"This damn beast… it's not giving up, is it?"
Cyd pressed his back against the rough bark of an ancient pine, his breathing a controlled whisper. Fifty yards away, in a small clearing dappled with late afternoon sun, the lion crouched. Its massive head was low to the ground, nostrils flaring as it snuffled through the leaf litter, its tufted tail twitching with suppressed agitation. It was a picture of primal, single-minded focus.
It was the third day.
For three days, the invulnerable monster had stalked him with the tenacity of a vengeful spirit. It wasn't just hunting for food; it was hunting for him. The first ambush had come while he was trying to eat a cold rabbit—a golden blur from the bushes, a swipe that would have decapitated an ox, aimed at the back of his skull. He'd ducked, his stew pot flying. Then, on the first night, he'd awoken to the feeling of the very earth trembling, opening his eyes to see the colossal silhouette blotting out the stars as it tried to literally crush him into the ground with its bulk. He'd rolled away just in time, the impact cratering his bedding.
The final straw had been this morning, during a moment of necessary, vulnerable privacy. The sheer, vindictive audacity of the attack had left him both furious and weirdly impressed.
Now, the lion, dissatisfied with whatever scent it was tracking, gave the ground a frustrated, earth-tearing scratch with claws that could gouge marble, then turned and melted back into the deep green shadows of the undergrowth with unnerving silence for its size.
Cyd let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and sank into a crouch on his high branch. "This is unsustainable," he muttered, gnawing on a ragged thumbnail. "Got to figure something out, or I'll never have a moment's peace."
He'd tried. Oh, he'd tried. Traps that would have ensnared and maimed a bull elephant—deadfalls with spikes he'd painstakingly fire-hardened, camouflaged pits lined with poisoned stakes, complex snare systems using vines as thick as his wrist. The lion treated them like minor inconveniences. It would blunder through, snapping the vines, shrugging off the spikes, clambering out of the pits with a contemptuous shake of its mane. The only thing he'd gained was absolute certainty: the beast was utterly, completely, divinely impervious to physical harm.
Which means, his mind supplied with grim logic, it's that lion. The Nemean Lion.
The realization had been equal parts enlightening and horrifying. Enlightening, because it placed the creature in a known mythological context. Horrifying, because the most famous story about the Nemean Lion ended with it being strangled to death by a certain demigod, its hide taken as a cloak.
Which means Heracles hasn't gotten to it yet.
"This is… suboptimal," Cyd mumbled around his fingernail.
His personal rulebook, etched in fear and survival instinct, had one commandment written in bold, underlined, and circled: AVOID THE HEROES. And Heracles wasn't just any hero; he was the prototype, the nuclear option. The people who associated with him tended to end up dead, cursed, or tragically famous. The idea of being within a hundred miles of the son of Zeus made Cyd's skin crawl.
The moment he'd identified the lion, his first, overwhelming impulse had been to run. Put as much distance between himself, the lion, and the inevitable hero as humanly (or inhumanly) possible.
The lion, however, had other plans. It had become his shadow, his stalker, a four-legged, fur-covered curse.
Killing it himself was a theoretical option, but the practicalities were daunting. He'd tapped into the reservoir of strength his invulnerable body allowed, yes. He could punch through a bear. But this? This was a being whose hide turned aside divine weapons. Could he generate enough force to damage its internals through that impervious shell? Could he choke it out? He had his doubts. Poison might work if he could get it into its system, but the damn thing was in full predator mode, ignoring any bait he set, obsessed only with tracking his scent.
The plan, therefore, had been simple: evade, exhaust, and slip away long before the lion's destined executioner arrived on the scene.
He just had to avoid running into Hera—
"Hey! You! Up in the tree! The white-haired one!"
The voice boomed up from below, cheerful, deep, and startlingly close. It was the sound of confidence given vocal cords.
Cyd's entire body went rigid. Slowly, with the dread of a man hearing his own death sentence, he lowered his hand from his mouth. He did not turn his head. He stared straight ahead at the opposite tree trunk, his expression flattening into a perfect mask of nothing.
I hear nothing. I see nothing. There is definitely not a man built like a siege engine standing directly beneath me. I am a tree-dwelling fungus. A particularly uninteresting lichen. Move along.
"Hello? Can you hear me? I just want to ask you something!"
Go away. Turn right. Follow the lion's scent. It's fresh. Go be a hero somewhere else.
"Ah! I see!" the voice boomed again, full of sudden understanding. "You're worried I'll steal your game, aren't you? Don't be! I, Heracles, give you my word! I would never do such a thing! I'm only here to deal with that vicious lion!"
Cyd's eyelid twitched. Heracles. The name landed like a physical blow. Of course. The universe had a truly sick sense of humor.
Below, Heracles, apparently tired of being ignored, decided on a more direct approach. He wrapped his arms around the trunk of the massive pine Cyd was perched in. The tree was thicker than a wine barrel. With a grunt of effort that sounded more like a man shifting a sack of grain, he heaved.
CRACK—SNAP—GROAN!
The sound was catastrophic. Roots tore from the earth with wet, popping sounds. The trunk, seasoned wood that had stood for centuries, splintered like kindling. The entire world tilted violently. Cyd's perch became a sliding, falling nightmare. He leaped clear as the tree completed its slow, groaning descent, crashing to the forest floor in an explosion of branches, needles, and displaced earth.
He landed in a crouch, dust settling around him. He looked up.
Heracles stood amidst the wreckage, brushing a few pine needles from his shoulders. He hadn't even broken a sweat. He was younger than Cyd had imagined from the stories—maybe eighteen or nineteen. But the power was there, undeniable, radiating from his broad frame. He had wild, dark hair, a strong jaw, and eyes that held a disarming mix of earnest honesty and latent, world-breaking force. He was smiling, a friendly, open smile.
"There you are!" Heracles said, as if he'd just done Cyd a favor by demolishing his hiding spot. "Now, about that lion—"
"Fine. Alright. You win," Cyd interrupted, holding up his hands in surrender. He stood up, brushing dirt from his torn trousers. "I'll tell you about the lion."
Heracles's face lit up with genuine, boyish delight. "Wonderful! Where is it?"
"Hold on," Cyd said, holding up three fingers. His eyes scanned the tree line behind Heracles. He'd seen a flicker of movement, a shift in the shadows. The lion hadn't gone far. It never did. It was waiting for him to be vulnerable. "I'll count to three. It'll show up."
"Huh?" Heracles's brow furrowed in confusion. He was still holding a large section of the shattered trunk, seemingly having forgotten it was in his hands.
"One…" Cyd said, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"Two…"
He suddenly dropped into a deep crouch, his body becoming a compact ball.
"Three!"
ROAR!
The lion erupted from the thicket directly behind Heracles, a living avalanche of tawny muscle and rage. It had been stalking Cyd's scent, which had led it right to the source of the commotion. Its amber eyes were fixed on the pale figure crouching ahead. It leaped, a breathtaking arc of claws and teeth, aiming to land on Cyd and pin him.
It didn't account for the crouch.
The lion sailed over Cyd's head, its underbelly exposed for a fraction of a second. It found itself flying directly toward the broad back of a very large, very surprised demigod holding a log.
Heracles's eyes widened. But his body reacted with a speed that belied his size. He didn't dodge. He pivoted, using the lion's own momentum. The massive log in his hands became a weapon. He swung it not like a club, but like a batter aiming for the heavens.
The swing was a masterpiece of brutal physics. The log, a solid five feet of dense pine, met the lion's face in mid-air.
WHUMP-CRACK!
The impact wasn't a sharp crack of breaking bone, but a deep, percussive thud, like a boulder dropped onto a wet hide drum. A shockwave of displaced air blasted outwards, flattening ferns and shaking leaves from nearby trees. The lion's charge was utterly, violently reversed. Its head snapped sideways. Its body contorted. It was launched skyward, spinning end over end like a child's toy, before vanishing into the canopy with a diminishing roar of pure surprise.
Cyd straightened up, shielding his eyes as he watched the golden speck disappear. He let out a low whistle. "Home run. Textbook. Congrats, you just solo'd the Nemean Lion. My work here is done." He gave a sarcastic thumbs-up and turned to grab his pack.
"It's not dead," Heracles said, his voice grim. He was staring at the point where the lion had vanished, his grip still tight on the log. Then, with a sound like splitting stone, the log itself fractured down the middle, crumbling into two useless halves. He let them fall. "That just made it angry. My strength got it airborne, but this wood… it's too weak to hurt it. It'll be back."
"Even better reason for us to vacate the premises immediately," Cyd said, hefting his pack. "If that didn't kill it, it's going to be seriously pissed off. Let's go. Different directions."
"Wait!" Heracles's hand shot out, landing on Cyd's shoulder. The grip was like being pinned by a marble statue. Gentle, but absolutely immovable. "You can't just leave!"
"Buddy, you were the one who hit it with the tree," Cyd said, trying and failing to pry the fingers loose. He might as well have been trying to bend iron bars. The famous "strength of Heracles" was no exaggeration. "That's on you."
"That lion was hunting you," Heracles insisted, his earnest face filled with conviction. "If you run, it will follow. And if it follows you into a village or a shepherd's pasture, innocent people will die. I came here to stop it. We should work together. Hunt it as a team. The glory, the spoils… we can share them."
Cyd felt a visceral recoil at the word "glory." It was the antithesis of everything he wanted. And the myths were clear—Heracles did this alone. He didn't want to be a footnote, a complication. "I think you've got this covered by yourself," he said, his voice strained. "Really. I have faith in you."
"I thought so too, at first," Heracles admitted, looking uncharacteristically troubled. He flexed his powerful hands. "Bare-handed… I think I could do it. But it would be… messy. Difficult. Having another set of eyes, another pair of hands…" He trailed off, his gaze drifting upward, past the shattered canopy.
Cyd followed his look. High above, perched on a bare, lightning-scarred branch of a dead oak, was an eagle. It was large, regal, and utterly still. It wasn't watching the forest for prey. It was watching them.
Zeus.
The breath left Cyd's lungs. He could gamble on the myths. He could try to slip away and let history run its course. But with the King of the Gods personally spectating his son's labors? What if Cyd's interference—or his refusal to interfere—changed the outcome? What if the eagle wasn't just watching, but judging? The risk was incalculable.
"Ugh… fine," Cyd groaned, running a hand through his white hair in exasperation. "Alright. I'll help. I did sort of… lure it to you. But!" He held up a finger, his expression turning deadly serious. "One condition. Non-negotiable."
"Name it," Heracles said, his face brightening.
"The glory is yours," Cyd said, enunciating each word. He made a large 'X' with his arms over his chest for emphasis. "You tell the world, the bards, your dad, whoever, that you, Heracles, son of Zeus, slew the Nemean Lion alone. I was never here. As for the spoils, I don't want the pelt. I'll take the teeth and the claws. That's it."
Heracles blinked, perplexed. Turning down glory was as alien to him as turning down a meal. But after a moment, he nodded, a solemn agreement. "You have my word. The deed will be mine. The teeth and claws are yours."
"Good," Cyd said, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. He glanced back at the forest, then at the waiting demigod. A plan, half-formed and desperate, began to coalesce in his mind. It was risky. It involved extreme proximity to a demigod and an invulnerable lion. But it was the only way to get this over with and vanish back into obscurity.
He beckoned Heracles closer, lowering his voice.
"Okay then… listen up. Here's what we're going to do."
And high above, perched on a branch hidden by clouds, an eagle watched them both—its eyes gleaming with divine amusement.