."
Sitting on a tall marble column, Cyd scratched his chin like he'd just been told the price of a decent latte.
"Makes sense," he said, casually.
Jason looked up at him, desperate. "Cyd… any chance you've got a plan? Please tell me there's a plan."
Cyd tilted his head. "Did I defeat the bulls for you?"
"Uh… technically, no. But—"
"Did I smash the bone-boys into gravel?"
Jason blinked. "Also no… but you—"
"Exactly." Cyd dropped from the column, landing with a casual thud beside him. "It was your scent that scared the bulls. Your hands that cracked the soldiers' blades. Those bruises? Yours. You passed the trial, Jason. Not me."
Jason's heart thudded at the unexpected praise. For a second, he felt… something. A warmth he hadn't felt since Heracles had left the crew. Cyd wasn't like the other heroes—loud, dramatic, self-obsessed. He had that same quiet gravity that made people follow.
But that didn't solve the problem.
"Yeah, well, passing the trial means nothing if we can't actually get the fleece."
"Oh, don't worry about that," Cyd said, clapping him on the shoulder. "That's not your job."
Jason blinked. "What?"
"Enjoy the applause," Cyd said, already walking away. "I'll get the fleece."
Jason lunged forward, grabbing his arm. "Wait. You're going alone? You can't seriously be thinking—"
"I'm not fighting the dragon," Cyd said. "Not if I can help it. But everyone has their trial. You passed yours."
He lifted his left arm. On the bracer, thirteen crystal nodes glimmered faintly—only three fully lit.
"Now it's time I pass mine."
Scene: Medea's Tower – That Night
The room smelled like incense, burnt parchment, and mild panic.
Medea sat cross-legged on her bed, chin in hand, glaring at the boy across from her. Cyd sat on the rug with Medusa perched on his knee, her little cloak bunched up around her ears like a shawl.
"So," Medea said, voice like ice. "You're going to go kill the dragon."
"Yup." Cyd raised a finger. "Step one: fight fire with fire."
THWACK.
A thick grimoire smacked him square in the face.
Medusa winced.
"Deserved," she muttered.
Medea conjured a glowing red sigil in her palm. "You know that thing isn't like the fire bulls, right? That dragon is ancient. Smart. Magical. It's Ares' pet!"
"Right. But unfortunately…" Cyd rubbed his jaw. "It seems killing it might be my only option."
"You might die," Medea snapped.
"Maybe," he admitted. "But it's the only road forward."
Medea balled her fists into her skirt. "You'd go even if I begged you not to, wouldn't you?"
Cyd hesitated. "Yeah."
Silence.
"Fine," Medea said, standing abruptly. "What materials do you have?"
Cyd blinked. "Wait, you're helping me?"
"If you're gonna die, you may as well look cool doing it," she said, snatching a leather pouch from his hand. "What is this?"
"Lion's teeth. From that invincible Nemean lion."
She inspected them. "Could work."
"I'm going too!" Medusa chimed in.
"Can you navigate?"
She lowered her hand. "…No."
"Exactly," Medea said. "You're taking me." She grabbed a small silver vial and slipped it into her robes. "And don't even think about leaving without me. I've already brewed a stimulant so strong I won't even blink tonight."
Cyd stared. "You already drank it?"
"No. It's here." She tucked it into her cleavage with a smug smile.
Cyd turned red. "I suddenly think this is too dangerous."
"If you ditch me," she said sweetly, "I'll tell my father you cheated. He'll execute Jason on suspicion alone. He doesn't need proof. Just motive."
"…You're terrifying."
"And you're stuck with me. Now move over. I need workspace."
The hero had won.
Just like in every ballad ever sung and every old tale echoing through marble halls, an impossible trial had been overcome—this time not by brute fate, but by blood, grit, and a healthy dash of luck.
Jason stood in the center of the shattered arena, shirt torn, chest heaving, bruises blossoming like war paint across his arms. Around him, the bone-white remains of the dragon's teeth warriors littered the ground. Cracks spidered through their skulls and torsos like broken porcelain. The crowd—local nobles, battle-hardened warriors, and half a dozen mouthy tourists—roared with a frenzy usually reserved for gods returning from the dead.
He raised a clenched fist toward the sky.
Today, Jason wasn't just a name. He was the victor.
Even Aeëtes, seated on his high obsidian throne with a scowl carved deep into his face, had to admit it: the hero had passed his trial. And he'd done it with flair—scraping through real danger, not some invincible stomp-fest. There were moments when it looked like he'd lose. That was what made it beautiful.
Jason's eyes drifted to the figure beside the king—Medea, the princess of Colchis.
Beautiful. Brilliant. And right now, glaring at him like she wanted to set him on fire.
If this were one of the songs, this would be the part where the princess blushed and tossed him a garland. Instead…
[Why aren't you dead?]
That was the look in her eyes.
And Jason, who had just battled monsters made of teeth and hate, suddenly felt very small.
Medea knew the truth. The whole trial had been a show. Every piece of it—from the flaming bulls to the so-called invincible soldiers—had been rigged by one person:
Cyd.
Everyone in the stadium had been fooled, including Jason himself. Medea realized now how thoroughly Cyd had orchestrated this whole act—keeping Jason alive, keeping her father appeased, and making sure nobody noticed it was all smoke and mirrors. And she'd lost the wager. That stung more than anything.
She'd gambled on Jason dying. Instead, he stood there, bruised but breathing, soaking in praise like a sun-drunk lion.
Jason, sensing her stare, shrank a little. It was hard to feel like a glorious hero when the girl you were trying to impress looked like she'd rather push you back into the dirt.
Yeah. He knew the truth too. Without Cyd, he wouldn't have made it past the bulls, let alone the dragon's tooth warriors.
"Don't worry, Medea," Aeëtes said, resting a hand on his daughter's. "The trial may be done… but Jason's not getting the Golden Fleece that easily."
Jason's brow twitched.
Wait. What?
Even Medea looked caught off-guard. She hadn't expected her father to pull another trick out of his sleeve—especially not now. Especially not with that look in his eyes.
"Yes, the Golden Fleece belongs to Jason," Aeëtes said calmly, standing. "But it's not mine to hand over. It's a sacred relic of Ares, God of War. If the hero wants it… he'll have to take it himself."
He gestured toward the eastern edge of the palace, where the tall shadow of a sacred grove loomed just beyond the city walls. "Let him face the guardian. If he truly is a hero… he'll slay the dragon."
The arena fell silent.
Jason stopped smiling.
Even the crowd—moments ago chanting his name like a hymn—went quiet. Because they knew exactly what guarded the tree that held the fleece.
Not a metaphorical dragon. A literal one.
Thirty feet of coiled, scaly death. Poison fangs. Breath that could melt steel. Eyes that didn't blink.
Jason swallowed. Hard.
If he could've walked into that grove and stolen the fleece without dying, he would've done it on day one and skipped the gladiator games altogether.
"A dragon," he muttered. "Of course there's a dragon."
Sitting on a tall marble column, Cyd scratched his chin like he'd just been told the price of a decent latte.
"Makes sense," he said, casually.
Jason looked up at him, desperate. "Cyd… any chance you've got a plan? Please tell me there's a plan."
Cyd tilted his head. "Did I defeat the bulls for you?"
"Uh… technically, no. But—"
"Did I smash the bone-boys into gravel?"
Jason blinked. "Also no… but you—"
"Exactly." Cyd dropped from the column, landing with a casual thud beside him. "It was your scent that scared the bulls. Your hands that cracked the soldiers' blades. Those bruises? Yours. You passed the trial, Jason. Not me."
Jason's heart thudded at the unexpected praise. For a second, he felt… something. A warmth he hadn't felt since Heracles had left the crew. Cyd wasn't like the other heroes—loud, dramatic, self-obsessed. He had that same quiet gravity that made people follow.
But that didn't solve the problem.
"Yeah, well, passing the trial means nothing if we can't actually get the fleece."
"Oh, don't worry about that," Cyd said, clapping him on the shoulder. "That's not your job."
Jason blinked. "What?"
"Enjoy the applause," Cyd said, already walking away. "I'll get the fleece."
Jason lunged forward, grabbing his arm. "Wait. You're going alone? You can't seriously be thinking—"
"I'm not fighting the dragon," Cyd said. "Not if I can help it. But everyone has their trial. You passed yours."
He lifted his left arm. On the bracer, thirteen crystal nodes glimmered faintly—only three fully lit.
"Now it's time I pass mine."
Scene: Medea's Tower – That Night
The room smelled like incense, burnt parchment, and mild panic.
Medea sat cross-legged on her bed, chin in hand, glaring at the boy across from her. Cyd sat on the rug with Medusa perched on his knee, her little cloak bunched up around her ears like a shawl.
"So," Medea said, voice like ice. "You're going to go kill the dragon."
"Yup." Cyd raised a finger. "Step one: fight fire with fire."
THWACK.
A thick grimoire smacked him square in the face.
Medusa winced.
"Deserved," she muttered.
Medea conjured a glowing red sigil in her palm. "You know that thing isn't like the fire bulls, right? That dragon is ancient. Smart. Magical. It's Ares' pet!"
"Right. But unfortunately…" Cyd rubbed his jaw. "It seems killing it might be my only option."
"You might die," Medea snapped.
"Maybe," he admitted. "But it's the only road forward."
Medea balled her fists into her skirt. "You'd go even if I begged you not to, wouldn't you?"
Cyd hesitated. "Yeah."
Silence.
"Fine," Medea said, standing abruptly. "What materials do you have?"
Cyd blinked. "Wait, you're helping me?"
"If you're gonna die, you may as well look cool doing it," she said, snatching a leather pouch from his hand. "What is this?"
"Lion's teeth. From that invincible Nemean lion."
She inspected them. "Could work."
"I'm going too!" Medusa chimed in.
"Can you navigate?"
She lowered her hand. "…No."
"Exactly," Medea said. "You're taking me." She grabbed a small silver vial and slipped it into her robes. "And don't even think about leaving without me. I've already brewed a stimulant so strong I won't even blink tonight."
Cyd stared. "You already drank it?"
"No. It's here." She tucked it into her cleavage with a smug smile.
Cyd turned red. "I suddenly think this is too dangerous."
"If you ditch me," she said sweetly, "I'll tell my father you cheated. He'll execute Jason on suspicion alone. He doesn't need proof. Just motive."
"…You're terrifying."
"And you're stuck with me. Now move over. I need workspace."