What even is the self?
Is it defined by what we do or what we want to be? Is it something we judge ourselves… or something others decide for us?
Cyd had long since stopped pretending to be a hero. Every move he made, every monster he fought, every trial he overcame—it was all for himself. Survival, pride, unfinished business. Not some noble ideal. Not some divine calling.
And yet, the world had written a different version of him. The name Cyd echoed across the isles as a spotless paragon, the "Pure White Hero." The one who slew the flame-scaled wyrm of the North, brought back the Golden Fleece, helped Jason on that fool's errand. His fame surged so fast and so bright, some had started whispering that even Heracles might be yesterday's legend.
Funny thing, though—people don't worship you because you're good. They worship the version of you that gives them hope.
And now, stepping onto the quiet, pine-scented shores of an island said to be sacred to Demeter, Cyd found himself, once again, caught in the middle of someone else's desperate prayers.
Because of course there were bandits.
"Seriously?" he muttered, already cracking his neck. "Me and bandits. Every time."
He didn't even unsheathe anything. With a flick of his wrist, the black gauntlet covering his right arm pulsed. Obsidian dragon scales shimmered, realigned, and—crack—a spectral claw of darkness and light erupted outward, slicing the ground between him and the gang of thieves.
They dropped their weapons. They dropped their knees. Some nearly dropped their souls.
"Figures," he sighed.
The villagers cheered.
And not politely either. This was full-on, kids-running-in-the-street, grandmas-weeping, fruit-offering levels of praise. They called him by name like he was an old friend, like they'd known him forever.
"Pure White Hero!" they cried.
A cluster of girls handed him ripe figs and apples with fingers that accidentally brushed his hand too long. Cyd awkwardly nodded and muttered thanks, while Medusa—hood up, arms crossed—stood off to the side like someone's underappreciated assistant.
He gave her a look. She rolled her eyes.
It was weird. Unnerving, even. The villagers acted like he was some returning savior, not a guy just trying to get to Demeter's shrine and mind his own business.
But Cyd got it. People are fragile. The world throws stuff at them they can't handle—plagues, monsters, gods in bad moods. They need someone to believe in. That's why they pray. That's why they celebrate.
And when the gods get too distant or too unpredictable, they turn to heroes.
The problem is, not all heroes are… nice. Some demand gold. Others take livestock. Some take daughters. After all, when you've just saved a village from ruin, who's going to tell you "no"?
And yet, they kept hoping. Hoping that maybe, just once, a hero would show up who didn't ask for anything.
That was Cyd.
Or at least the idea of Cyd.
He never asked for payment. He declined the chief's gifts. The only thing he took was two apples from a tree by the road. One for him. One for Medusa.
That was enough for them.
The village chief, nervous but hopeful, pulled him aside.
"If you could," the man asked, "maybe speak to Lady Demeter? The land—it hasn't yielded like it used to. Something's changed."
Cyd looked toward the open fields just beyond the village. Wildflowers swayed in the breeze like a sea of gold and lilac. Somewhere out there, she waited.
"I was going to see her anyway," he said.
The villagers sang his name.
Later, under the shade of an olive tree, Cyd sat with Medusa.
"If everything always went how I wanted…" he took a bite of the apple, "life would be so boring."
Medusa, cross-legged and chewing on her own apple, gave a small snort. "Other guys would be galloping off into the sunset by now, arms full of gifts and girls."
"I don't do this for them," he said, gazing toward the horizon. "Even if they didn't ask, I'd still want to know why Demeter's blessings are fading."
"But they need to believe you're doing it for them," Medusa murmured. "People need something to hold on to, even if it's not real. Even if it's just… hope."
He said nothing. She buried the apple core beside her.
"They say Demeter's been here all along," Cyd finally spoke. "Hasn't left the island, but hasn't brought in a harvest either. If she's grieving, or something's wrong…"
He trailed off. He could already see her—half-hidden, crouched alone in a field of poppies, tangled gold hair like wilting straw in the sun.
He stood.
"Let's go."
The flowers were dying.
Cyd stepped carefully between patches of brown petals and curled stems. The scent of life had faded to dry dust.
In the middle of it all, a woman sat hunched, hugging her knees.
"Lady Demeter?" Cyd said gently.
She looked up.
Tears clung to the corners of her amber eyes, golden hair disheveled and tangled with brittle flowers. She was beautiful in the way a collapsing temple might be—graceful, but cracked.
"Oh, you—" she sniffled. "You're the… the guy. Hero. My legs are asleep."
Cyd blinked. "Uh. Right."
He helped her to a nearby rock. She clung to his arm with surprising strength.
"My daughter, Persephone…" she whispered, and just like that, the composure snapped.
"She said she's happy," Demeter wailed, clutching his sleeve. "She said she likes the Underworld! What's wrong with me?! Did I not give her everything? What does she even see in that gloomy man-bat?!"
Cyd awkwardly patted her shoulder. "There, there?"
The entire field died in one sweep, petals withering like fire through parchment.
This… was not the terrifying earth goddess he'd imagined. This was an overworked mom having an existential breakdown in the dirt.
"I should go get her," she said suddenly, eyes lighting up with dread determination. "I will get her back."
Cyd's survival instincts kicked in.
"Oh no. No, no. Don't look at me like that. I'm just a traveler. A bystander. An innocent."
"You're the hero," she said, grabbing his leg now. "The one who can do anything!"
"Except mess with the literal god of the dead," Cyd replied, trying and failing to shake her off. "Hades has a palace full of skeletons and probably a subscription to Necromancer Monthly. I like living."
She didn't care.
"She came back half a day early," Demeter cried. "Half a day! And not because she was dragged back. She wanted to go!"
"I—what? That's not even—how is that a problem?"
But he could tell. That half-day meant something to her. It was the distance between being needed and being left behind.
Cyd sighed. "You know, they say once a daughter is married, she's like water spilled from a jar—"
The moment he said it, he knew it was a mistake.
Demeter's eyes lost their light.
The wind died.
The ground cracked.
"Oh no," Cyd whispered, backing away.
He glanced at Medusa, who was already retreating behind a tree.
"Run?" she mouthed.
"Definitely," Cyd mouthed back.
But it was too late.
Demeter rose to her full, impressive height. Her dress shimmered with green fire. Her expression was no longer mournful—it was divine.
"Bring. Her. Back."