Chapter Two: The Gift of the Sea
The wooden vessel burst from the ocean like a missile hurled by an angry god, soaring in a graceful arc before plummeting toward the shore with terrifying velocity. It struck the sandy beach with a deafening crunch, and whether it was the sheer force of impact or the vessel's already compromised integrity, the boat disintegrated on contact—splintering into a thousand fragments that rained down like wooden shrapnel. From the wreckage, a figure tumbled, rolling across the warm sand in an undignified tangle of limbs and salt-soaked clothing.
"Cough, cough, cough!" Scythica pushed himself upright, his knees wobbling beneath him as he spat out a mouthful of grit. "Lord Poseidon, could you perhaps next time deliver me with a modicum of gentleness?"
He sighed deeply, brushing sand from his clothes and hair—what remained of it, at least. Had he not been exceptionally fortunate, or had Poseidon not genuinely intended to expedite his departure from that cursed island, the only thing washing ashore might have been his lifeless corpse. He shuddered at the thought.
"Well... Lord Poseidon," he said, turning to face the ocean with a formal bow, "I offer you my sincerest gratitude. Thank you for delivering me safely. From here, I shall walk my own path."
The words left his mouth with more confidence than he actually felt. Because the truth was, Scythica had absolutely no idea where he was supposed to go. He was a stranger in this age, a soul displaced not just geographically but temporally. For fifteen years, the sum total of his living companions had been the island's wildlife, two terrifying Gorgon sisters, and one pitiable creature who shared his misfortune—and whom he had been forced to abandon. He couldn't even be certain of the current year, let alone navigate the sprawling, treacherous landscape of ancient Greece. But there was one thing he did know. One beacon in the fog of his ignorance.
"Prometheus," he whispered, the name falling from his lips like a prayer.
The Titan who had stolen fire from the gods and gifted it to humanity—the one who now languished in chains upon the peaks of the Caucasus Mountains, his liver devoured daily by an eagle, only to regenerate each night in an endless cycle of agony. Scythica had learned of his continued imprisonment from Stheno, who had mentioned it in passing with the same casual indifference she might discuss the weather.
Which meant that Heracles had not yet freed him.
Which meant that Scythica was living in the same era as the greatest hero of Greek mythology—or, if fortune favored him, possibly even before the great demigod had drawn his first breath. He desperately hoped for the latter. Because if there was one rule that governed survival in this world, it was this:
Absolute. Never. Under any circumstances. Involve yourself with demigod heroes.
That was the first and most sacred commandment of Greek mythological survival. These so-called heroes attracted catastrophe like moths to a flame. They invited curses, triggered prophecies, and enraged gods with their reckless ambitions. And considering that most of them were sired by Zeus himself, associating with even one of them was practically an invitation for Hera's divine displeasure—a punishment that could extend to anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby.
No, Scythica wanted nothing to do with heroes. But Prometheus was different. The Titan possessed foresight, wisdom that rivaled Athena's own, and knowledge that could prove invaluable to a lost soul trying to navigate this brutal age. He had to reach him. Had to ask him... something. He wasn't sure what yet, but the need burned in his chest like an unquenchable flame.
"Before that, though," he muttered, scratching the back of his head, "there's a rather significant problem. Where in the name of all the gods am I? And how do I get to the Caucasus Mountains from here?"
Poseidon had already granted him more than he deserved—delivering him to solid ground was a blessing beyond measure. To demand further guidance, to impose upon the sea god's patience with more requests, would be the height of mortal arrogance. The gods could be fickle; one moment they smiled upon you, the next they crushed you beneath their heel. It was better to be grateful for what he had received and figure out the rest himself.
Thump.
Scythica took a step forward, still scratching his head. "Not now."
Thump.
"Did I... is there something behind me?" He turned, mildly irritated, fully prepared to shoo away whatever curious animal had taken an interest in him. Instead, his jaw dropped.
Standing before him, radiant as freshly fallen snow, was a horse unlike any he had ever seen. Its coat gleamed like polished ivory, every muscle defined beneath a hide that seemed to shimmer with an inner light. Its mane cascaded like liquid silver, and its eyes—deep, intelligent, impossibly aware—regarded him with an almost amused expression. It had been gently nudging his back with its nose, the source of the persistent thumping.
"You... you want to help me?" Scythica asked, pointing at himself uncertainly.
The white stallion dipped its head in a deliberate, unmistakable nod, then pranced in a circle around him, its movements fluid and graceful. There was a playfulness in its demeanor that reminded him, oddly enough, of the sea itself—untamed yet benevolent.
"Did Lord Poseidon send you?" He glanced back at the ocean, but the waters remained calm, offering no clues. The horse simply swished its tail and nudged him again, more insistently this time, pressing its velvety nose against his back in a clear gesture of urgency.
"I see..." Scythica was no fool. This magnificent creature was undoubtedly a gift from the sea god—a divine steed sent to carry him to his destination. And why? Because Poseidon had heard his prayer. Grant me safe passage. Perhaps the god had taken a liking to him. Perhaps the prayers and offerings over the years had accumulated into something resembling divine favor.
Truly... the path of the devoted worshiper leads to all things.
A warm laugh escaped him as he reached up to stroke the horse's velvety muzzle. "Then I entrust my journey to you, my friend. Carry me to the Caucasus Mountains, if you will."
The stallion shook its mane proudly and lowered itself to the ground, making it easy for Scythica—still not particularly tall—to swing onto its back. The moment he settled into position, the horse rose with fluid grace, its muscles coiling beneath him like springs waiting to be released.
"Onward!" Scythica declared, pointing dramatically into the distance.
The horse responded by turning in the opposite direction and beginning a leisurely walk.
"Ah... right." Scythica's face flushed with embarrassment. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around the stallion's powerful neck. "I suppose you know the way better than I do. Lead on, then."
Unlike the chaotic, catapult-like journey across the sea, this ride was calm and measured. The stallion maintained a steady pace, its hooves beating a rhythmic cadence against the earth as they traversed rolling hills and fertile valleys. Occasionally, they passed hunters armed with bows and spears, their eyes drawn immediately to Scythica's striking appearance—his snow-white hair, his unnaturally pale skin that seemed to glow in the sunlight. But the moment their gazes fell upon the divine stallion he rode, something flickered in their expressions: recognition, then fear. They averted their eyes and gave them a wide berth, whispering among themselves as the pair passed.
Not everyone was so wise, however.
"Oi, brat! Hand over that horse, and whatever valuables you've got on you. Actually—" The speaker was a brute of a man, his face scarred and weathered, his grin revealing a mouthful of yellowed teeth. He and his companions emerged from the treeline like wolves encircling prey, crude weapons glinting in the afternoon light. The leader's eyes roamed over Scythica with a predatory gleam. "That hair. That skin. You'd fetch a fine price on the slave market, boy. Maybe we'll take you too."
Scythica felt his stomach drop. He had hunted on the island—small game, rabbits and birds, nothing larger than a fox. And even then, he had relied on traps and ambushes, never direct confrontation. He had never faced a man with a weapon, let alone a gang of hardened brigands. His hands began to tremble.
"W-what's this? Is the little brat scared?" The leader bellowed with laughter, slapping his knee as his men joined in. "Look at him shake! He's going to wet himself!"
CRUNCH.
The laughter died instantly.
The leader's head was no longer attached to his body. It had been reduced to a pulpy ruin beneath the stallion's raised hoof, brain matter and blood spraying across the sand in a grotesque fountain. The corpse swayed for a moment, as if uncertain of its fate, then crumpled to the ground like a discarded sack.
The remaining bandits stared in frozen shock, their faces drained of color. The white stallion lowered its hoof and stamped it once, twice, against the fallen man's chest—a contemptuous gesture that spoke volumes. It flicked its ears back and regarded the rest of the group with eyes that held no mercy.
Scythica clamped a hand over his mouth, fighting the urge to retch. "That was... that was horrifying."
The horse paid him no mind. It turned its gaze to the remaining bandits, who had finally begun to process what they had just witnessed. Their leader—dead in an instant. Not by sword, not by spear, but by the casual strike of an animal's limb. An animal that now looked at them as if they were nothing more than flies to be swatted.
"R-run! RUN!" someone screamed, and suddenly the gang scattered like roaches exposed to light, fleeing in every direction with desperate, panicked energy.
The stallion snorted. Leave? No. You have threatened a devotee of Lord Poseidon. You have raised your weapons against a creature of the sea god. This crime demands a blood price.
It moved—impossibly fast, a blur of white against the green landscape. It caught the nearest bandit in a single stride, its hoof lashing out with surgical precision. The man's chest caved inward with a sickening crack, and he was launched backward, airborne, until his spine connected with an ancient oak tree that shuddered from the impact. He slid to the ground, limp and broken.
The others ran faster. It didn't matter. The stallion was faster still—each step carried it to its next victim with supernatural ease. One by one, they fell: this one with his ribs shattered, that one with his skull fractured, another with his spine severed. None escaped. None survived.
Scythica watched in numb horror, clinging to the horse's mane as it methodically executed justice upon the bandits. When it was finished, the stallion returned to the main path, shaking its mane as if shaking off the memory of violence. It stood there, patient and serene, as if nothing had happened.
Scythica swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Divine horse... I will never, ever anger you."
The stallion flicked its ears back, and Scythica could have sworn it was smiling.