Who are the hardest people in the world to please?
The insatiably greedy? The man whose lust for gold outpaces the Midas touch, the woman who desires empires when offered a kingdom?
No. Not them.
The gods find the greedy easy. Annoying, but easy. To a deity, a bottomless appetite is a simple equation: you offer more than you receive, you earn a reward. You offer a pittance and demand the moon? That's not a prayer; it's an insult. The gods are not divine vending machines. The relationship is one of supplicant and sovereign, of tribute and potential favor. A greedy mortal who forgets this balance receives not fulfillment, but a lesson. They lose everything—wealth, health, sanity—often in creatively horrifying ways. Their desires can be met; the gods simply choose not to, out of pique or principle.
So, if not the greedy, then who?
It is the one who wants nothing.
The individual who stands before divine power with empty hands and a quiet heart. When you, in your omnipotent benevolence, reach out to grant a boon, you find only a gentle, non-committal smile. No list of demands. No secret yearning. Just… presence. Acceptance. It is a mirror that reflects back your own power, rendering it meaningless. It is the ultimate dead end.
Prometheus, Titan of Foresight, Pillar of Wisdom, found himself standing at that very dead end.
He was a god of intellect and guidance. He could not bestow Herculean strength or Midas's touch, but he could chart a course through the labyrinth of fate. He could point to the single, pivotal choice that turned a farmer into a king, a coward into a legend. He had always believed that those who sought him out desired to become heroes. Their paths were complex, but the destination was clear. He was a master painter, able to take the chaotic, muddled pigments of a mortal life and blend them into a single, brilliant, legendary hue.
But this boy… Cyd. His wish was not a color to be mixed. It was a blank canvas. A pure, unadulterated white. To live an ordinary life. To die an ordinary death. To exist without leaving a mark on the epic tapestry of the age.
How does one make white… whiter?
For the first time in eons of contemplation, Prometheus had no answer. He suspected even Athena, with her peerless strategic mind, would be stymied by this request. It was a question that bypassed the machinery of myth entirely.
Cyd did not press. He merely waited, his pale eyes calm, watching the Titan's brow furrow in unprecedented concentration. Cyd knew his wish was an anomaly in this world of grand narratives. But that anomaly was his only truth.
"You truly… do not wish to be a hero?" Prometheus finally asked, the question a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the mountain.
"I do not," Cyd affirmed, his voice quiet but unyielding as the stone beneath him.
"You are… a vexing child," Prometheus murmured, but there was no malice in it. Only a profound, bewildered tenderness. The boy sought a path that was, on the surface, far easier than the road of glory. Yet, Prometheus felt a strange, paternal anxiety stir within his chained breast. When heroes came for counsel, he gave them a direction and sent them to their destiny, their fate a closed scroll in his mind. This… this felt like releasing a feather into a hurricane.
Zeus, he thought, casting his consciousness toward the distant, sun-drenched peak of Olympus. Is this another of your tests? What outcome do you seek from this? What game are you playing with this pale soul?
"I'm sorry," Cyd said softly, misinterpreting the Titan's silence for disappointment.
"No," Prometheus said, his voice softening. "Do not apologize. You are not wrong. You are… refreshingly pure." The Titan's expression shifted, the lines of endurance melting into something gentle and resolute. "My child. I will pour all of my foresight into aiding you. Your 'ordinary' may be the most extraordinary challenge I have ever faced."
"Thank you," Cyd whispered, a genuine wave of relief washing over him.
"First," Prometheus began, his tone becoming brisk, analytical. "You require an invulnerable body."
Cyd blinked. Once. Twice. "I… beg your pardon?"
"An impervious form. Skin that cannot be pierced by blade or spear," the Titan clarified, as if discussing the weather.
"Um… Lord Prometheus," Cyd ventured cautiously, "with all respect… have you, perhaps, slipped back into 'hero guidance' mode by accident?"
"Not at all," Prometheus replied, his twilight eyes utterly sincere. "This is the first conclusion my wisdom provides for your specific goal."
"But… why would I need an invulnerable body to live quietly?" Cyd's brow furrowed. "To sleep soundly without fear of assassins?"
"It is a tragic truth, but human conflict is a constant," Prometheus explained patiently, his voice thick with the sorrow of millennia watching his children war. "To live an ordinary, peaceful life in this era, you must be able to survive the extraordinary violence that erupts around you. A stray arrow in a border skirmish. A rampaging beast driven from its home by a hero's quest. A bandit's knife in the dark. Invulnerability ensures you are not snuffed out by mere… collateral damage." His expression was one of profound, believable earnestness. Trust me, it said. I, who sacrificed everything for you, would not steer you falsely.
Cyd wrestled with the logic. It sounded… extreme. Yet, the Titan's conviction was absolute. "Alright… supposing I agree. I'm a mortal. Flesh and blood. How does one simply 'acquire' an invulnerable body?"
"The waters of the River Styx," Prometheus answered without hesitation. He gestured slightly with his chin toward the white steed, which was still standing a respectful distance away, apparently dozing. "If you immerse yourself in its sacred flow—fully submerged—your form will be rendered nigh-invulnerable, akin to divine flesh. The steed of Poseidon will carry you to its banks. It remains because its task is not yet complete. It will not leave until you believe you have reached your destination."
"That feels… deceptive," Cyd frowned. "To use a god's gift to circumvent his intent."
"Its presence is the answer," Prometheus said gently. "The gods can be harsh when you err. But they can also be gracious when you are worthy of their protection. The horse chooses to stay. The choice is its own."
Cyd walked over to the steed. It opened one eye and regarded him. "Horse," Cyd said, stroking its neck. "If this isn't what you want… if Lord Poseidon didn't mean for you to go this far… you can go. I'll walk to the Underworld if I have to."
The horse snorted, a puff of warm air, and deliberately turned its head to look away, as if offended by the suggestion. It stamped one hoof. It wasn't going anywhere.
"Alright, fine!" Cyd threw his hands up in surrender. "So, I get dipped in the Styx. Then I'm invulnerable. Then I can just… live my life? That's it?"
"It is not enough," Prometheus shook his head, his chains clinking softly. "Invulnerability is not synonymous with safety. It makes you a very durable target. You require skill. The ability to defend yourself, to dissuade aggression, to navigate danger without relying on brute force, which you lack."
"Okay… how?"
"You must seek tuition from a centaur."
Cyd's blood ran cold. "Centaur's… eat people."
"Then find one that does not," Prometheus replied, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
"A… non-cannibalistic centaur." Cyd rubbed his chin. The lore from his past life surfaced. There was one. The teacher of heroes. Renowned for his wisdom, justice, and mastery of all civilized arts. "Chiron."
The name hung in the air.
"You are not mistaken," Prometheus confirmed, a knowing glint in his eye.
"Lord Prometheus, with respect… are you absolutely sure you haven't gotten your wires crossed?" Cyd's laugh was strained. "Chiron is the teacher of heroes. His cave on Mount Pelion is where demigods go to learn how to slay monsters and win glory. I just told you I want no part of that!"
"I know," the Titan said, his voice patient. "You do not go to him for the arts of war, but for the arts of peace through preparedness. You ask him not to teach you how to kill the Nemean Lion, but how to avoid it, how to calm it, how to escape it. You learn the bow not to strike a foe at a hundred paces, but to hunt for your supper and warn predators away. You learn medicine not to heal battle wounds, but to tend to a sick child in a village. Chiron's knowledge encompasses all things. Request only the portion that serves your 'ordinary' life. He, like I, holds a deep fondness for humanity. He will understand."
Cyd chewed his lip, thinking. It made a terrible kind of sense. Being unkillable was useless if you could be captured, bound, thrown into a deep well, or simply outmaneuvered. A baseline of skill—survival skill, not hero skill—was prudent. Essential, even.
"Fine," he said through gritted teeth. "Just self-defense. Just enough to not be a helpless lump. That's all."
"Precisely."
"Alright. What's next?" Cyd asked, bracing himself.
"Next is the most crucial step," Prometheus said, and his voice dropped, becoming grave, intense. "You must petition the divine smith, Hephaestus, to forge for you an artifact. Not a weapon. A piece of armor. A defense that can shield you from all curses—even those uttered by the gods themselves."
This time, Cyd did not question. A chill that had nothing to do with the mountain wind shot down his spine. This… this spoke to his deepest, most primal fear. He was a nobody. His survival thus far was a house of cards built on diligent prayers and avoiding notice. What happened when he inevitably slipped? When he offended a god without even knowing it? A glance, a misspoken word, being in the wrong place when a deity was in a foul mood… The myths were littered with mortals turned to spiders, into deer, into constellations, for slights real and imagined. A shield against divine malice? It was the ultimate insurance policy.
"But…" The practical problem surfaced. "Why would Lord Hephaestus do that for me? What you're describing… it sounds like a masterpiece. A relic. Why would he expend that effort on a nameless mortal?"
"Others might fail to persuade him," Prometheus said, a faint, mysterious smile touching his lips. It was the look of one who has seen the threads of fate intertwine in a particularly clever pattern. "But you… I believe you can."
"Can you at least give me a hint?" Cyd pleaded, a familiar exasperation rising. "A clue? Something?"
"A little mystery is part of an ordinary life," Prometheus chided gently, his expression one of immense, timeless fondness. "Go now, child of man. May you find the future you seek."
Cyd stood before the bound Titan, emotion swelling in his chest—gratitude, sorrow, guilt. He bowed deeply from the waist, holding the pose. "Thank you. For your wisdom. For your… everything. And I am sorry. I can give you nothing in return. And I have no power to break these chains."
The sound of the adamantine links shifting was soft. "There is nothing to forgive. This burden is mine by choice. Now," Prometheus said, his voice growing distant, as if he were already withdrawing into his private eternity of pain. "You must depart."
He lifted his head, not toward the hidden path of the eagle, but toward the vast, open sky from which Cyd had come. His final words were not a command, but a blessing, a whisper carried on the high, thin wind.
"Go. Walk toward the future you desire."
Silence reclaimed the desolate plateau, broken only by the mournful sigh of the wind through the jagged peaks. The speck of white had vanished into the endless blue, taking the strange, pale supplicant with it.
Prometheus did not close his eyes. He let his head fall back against the cold granite, his twilight gaze fixed on the empty sky where the steed had flown.
"He is gone. You may show yourself now."
His voice, still gentle, held a note of weary resignation that seemed to age the very stone around him.
There was a shift in the air, a subtle thickening of the light behind the massive boulder that had served as Cyd's initial landmark. "I wasn't hiding," a voice replied, its timbre a deep, rolling bass that vibrated in the chest like distant thunder. "Merely observing the terms of a wager."
Zeus, King of the Gods, stepped into view. He was not in his full, terrifying Olympian aspect, but his presence still dominated the space. He wore the simple chiton of a traveler, though the fabric seemed woven from cloud and lightning. His dark beard was neatly trimmed, his storm-grey eyes holding an amused, calculating light. He leaned against the rock Cyd had recently vomited beside, crossing his muscular arms.
"Though, I must confess, I lost rather decisively."
"A wager with your brothers, I presume," Prometheus said, a faint, knowing smile touching his cracked lips.
"Your foresight remains irritatingly sharp," Zeus grunted, though there was no real anger in it. "Yes. I wagered the boy would keep the horse. Claim it for his own. A natural, mortal impulse—to cling to a source of power and safety. My brothers wagered he would not. They were correct. He sent it away before he even received his answers from you. A curious act of… integrity." He shrugged, a gesture that spoke of infinite, casual power. "It seems even I can be surprised."
"Thetis of the Silver Feet," Prometheus murmured, connecting threads only he could see. "You have spoken with her. You intend for her to oversee the immersion in the Styx. To use the divine fire within its waters to temper his flesh."
Zeus's gaze sharpened. "The prophecy concerning her son still hangs over me. I see no harm in… practicing the technique. On a willing, and curiously favored, subject." He pushed off from the rock and took a few slow steps toward the bound Titan. "But that is not why I lingered. Your expression, Prometheus. It troubles me."
"My expression, Lord of the Sky?"
"Yes. That look. It reminds me of the look you wore just before you tried to swindle me with those damned sacrificial bones at Mecone. The look of a clever mind about to execute a beautifully convoluted deception." Zeus stopped directly before the Titan, his shadow falling over him. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping, though it lost none of its weight. "You should know better than anyone. Your cleverness has its limits. Particularly when I am watching."
Prometheus met the stormy gaze without flinching. The millennia of torture had stripped away fear, leaving only a bedrock of stubborn compassion. "Of course I know, All-Seeing Lord of Olympus. My petty subterfuges cannot hide from your gaze. Which is why I did exactly as you wished. I answered the child's prayer. I gave him the guidance he sought."
"He trusts you," Zeus said softly, his eyes drifting back to the horizon, as if he could still see the tiny figure on the white steed, fretting and worried. The King of Gods possessed a vision that could pierce clouds, nations, and the veils of mortal hearts.
"He does," Prometheus admitted, and for the first time, a flicker of genuine anguish crossed his noble features. He lowered his head, the chains clinking with the motion. "And I feel the weight of that trust like a new chain. He desires only a quiet life. And I, using the trust he placed in me… I have pointed him down a path that can only lead to legend. To the very heroism he abhors."
Zeus raised an eyebrow, genuine interest sparking in his eyes. "This is a first. The great advocate for humanity, the selfless benefactor… feeling guilt for setting a mortal on a glorious path? Tell me your reasoning, Titan. I find myself… intrigued."
Prometheus was silent for a long moment, gathering his thoughts. The wind whipped his dark hair. "That child… is an anomaly in this world. A soul out of phase with the age of monsters and heroes. No matter his wishes, the tide of this era will not allow him the 'ordinary' life he craves. He will be sought out. Tested. Drawn into conflicts not of his making. The very attention he has garnered from us ensures it." He lifted his eyes, and in them was a profound, cosmic sadness. "Since I could not grant him his impossible wish… I chose to arm him for the life he will have to live. To make him strong, resilient, prepared. So that he may, at the very least, find moments of happiness within the epic. So that others, looking upon his life, might call it blessed, even if he, himself, feels it is anything but ordinary."
"Even you bow to inevitability," Zeus mused, stroking his beard. A rare, almost sympathetic smile played on his lips. "You, who have never bowed your head to me in all these centuries of torment. Well, set your guilt aside. I bear the boy no ill will. In fact, I find the question of what kind of 'hero' he will become… fascinating." His gaze grew distant, speculative. "A hero who does not wish to be one. What shape will his legend take?"
"He will become…" Prometheus said, his voice gaining a sudden, prophetic certainty, a echo of his true power, "the kind of hero everyone sings of. Not for the monsters he slays or the treasure he wins, but for the essence he protects. He will be the best of them. Because he understands the value of what they so often trample."
"Is that so?" Zeus's smile widened, showing white teeth. "Then I shall watch with… considerable interest."
There was a rustle, a sound like heavy silk unfurling. From Zeus's broad back, two vast, pinioned wings of deepest obsidian-black erupted, each feather edged with a hint of captured lightning. They stretched, casting the Titan into deeper shadow.
"I shall forgo your liver today, Prometheus," Zeus said, his voice taking on the sharper edge of the eagle. "I have already witnessed the expression I came to see. The look of a guide who knows he is leading his charge into a storm."
With a single, powerful downstroke that kicked up a whirlwind of dust and pebbles, the King of the Gods launched himself into the air. His form shimmered, compacted, and transformed. In a heartbeat, the majestic figure was gone, replaced by a colossal, regal eagle with eyes like polished thunderheads. It gave one piercing, triumphant cry that echoed off the mountain faces, then banked and shot toward the sun, leaving the Titan once more in solitary silence.
Prometheus watched the eagle vanish. Then he turned his gaze northward, toward the unseen path Cyd now traveled.
"Cyd. Child of pure white," he whispered, the words carried away by the ceaseless wind. "Your life will never touch the shores of the ordinary. The current is too strong. But you… you will never stop swimming for it, will you? So I will watch. I will bless your journey. Until you reach that distant, seemingly impossible shore."
---
"I have a… really bad feeling about this."
Cyd's mutter was lost in the roar of wind past his ears. He shivered, and not from the cold. A deep, instinctual dread had settled in his gut, coiling like a cold serpent. It had been growing since they left the Caucasus, an oppressive sense of being a piece on a board he couldn't see.
"Horse," he yelled, leaning forward against the steed's neck. "Are we sure this is the way to the Styx? This is the fourth valley that looks exactly the same!"
The white steed beneath him let out a sound that was unmistakably an equine snort of exasperation. It tossed its magnificent head. What are you so worried about? An ambush? Please. I am the personal mount of the Earth-Shaker. What fool would dare? Besides… we're here.
With a graceful, slowing beat of its great wings, the steed began its descent. The world below resolved from a blur of green and grey into a specific, and profoundly underwhelming, landscape.
They landed softly on the bank of a river.
Or, more accurately, a stream.
Cyd didn't dismount. He sat frozen in the saddle, staring.
This wasn't the Styx of legend. This wasn't the black, boiling torrent that formed the boundary of Hades, choked with the sighs of the dead, its waters anathema to the living. This was… a brook. A picturesque, babbling brook winding through a peaceful, sun-dappled glen. Wildflowers nodded on its banks. Birds chirped cheerfully in the willow trees that trailed their branches in the clear, gently flowing water. It was the kind of place a shepherd might bring his flock for a midday drink.
"This…" Cyd's voice was flat with disbelief. "This is the River Styx? The one Thetis had to dunk Achilles in while holding him by the heel so he wouldn't get swept away to the Underworld? A goldfish could paddle across this!"
The horse gave him a look of supreme patience, then walked to the very edge of the sparkling water. It paused, took a deep breath, and with a sudden, violent shudder of its entire body, bucked.
"WHA—OOF!"
Cyd, caught completely off guard, was launched from the saddle. He sailed through the air in a clumsy arc and landed with a tremendous, undignified SPLASH directly in the center of the gentle stream.
He sat up, waist-deep in the surprisingly cold water, sputtering. He wiped his eyes and looked around. The water burbled cheerfully around him. It didn't burn. It didn't pull at him with ghostly hands. It felt like… mountain spring water.
"Hmm…" Cyd mused, scratching his head. Well, it certainly wasn't sweeping him away. The current was a gentle, insistent push against his back, more like a massage than a torrent. Shrugging, he lay back, letting the water support him. He rested his head on his hands, crossed his ankles, and sank until the cool liquid closed over his nose, then his eyes.
Complete submersion.
The world became a silent, shimmering green-gold. Sunlight filtered down, creating dancing patterns on the smooth stones of the stream bed. It was… incredibly peaceful. Eerily so.
So this is how I become invulnerable? he thought, watching a tiny minnow dart past his face. Just… take a bath?
His practical, overthinking mind, never content, began to dissect the concept. What does 'invulnerable' even mean? Just the skin? What if someone chokes me? My skin is invulnerable, but the cartilage in my windpipe crunches just fine. What about poison? Do I drink the water? Would that make my insides invulnerable too? Horse, what's your take on—
He shifted his head slightly to look toward the bank where the steed should be grazing.
A woman was standing there.
She was tall and graceful, her posture regal yet relaxed. She wore a simple, elegant Greek peplos of a sea-green so deep it was almost grey, one side pinned at the shoulder, the other left open in a long slit. Her hair was a breathtaking cascade of deep ocean blue, like the heart of a wave caught in twilight. She was stroking the white steed's nose, and the divine creature was nuzzling her palm with an affection it had shown no one else.
Cyd's brain stuttered.
The woman turned her head. Her eyes, a luminous shade of aquamarine, found his through the clear, shallow water.
!
"GLUB—ACK! COUGH! HACK!"
Cyd jackknifed upright, scrambling backwards in a panic, choking on the very Stygian waters he'd been contemplating drinking. He stumbled, fell, crawled on hands and knees, and finally collapsed on the grassy bank, heaving and gasping for air. He'd survived Gorgons, divine flights, and murderous huntresses, only to nearly drown in a two-foot-deek creek because a goddess startled him.
Well, he thought bitterly, clutching his burning throat, at least my esophagus is probably invulnerable now.
"My, what an interesting child."
The voice was melodious, calm as a deep-sea current. A shadow fell over him.
Cyd looked up, water streaming from his hair. The goddess stood over him, her head tilted in curiosity. The slit in her peplos had fallen open with her movement, revealing a length of flawlessly smooth, pale thigh.
Cyd's eyes widened. Then he squeezed them shut with the force of a man trying to weld his own eyelids.
This was not the time for adolescent appreciation or foolish mortal logic (She's a goddess, she wouldn't care!). This was Greece. The gods were capricious, vain, and dangerously easy to offend. A lingering glance could be interpreted as lust, disrespect, or a challenge. Lust could get you turned into a stag and torn apart by your own hounds. Disrespect could earn you a lifetime of boils or an eternity as a talking shrub. There were no guarantees.
Greek Survival Rule #4: You may worship a goddess. You may offer her gifts. But do not, under any circumstances, LOOK. Not like that. It was the equivalent of smoking a pipe in a room filled with an unknown vapor. It might be harmless air. It might be flammable gas. It might be a slow, insidious poison that melted your bones from the inside out. The risk assessment was simple: don't light the match.
"May I… ask to which divinity I owe the… unexpected pleasure?" Cyd stammered, keeping his eyes firmly shut, his face turned respectfully toward the grass.
The goddess was silent for a moment. Then he heard a soft, amused sound, like bubbles rising in the deep.
"Me?"
She was Thetis, daughter of Nereus, the Old Man of the Sea, and Doris of the Oceanids. Among her fifty sisters, the Nereids, she was renowned as the wisest and most capable. It was Thetis who, during the Titanomachy's darkest hour, had summoned the monstrous, hundred-armed Hecatoncheires to aid Zeus, tipping the cosmic war in the Olympians' favor. She was a power in her own right, a goddess whose counsel was sought by the King of the Gods himself.
And a prophecy had once shadowed her: that any son she bore would become far greater than his father.
That single, fateful line had made Zeus—mighty, philandering, paranoid Zeus—hesitate. The pursuit had cooled. To safeguard his throne from a potential usurper sprung from his own loins, he had orchestrated her marriage to a mortal hero, Peleus. And from that union was born a son who indeed surpassed his father: Achilles, the greatest of the Greeks, whose only weakness was the heel by which she had held him.
Now, this same goddess knelt beside a drenched, trembling mortal boy, utterly unconcerned with the provocative slit in her sea-green peplos or the expanse of flawless skin it revealed. Her attention was fixed on him, her aquamarine eyes alight with a deep, analytical curiosity. Her fingers, cool and smooth as polished abalone, carded through his short, wet, milk-white hair.
"Your hair is quite beautiful," she murmured, her voice like the whisper of waves in a deep cave. "It would be breathtaking if you let it grow."
Sorry, but I'd prefer not to have a perpetual chill down my spine, Cyd thought, eyes still screwed shut.
"I am Thetis," she said, and he felt her thumb and forefinger gently pinch his cheek, testing the resilience of his newly-dipped skin.
"Lady Thetis," Cyd managed, his voice strained. "To what… do I owe this honor?" He remained a statue, enduring the divine examination. Her touch wasn't threatening, but it was intensely disconcerting—the clinical prodding of an immortal artisan assessing new material.
"Honor? Perhaps. I am not here on a whim. You could say I am here to… assist." She released his face, and he heard the soft rustle of fabric as she stood and took a few steps back.
"Assist?" Cyd cracked one eye open, then the other when he confirmed she was no longer in his personal space. He pushed himself up to sit, water dripping from his clothes.
"Yes. You have been fully immersed in the Styx. Your body is now nigh-invulnerable. There are no gaps in its protection, no single point of failure like my poor Achilles had." She crossed her arms, studying him with a craftsman's eye. "Against the blades and spears of ordinary men, you are now a fortress."
"A fortress with very obvious siege options," Cyd countered, rubbing his throat where the Styx water had burned. "This only stops external, physical trauma. Poison in my wine? I'm dead. A muttered curse from a slighted nymph? I'm a toad. Being held underwater until my (presumably still vulnerable) lungs fill? Dead again. It's better than nothing, but it's not 'perfect.'"
"Precisely," Thetis said, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. "Which is why I am here. You bear no divine blood, but you now possess a mortal shell tempered by the boundary of life and death. It is… a unique foundation. Sturdy enough, I believe, to endure a further refinement. You could withstand the touch of heavenly fire."
Cyd went very still. The term resonated with ancient, terrible power.
"With my guidance, the celestial flames could be used not to destroy, but to temper. To purify. To forge your flesh into something transcendent." Her voice took on a hypnotic, persuasive quality. "Imagine it. Not just resistance to blades, but immunity to earthly poisons. A constitution that scoffs at disease. A spirit fortified against lesser magics and curses. You would be… flawless. A perfected being. Your physical form could rival that of the mightiest demigod heroes, without a single drop of ichor in your veins."
Flawless. The word hung in the quiet glen, heavy with promise.
Cyd looked at Thetis, at her serene, beautiful face, at the ancient power in her gaze. He thought of the Gorgons' possessive beauty, of Artemis's dangerous affection, of Atalanta's lethal grace. He thought of the labyrinth Prometheus had laid out for him—a path disguised as simple advice.
He took a slow, deep breath, and let it out. A soft, apologetic smile touched his lips.
"Perfection," he said quietly. "That's… incredibly generous, Lady Thetis. Thank you. But… I must decline."
The goddess blinked. The serene certainty on her face flickered, replaced by genuine, uncomprehending surprise. "Decline? You cannot be serious. No mortal is ever offered this. You have the chance to become unassailable. To close every weakness you just named!"
Cyd scratched the back of his head, a nervous, deeply human gesture. "How to explain… Thank you for your incredible favor. Truly. But, you see… the weaknesses are… important."
"Important?" Thetis echoed, as if he'd spoken in a forgotten tongue.
"Yes." Cyd spread his hands, a gesture of helpless honesty. "Because I have weaknesses, I am careful. I think before I act. I consider consequences. I try not to offend powerful beings. If I were 'perfect,' if I felt no fear of poison or disease or a stray spell… wouldn't I become arrogant? Reckless? I might start walking into situations a smarter, more vulnerable man would avoid. In trying to eliminate risk, I might invite a far greater catastrophe. This…" he patted his own damp chest, "this 'good enough' body keeps me humble. It keeps me alive."
And I never wanted to be perfect in the first place, he added silently. I just want to be safe enough.
"I… do not understand," Thetis said, and for the first time, she sounded less like an omnipotent goddess and more like a confused scholar presented with an unsolvable equation. To be immortal was to seek perpetuity, to eliminate flaws. This rejection was antithetical to her very nature.
"That's because I'm just a foolish mortal," Cyd said, his smile turning wry as he pointed at himself. "We're famously bad at accepting good things."
Thetis stared at him for a long moment. Then she laughed, a soft, clear sound like water over smooth stones. "It seems my journey was for nothing. Or… perhaps not." She shook her head, a strand of her deep blue hair falling across her shoulder. "Child of Pure White. Your journey is only beginning. You should depart."
"I can only pray you'll bless it to be a short one," Cyd sighed, hauling himself to his feet and trudging toward the waiting white steed. He swung up into the saddle, his body aching.
"Gods do not decide such things," Thetis said, clasping her hands behind her back. Her expression was serene, inscrutable. "Only you can decide when it ends. Go forward. And when you are satisfied, stop. That… is my blessing to you."
"Thank you, I'm really gratef—WHOA! AAAAH!"
His words were torn away as the white steed, without any warning, bunched its powerful legs and launched itself skyward like a bolt from a divine ballista. The acceleration was brutal, slamming Cyd back against the horse's neck. His grateful shout became a raw scream of terror as he clung on for dear life, his fingers digging into the thick mane. The ground fell away with dizzying speed.
On the bank, Thetis watched them vanish into the clouds, a faint, amused smile on her face. "Poseidon," she murmured to the empty glen. "So possessive. It was only a blessing the child wished for, and thanks he sought to give. Must you be so… brisk?"
She unclenched her left hand, which she had held closed since rising. Lying on her palm were a few strands of hair—short, stark white filaments. She didn't remember consciously plucking them; her fingers had simply acted as she'd touched his head, snapping them off with a subtle, practiced twist. A habit from an age of shaping heroes, of taking samples of potential.
She stared at the hairs, their color like bleached coral or sun-bleached bone.
"What am I…" she whispered to herself, her smile fading into thoughtful contemplation. She closed her hand around them once more, the action holding a strange, uncharacteristic uncertainty.
---
"SLOW DOWN! SLOW DOWN! FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT'S HOLY, SLOW DOWN!"
A pristine, human scream etched a path through the vault of heaven, a stark contrast to the silent majesty of clouds and endless blue. It was a sound wholly out of place, a mortal protest against divine velocity.
SWOOSH!
A white blur, trailing streamers of condensing vapor, tore a canyon through a cumulus bank. Clinging to it like a barnacle to a warship was a human shape, flattened against the steed's neck by the G-forces of their flight.
Cyd.
"Horse! Brother! Your Divine Equine Majesty!" he bellowed, the wind stealing his words and shredding them to nothing. "I'm slipping! I'm actually slipping!"
He wasn't lying. His grip, fueled by terror alone, was failing. His legs had lost all purchase. He was hanging from the horse's neck by his arms alone, his body streaming behind him like a pennant. The world below was a terrifying mosaic of green, brown, and blue—beautiful and utterly lethal.
Let go, and it's a several-thousand-foot introduction to geology, his brain supplied, unhelpfully.
The horse gave no indication of hearing him. If anything, it seemed to put on a burst of speed, the thunder of its wings becoming a continuous, deafening roar.
"I'M SORRY! I DON'T KNOW WHAT I DID, BUT I APOLOGIZE! PROFUSELY!"
There had to be a reason. He'd triggered some divine protocol, offended Poseidon through his proxy. But how? Talking to Thetis? Refusing her offer? Existing?
Tears of sheer frustration and fear welled in his eyes, only to be instantly ripped away by the hurricane-force wind.
That's it. After this. Learn some basic self-defense from the centaur, find the deepest, most remote forest in Thrace, and become a hermit. No cities. No people. Just me, a vegetable patch, and absolutely zero flying, kidnapping, or blessing-offering goddesses.
Without warning, the steed's flight path changed. Its nose tilted down. The great wings snapped tight against its body.
They stopped flying. They began to fall.
It was a controlled, deliberate dive, steeper and faster than any natural descent. The world rushed up to meet them with terrifying speed. The scream died in Cyd's throat, replaced by a choked gasp. He had two choices: trust that the horse wasn't about to splatter him across the landscape, or trust that his Styx-tempered body could survive impact with a mountainside.
He chose the horse.
Wrapping his arms and legs around the steed's neck in a full-body grapple, he buried his face in the flying mane and squeezed his eyes shut. He could hear the wind shrieking past, feel the pressure building in his ears.
At the last possible moment, a hundred feet from a collision with a rocky hillside, the steed's wings flared open with a sound like a sail catching a hurricane. The force was immense, a sudden, crushing deceleration that made Cyd's vision swim. The horse arrested its fall, hovering for a second before settling onto a patch of level ground with the delicate grace of a feather.
Cyd didn't dismount so much as he detached and spilled onto the hard-packed earth, rolling several times before coming to a stop on his back, gasping like a landed fish.
"I was… this close… to getting a personal audience with Lord Hades," he wheezed, clutching his stomach. He was profoundly grateful for his empty gut; the rollercoaster descent would have painted the grass.
The white steed walked over, its hooves clopping softly. It looked down at him, then, with deliberate, almost casual precision, lifted a foreleg and tapped him on the backside with its hoof.
Thump.
Then, without a backward glance, it spread its glorious wings and launched itself back into the sky, climbing swiftly until it was once again a distant speck, then gone.
"You… you kicked me… for goodbye?" Cyd croaked, pushing himself up onto his elbows to stare after it, utterly indignant. After all that? A kick in the rear?
A new sound intruded on his stunned reverie: the clear, rhythmic clip-clop of hooves on stone. Not the ethereal, wing-assisted gait of a divine steed, but the solid, grounded tread of a terrestrial creature.
It came from the mouth of a large cave set into the hillside before him. The entrance was a yawning maw of shadow, the afternoon sun penetrating only a few feet to illuminate worn, smooth rock. The hoofbeats echoed from within, growing louder, closer, measured and unhurried.
Cyd struggled to his knees, then his feet, wiping dust from his face. He watched the dark opening.
The sound reached the threshold of the light. A hoof, large and dark, planted itself on the sunlit stone. Then another. A leg, powerfully muscled and covered in short, sleek, dun-colored hair. The hindquarters of a magnificent stallion emerged from the gloom.
But the creature that stepped fully into the light was no ordinary horse.
From the withers up, it was the torso of a man—powerful, broad-shouldered, with the weathered, intelligent face of a scholar who had seen centuries pass. His dark hair was streaked with dignified grey, his beard neatly trimmed. His eyes, a warm and penetrating brown, held a depth of knowledge and kindness that was immediately calming. He wore a simple, practical tunic, and a light cloak was draped over his equine back.
He regarded Cyd, who stood covered in dust, Styx-water, and pure adrenaline, with an expression of mild curiosity and profound patience.
Cyd's breath caught. The centaur folded his arms across his human chest, his horse-body shifting its weight with a soft snort.
"Well," the centaur said, his voice a rich, educated baritone that held the warmth of a crackling hearth and the gravity of ancient scrolls. "You are not the usual sort of applicant. But you are expected. I am Chiron. Welcome to Mount Pelion.