KRA-KOOM!
The impact wasn't so much a landing as a celestial fastball. A wooden projectile—formerly a boat—screamed out of the mist-wreathed ocean and cratered into a pristine beach. The sound was a sickening symphony of splintering timber, tearing canvas, and compacting sand. It didn'tt just break; it disintegrated, exploding into a shower of kindling and wet debris.
From the heart of the wreckage, a figure tumbled end over end, coming to a rolling, graceless stop in the soft, hot sand.
For a long moment, there was only the hiss of the retreating waves and the groan of settling wood. Then, a cough. Violent, wet, and full of indignation.
"Cough! Hack!… Lord Poseidon," the figure gasped, pushing himself up on trembling arms. Sand cascaded from his snow-white hair and pale shoulders. "A… gentler disembarkation method next time? Maybe a gentle tide to shore? Just a suggestion!"
Cyd spat out a mouthful of grit and saltwater, getting shakily to his feet. Every muscle ached. A vibrant, bloody scrape marred his forearm where a plank had gouged him during the high-speed ejection. He inspected it dispassionately. Lucky. If Poseidon's sense of humor had been any crueler, or if the Earth-Shaker had decided his offering was insufficient, they'd be scraping his remains off the seabed right now.
He brushed sand from his simple trousers—now torn at the knee—and turned toward the vast, now-calm expanse of blue. The god's power had been terrifying, exhilarating, and utterly undignified. He placed a fist over his heart and bowed deeply, the gesture holding genuine gratitude laced with residual terror.
"My lord, I offer my humblest thanks. The journey… was decisive." He straightened up, squinting at the unfamiliar coastline. Rugged cliffs rose in the distance, crowned with scraggly pines. The air smelled of thyme, dry earth, and something else—woodsmoke. Civilization. "The road from here, I will walk myself."
The words sounded braver than he felt. A profound, yawning uncertainty opened up inside him. Where now?
He was a castaway in time. For fifteen years, his world had been an island prison populated by two beautiful monsters and the occasional terrified animal. The only other soul who'd shared his fate—poor Medusa—was still back there, enduring their sisters' whims. He had no clue what year it was, what king ruled, what heroes were currently getting people killed with their legendary quests. Only one datum, gleaned from a careless comment by Stheno as she sipped wine, offered a clue.
"Prometheus," Cyd whispered the name into the breeze.
The Titan of Foresight. The one who stole fire for mankind. According to Stheno, he was still chained to his rock in the Caucasus, his regenerating liver a daily feast for Zeus's eagle. Which meant Heracles hadn't freed him yet.
So I'm in Heracles's era. Or maybe… hopefully… before. A cold knot formed in his stomach. Greek Survival Rule #1: Avoid Demigod Heroes Like the Plague. Especially the sons of Zeus. Getting involved with their stories was a one-way ticket to being turned into a spider, hunted by a murderous artifact, or catching the focused, psychotic hatred of Hera. No thank you.
Yet, Prometheus was different. The Titan saw the future. He possessed wisdom rivaling Athena's. If anyone in this brutal, god-ruled world could understand Cyd's predicament—a soul out of time, marked by the Gorgons—it would be him. Cyd didn't plan to play hero. Freeing Prometheus would be a spectacularly stupid way to die. He just wanted… counsel. A glimpse of the thread he was now dangling from.
"But first," he muttered, scratching the back of his head, "a slightly more pressing issue." He turned a full circle. "Where in Hades am I? And how do I get to the Caucasus Mountains?"
Poseidon's favor had gotten him to land. Asking for GPS coordinates felt like pushing his luck. Gods gave gifts on their terms; demanding specifics was a shortcut to divine annoyance.
Nudge.
Something solid and warm pressed against the small of his back. Cyd took an absent-minded step forward, still scanning the horizon.
Nudge-nudge.
"Cut it out," he grumbled, half-turning. "I'm trying to have a life-crisis—"
The words died in his throat.
The creature behind him was not human. It was a horse, but to call it merely a horse was an insult. It stood tall, its coat a pure, blinding white that seemed to glow with its own inner light, like sea-foam under a full moon. Its muscles moved with liquid grace beneath that pristine hide. Its eyes were large, dark, and held an intelligence that was deeply unsettling. It regarded Cyd with what could only be described as serene patience.
It had nudged him with its broad forehead.
"You… want to help?" Cyd asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. He pointed a hesitant finger at his own chest.
The horse—the steed—dipped its magnificent head in a clear, deliberate nod. It then pranced in a tight, joyful circle around him, hooves kicking up little puffs of sand with a sound like muffled drums. Its movements were eerily silent for such a large animal.
Cyd's eyes flicked to the calm sea. No sign. But the connection was obvious. 'Grant me safe passage.' The prayer echoed in his mind. Poseidon, it seemed, took his duties as a patron seriously. And had a fondness for dramatic transportation.
"You're from him, aren't you?" Cyd breathed. A slow smile spread across his face, genuine and relieved. "Lord Poseidon… is a far better patron than I ever dared hope."
See? a victorious little voice chirped in his head. Persistence pays off. Sucking up to the right god works!
The white steed shook its mane, the hair flowing like spun silver, and then, with a graceful bending of its forelegs, it knelt. An invitation.
"Well, aren't you a gentleman," Cyd murmured. He placed his hands on the warm, solid shoulder and vaulted onto its back with surprising ease. The horse's hide was smooth and surprisingly cool to the touch. It rose smoothly to its full height, and Cyd found the vantage point thrilling. He gathered a handful of the silken mane and pointed inland, toward the cliffs. "Alright, my noble friend. To the Caucasus! Or… in that general direction. You lead."
The horse gave a soft snort, turned its head, and began walking at a steady, ground-eating pace… in the exact opposite direction.
"Uh… buddy?" Cyd leaned forward, patting its neck. "The cliffs are that way."
The horse ignored him, its pace unwavering.
"…Right. You're the divine GPS." Cyd sighed and lay forward, wrapping his arms loosely around the steed's powerful neck, surrendering to its guidance. "Don't suppose you have a name? 'Fish Delivery' seems inappropriate. 'Wave-Runner'? No…"
The journey that followed was a blur of changing landscapes. They moved not with the terrifying, fish-propelled speed of the sea voyage, but with a preternatural, effortless grace. The miles melted away beneath the steed's hooves. They passed through olive groves where old farmers stopped their work to stare, crossed rocky gorges on paths barely wide enough for a goat, and skirted the outskirts of small, walled towns. Cyd's appearance—the albino skin, the strange white hair—drew stares, whispers, and the occasional superstitious sign to ward off evil. But every time a curious local or a group of hunters moved to intercept them, their eyes would fall upon the mount. The awe in their gazes would shift to something deeper—recognition, fear, reverence. They would bow their heads and scatter, making no attempt to approach.
The horse was clearly marked as something other. Something divine.
The ones who didn't heed the warning were not farmers.
It happened in a narrow, rocky pass as the sun began to dip, painting the sky in bloody oranges and purples. Five men materialized from behind boulders, their intent as clear as the rusty iron in their hands. They were lean, hard-eyed, and clad in stained leather. Bandits.
"Oi, pretty boy!" The leader, a brute with a scar splitting his lip, leered up at Cyd. He hefted a notched axe. "Slide off that fancy horse. Slowly. And empty your pockets. Actually…" His eyes, yellowed and hungry, roamed over Cyd's form. "Forget the pockets. With hair and skin like that, you'll fetch a fine price from the right slaver in Corinth. The horse'll buy me a palace."
Cyd's blood ran cold. His mind, trained for years to anticipate the Gorgons' moods, scrambled for options. He had a dagger. He'd hunted rabbits. He'd once poked a boar to death from the safety of a deep pit. That was the sum total of his combat experience. Facing five armed, desperate men in the open? He was a lamb.
"I… I don't have anything," Cyd stammered, his grip tightening on the horse's mane. The horse itself had gone utterly still, a statue of white marble.
"Hear that, lads?" the bandit chief crowed, stepping closer. "He's trembling! Looks like we got ourselves a little dove. Come down now, or we'll drag you—"
He never finished the sentence.
The white steed moved.
It wasn't a charge. It was a pivot, swift and precise as a striking asp. Its left foreleg, previously planted in the dust, became a blur. The hoof, hard as sculpted onyx, caught the bandit leader squarely on the side of his leering face.
The sound was wet and final. A sickening CRUNCH-POP of shattering bone and bursting tissue. The man's head snapped around at an impossible angle. One eye seemed to bulge from the socket before his body was lifted clean off its feet. He spun through the air in a macabre pirouette, a fine red mist trailing behind him, before he crumpled in a boneless heap ten feet away. What was left of his face was a concave ruin of blood, shattered teeth, and white fragments. His axe clattered harmlessly to the stones.
Silence, thicker and heavier than before, choked the pass.
Cyd stared, his breath frozen in his lungs. The metallic tang of fresh blood hit his nostrils, mixing with the scent of dust and horse. His stomach churned.
The other four bandits stood paralyzed, their brains struggling to process the sudden, brutal death of their leader. Their eyes were wide with primal terror, fixed on the serene white horse now standing calmly over the corpse.
The steed lowered its head and gave the body a disdainful nudge with its nose, as if checking it was properly dead. Then it lifted its gaze to the remaining men.
They ran.
They broke in four different directions, a chorus of panicked screams tearing from their throats. Survival instinct had overridden greed.
The horse's dark eyes tracked them. It made a sound—a soft, dismissive chuff through its nostrils. Permission to leave? Denied.
Its movement defied physics. One moment it was beside Cyd, the next it was a streak of white lightning. It closed the distance to the nearest fleeing man in two heartbeats. It didn't bite or kick with its front legs. As it passed, a single, powerful hind leg lashed out in a movement too fast to follow.
THUMP.
The sound was like a sack of wet grain hitting a wall. The bandit's scream was cut short as the hoof connected with the center of his back. His spine didn't just break; his torso seemed to fold inward around the point of impact. He was launched forward, airborne and limp, to slam into the trunk of a gnarled olive tree with a crack that echoed through the pass. He slid down, leaving a dark, wet smear on the bark.
The horse didn't pause. It was a specter of efficiency. It flowed to the next target, a man scrambling up a scree slope. A precise, almost delicate-looking tap of a forehoof to the back of the skull. The man dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
The third met a hoof to the throat. The crunch of his trachea collapsing was audible even to Cyd, who was now clutching the horse's mane for stability, his knuckles white, his face pale.
The last bandit, the youngest, had made it the farthest. He was sobbing, snot and tears streaking his face as he stumbled toward the pass's mouth and the fading light of freedom.
The white steed stood for a moment, watching him flee. Then it reared up, its front hooves pawing at the blood-tinged air. It came down with a earth-shaking thud, and as it landed, it seemed to gather the shadows of the canyon. It shot forward, not galloping, but flowing across the ground. It caught the fleeing man just as he reached the open plain beyond.
This one, it didn't kill with a single blow. It ran alongside him for a stride, turned its head, and bit down on the man's sword arm at the shoulder. Cyd heard the distinct, horrible snap of the humerus. The man shrieked. The horse tossed its head, flinging the crippled bandit into the air. He landed hard on the rocky ground, moaning, clutching the mangled ruin of his arm.
The horse trotted back to him, its muzzle now stained crimson. It looked down at the weeping, broken man for a long, cold moment. Then it raised one foreleg and brought it down, with deliberate, measured force, on the man's head.
The moaning stopped.
Silence returned to the pass, broken only by the whisper of the evening wind.
The white steed walked back to Cyd, its hooves making no sound on the blood-spattered stones. It looked up at him, its intelligent eyes clear and calm. It blew out a soft breath, as if to say, "All clear."
Cyd slowly, carefully, dismounted. His legs felt like water. He walked on unsteady feet to the edge of the pass, leaned against a cool boulder, and vomited into the dust. The violence had been so swift, so absolute, so unemotional. It was the clean, efficient work of a divine weapon.
When he was done, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned to look at his mount. The horse was calmly grazing on a patch of hardy grass, its white coat unstained, as if the last five minutes had never happened. The only evidence was the faint, pink tinge around its mouth, which it soon lipped away.
Cyd took a deep, shuddering breath. The fear was fading, replaced by a cold, hard understanding.
"Okay," he whispered, his voice rough. "Message received." He approached the horse, which lifted its head to regard him. He reached out a still-trembling hand and placed it on its warm neck. "You're not just a ride. You're my… escort. My guardian. From him." He glanced at the carnage littering the pass, then back at the serene creature. "And you don't mess around."
The horse nudged his chest gently, almost apologetically.
A hysterical laugh bubbled up in Cyd's throat. He swallowed it. Divine gifts, it seemed, came with sharp edges and zero tolerance for mortal insolence.
"Right," he said, pulling himself back into the saddle. The familiar position felt more secure than ever. "Let's keep moving. And… thank you."
The horse set off at its steady pace once more, leaving the scene of slaughter behind for the carrion birds. Cyd didn't look back. He focused on the horizon, on the lengthening shadows, on the path ahead.
Rule #2, he added mentally to his growing survival guide, when a god gives you a horse, do not question its navigation. Or its methods.KRA-KOOM!
The impact wasn't so much a landing as a celestial fastball. A wooden projectile—formerly a boat—screamed out of the mist-wreathed ocean and cratered into a pristine beach. The sound was a sickening symphony of splintering timber, tearing canvas, and compacting sand. It didn'tt just break; it disintegrated, exploding into a shower of kindling and wet debris.
From the heart of the wreckage, a figure tumbled end over end, coming to a rolling, graceless stop in the soft, hot sand.
For a long moment, there was only the hiss of the retreating waves and the groan of settling wood. Then, a cough. Violent, wet, and full of indignation.
"Cough! Hack!… Lord Poseidon," the figure gasped, pushing himself up on trembling arms. Sand cascaded from his snow-white hair and pale shoulders. "A… gentler disembarkation method next time? Maybe a gentle tide to shore? Just a suggestion!"
Cyd spat out a mouthful of grit and saltwater, getting shakily to his feet. Every muscle ached. A vibrant, bloody scrape marred his forearm where a plank had gouged him during the high-speed ejection. He inspected it dispassionately. Lucky. If Poseidon's sense of humor had been any crueler, or if the Earth-Shaker had decided his offering was insufficient, they'd be scraping his remains off the seabed right now.
He brushed sand from his simple trousers—now torn at the knee—and turned toward the vast, now-calm expanse of blue. The god's power had been terrifying, exhilarating, and utterly undignified. He placed a fist over his heart and bowed deeply, the gesture holding genuine gratitude laced with residual terror.
"My lord, I offer my humblest thanks. The journey… was decisive." He straightened up, squinting at the unfamiliar coastline. Rugged cliffs rose in the distance, crowned with scraggly pines. The air smelled of thyme, dry earth, and something else—woodsmoke. Civilization. "The road from here, I will walk myself."
The words sounded braver than he felt. A profound, yawning uncertainty opened up inside him. Where now?
He was a castaway in time. For fifteen years, his world had been an island prison populated by two beautiful monsters and the occasional terrified animal. The only other soul who'd shared his fate—poor Medusa—was still back there, enduring their sisters' whims. He had no clue what year it was, what king ruled, what heroes were currently getting people killed with their legendary quests. Only one datum, gleaned from a careless comment by Stheno as she sipped wine, offered a clue.
"Prometheus," Cyd whispered the name into the breeze.
The Titan of Foresight. The one who stole fire for mankind. According to Stheno, he was still chained to his rock in the Caucasus, his regenerating liver a daily feast for Zeus's eagle. Which meant Heracles hadn't freed him yet.
So I'm in Heracles's era. Or maybe… hopefully… before. A cold knot formed in his stomach. Greek Survival Rule #1: Avoid Demigod Heroes Like the Plague. Especially the sons of Zeus. Getting involved with their stories was a one-way ticket to being turned into a spider, hunted by a murderous artifact, or catching the focused, psychotic hatred of Hera. No thank you.
Yet, Prometheus was different. The Titan saw the future. He possessed wisdom rivaling Athena's. If anyone in this brutal, god-ruled world could understand Cyd's predicament—a soul out of time, marked by the Gorgons—it would be him. Cyd didn't plan to play hero. Freeing Prometheus would be a spectacularly stupid way to die. He just wanted… counsel. A glimpse of the thread he was now dangling from.
"But first," he muttered, scratching the back of his head, "a slightly more pressing issue." He turned a full circle. "Where in Hades am I? And how do I get to the Caucasus Mountains?"
Poseidon's favor had gotten him to land. Asking for GPS coordinates felt like pushing his luck. Gods gave gifts on their terms; demanding specifics was a shortcut to divine annoyance.
Nudge.
Something solid and warm pressed against the small of his back. Cyd took an absent-minded step forward, still scanning the horizon.
Nudge-nudge.
"Cut it out," he grumbled, half-turning. "I'm trying to have a life-crisis—"
The words died in his throat.
The creature behind him was not human. It was a horse, but to call it merely a horse was an insult. It stood tall, its coat a pure, blinding white that seemed to glow with its own inner light, like sea-foam under a full moon. Its muscles moved with liquid grace beneath that pristine hide. Its eyes were large, dark, and held an intelligence that was deeply unsettling. It regarded Cyd with what could only be described as serene patience.
It had nudged him with its broad forehead.
"You… want to help?" Cyd asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. He pointed a hesitant finger at his own chest.
The horse—the steed—dipped its magnificent head in a clear, deliberate nod. It then pranced in a tight, joyful circle around him, hooves kicking up little puffs of sand with a sound like muffled drums. Its movements were eerily silent for such a large animal.
Cyd's eyes flicked to the calm sea. No sign. But the connection was obvious. 'Grant me safe passage.' The prayer echoed in his mind. Poseidon, it seemed, took his duties as a patron seriously. And had a fondness for dramatic transportation.
"You're from him, aren't you?" Cyd breathed. A slow smile spread across his face, genuine and relieved. "Lord Poseidon… is a far better patron than I ever dared hope."
See? a victorious little voice chirped in his head. Persistence pays off. Sucking up to the right god works!
The white steed shook its mane, the hair flowing like spun silver, and then, with a graceful bending of its forelegs, it knelt. An invitation.
"Well, aren't you a gentleman," Cyd murmured. He placed his hands on the warm, solid shoulder and vaulted onto its back with surprising ease. The horse's hide was smooth and surprisingly cool to the touch. It rose smoothly to its full height, and Cyd found the vantage point thrilling. He gathered a handful of the silken mane and pointed inland, toward the cliffs. "Alright, my noble friend. To the Caucasus! Or… in that general direction. You lead."
The horse gave a soft snort, turned its head, and began walking at a steady, ground-eating pace… in the exact opposite direction.
"Uh… buddy?" Cyd leaned forward, patting its neck. "The cliffs are that way."
The horse ignored him, its pace unwavering.
"…Right. You're the divine GPS." Cyd sighed and lay forward, wrapping his arms loosely around the steed's powerful neck, surrendering to its guidance. "Don't suppose you have a name? 'Fish Delivery' seems inappropriate. 'Wave-Runner'? No…"
The journey that followed was a blur of changing landscapes. They moved not with the terrifying, fish-propelled speed of the sea voyage, but with a preternatural, effortless grace. The miles melted away beneath the steed's hooves. They passed through olive groves where old farmers stopped their work to stare, crossed rocky gorges on paths barely wide enough for a goat, and skirted the outskirts of small, walled towns. Cyd's appearance—the albino skin, the strange white hair—drew stares, whispers, and the occasional superstitious sign to ward off evil. But every time a curious local or a group of hunters moved to intercept them, their eyes would fall upon the mount. The awe in their gazes would shift to something deeper—recognition, fear, reverence. They would bow their heads and scatter, making no attempt to approach.
The horse was clearly marked as something other. Something divine.
The ones who didn't heed the warning were not farmers.
It happened in a narrow, rocky pass as the sun began to dip, painting the sky in bloody oranges and purples. Five men materialized from behind boulders, their intent as clear as the rusty iron in their hands. They were lean, hard-eyed, and clad in stained leather. Bandits.
"Oi, pretty boy!" The leader, a brute with a scar splitting his lip, leered up at Cyd. He hefted a notched axe. "Slide off that fancy horse. Slowly. And empty your pockets. Actually…" His eyes, yellowed and hungry, roamed over Cyd's form. "Forget the pockets. With hair and skin like that, you'll fetch a fine price from the right slaver in Corinth. The horse'll buy me a palace."
Cyd's blood ran cold. His mind, trained for years to anticipate the Gorgons' moods, scrambled for options. He had a dagger. He'd hunted rabbits. He'd once poked a boar to death from the safety of a deep pit. That was the sum total of his combat experience. Facing five armed, desperate men in the open? He was a lamb.
"I… I don't have anything," Cyd stammered, his grip tightening on the horse's mane. The horse itself had gone utterly still, a statue of white marble.
"Hear that, lads?" the bandit chief crowed, stepping closer. "He's trembling! Looks like we got ourselves a little dove. Come down now, or we'll drag you—"
He never finished the sentence.
The white steed moved.
It wasn't a charge. It was a pivot, swift and precise as a striking asp. Its left foreleg, previously planted in the dust, became a blur. The hoof, hard as sculpted onyx, caught the bandit leader squarely on the side of his leering face.
The sound was wet and final. A sickening CRUNCH-POP of shattering bone and bursting tissue. The man's head snapped around at an impossible angle. One eye seemed to bulge from the socket before his body was lifted clean off its feet. He spun through the air in a macabre pirouette, a fine red mist trailing behind him, before he crumpled in a boneless heap ten feet away. What was left of his face was a concave ruin of blood, shattered teeth, and white fragments. His axe clattered harmlessly to the stones.
Silence, thicker and heavier than before, choked the pass.
Cyd stared, his breath frozen in his lungs. The metallic tang of fresh blood hit his nostrils, mixing with the scent of dust and horse. His stomach churned.
The other four bandits stood paralyzed, their brains struggling to process the sudden, brutal death of their leader. Their eyes were wide with primal terror, fixed on the serene white horse now standing calmly over the corpse.
The steed lowered its head and gave the body a disdainful nudge with its nose, as if checking it was properly dead. Then it lifted its gaze to the remaining men.
They ran.
They broke in four different directions, a chorus of panicked screams tearing from their throats. Survival instinct had overridden greed.
The horse's dark eyes tracked them. It made a sound—a soft, dismissive chuff through its nostrils. Permission to leave? Denied.
Its movement defied physics. One moment it was beside Cyd, the next it was a streak of white lightning. It closed the distance to the nearest fleeing man in two heartbeats. It didn't bite or kick with its front legs. As it passed, a single, powerful hind leg lashed out in a movement too fast to follow.
THUMP.
The sound was like a sack of wet grain hitting a wall. The bandit's scream was cut short as the hoof connected with the center of his back. His spine didn't just break; his torso seemed to fold inward around the point of impact. He was launched forward, airborne and limp, to slam into the trunk of a gnarled olive tree with a crack that echoed through the pass. He slid down, leaving a dark, wet smear on the bark.
The horse didn't pause. It was a specter of efficiency. It flowed to the next target, a man scrambling up a scree slope. A precise, almost delicate-looking tap of a forehoof to the back of the skull. The man dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
The third met a hoof to the throat. The crunch of his trachea collapsing was audible even to Cyd, who was now clutching the horse's mane for stability, his knuckles white, his face pale.
The last bandit, the youngest, had made it the farthest. He was sobbing, snot and tears streaking his face as he stumbled toward the pass's mouth and the fading light of freedom.
The white steed stood for a moment, watching him flee. Then it reared up, its front hooves pawing at the blood-tinged air. It came down with a earth-shaking thud, and as it landed, it seemed to gather the shadows of the canyon. It shot forward, not galloping, but flowing across the ground. It caught the fleeing man just as he reached the open plain beyond.
This one, it didn't kill with a single blow. It ran alongside him for a stride, turned its head, and bit down on the man's sword arm at the shoulder. Cyd heard the distinct, horrible snap of the humerus. The man shrieked. The horse tossed its head, flinging the crippled bandit into the air. He landed hard on the rocky ground, moaning, clutching the mangled ruin of his arm.
The horse trotted back to him, its muzzle now stained crimson. It looked down at the weeping, broken man for a long, cold moment. Then it raised one foreleg and brought it down, with deliberate, measured force, on the man's head.
The moaning stopped.
Silence returned to the pass, broken only by the whisper of the evening wind.
The white steed walked back to Cyd, its hooves making no sound on the blood-spattered stones. It looked up at him, its intelligent eyes clear and calm. It blew out a soft breath, as if to say, "All clear."
Cyd slowly, carefully, dismounted. His legs felt like water. He walked on unsteady feet to the edge of the pass, leaned against a cool boulder, and vomited into the dust. The violence had been so swift, so absolute, so unemotional. It was the clean, efficient work of a divine weapon.
When he was done, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned to look at his mount. The horse was calmly grazing on a patch of hardy grass, its white coat unstained, as if the last five minutes had never happened. The only evidence was the faint, pink tinge around its mouth, which it soon lipped away.
Cyd took a deep, shuddering breath. The fear was fading, replaced by a cold, hard understanding.
"Okay," he whispered, his voice rough. "Message received." He approached the horse, which lifted its head to regard him. He reached out a still-trembling hand and placed it on its warm neck. "You're not just a ride. You're my… escort. My guardian. From him." He glanced at the carnage littering the pass, then back at the serene creature. "And you don't mess around."
The horse nudged his chest gently, almost apologetically.
A hysterical laugh bubbled up in Cyd's throat. He swallowed it. Divine gifts, it seemed, came with sharp edges and zero tolerance for mortal insolence.
"Right," he said, pulling himself back into the saddle. The familiar position felt more secure than ever. "Let's keep moving. And… thank you."
The horse set off at its steady pace once more, leaving the scene of slaughter behind for the carrion birds. Cyd didn't look back. He focused on the horizon, on the lengthening shadows, on the path ahead.
Rule #2, he added mentally to his growing survival guide, when a god gives you a horse, do not question its navigation. Or its methods.