"Alright," Cyd whispered to himself, pressing his body flat against the cool, damp earth behind a thick tangle of ferns. "Current objective: acquire dinner."
Fifty yards ahead, a massive wild boar rooted in the soft soil near a creek bank. The beast was a hulking slab of muscle and rage covered in coarse, black bristles. Tusks the color of aged ivory, each as long as Cyd's forearm, curved wickedly from its snout. Its sides heaved with powerful breaths, and the smell of it—musky, feral, earthy—carried clearly on the evening breeze.
Cyd's own stomach gave a pathetic, empty gurgle in response. It had been three days since his dramatic, fish-assisted landing. The divine seafood starter pack was long gone. His old habits, forged in the crucible of Gorgon-induced survival, had reasserted themselves: he'd offered a portion of his last meal as a tribute to Hermes, god of travelers, before realizing he had no idea where his next meal was coming from. Now, he was paying for his piety with a gnawing, hollow hunger.
His only weapon was the bronze dagger, its edge still sharp from disuse. He'd hunted on the island, yes. But those were skittish rabbits and plump, slow-moving grouse. This… this was a living battering ram.
Just need to get close. One quick, deep stab to the artery in the neck. In and out. Like… like poking a very large, very angry pudding.
He began to crawl, his movements slow and deliberate, using the undergrowth for cover. Every rustle of a leaf, every crunch of a twig under his knee sounded like thunder in his ears. The boar, however, seemed preoccupied, snuffling and digging with intense focus.
Ten more yards. Just a bit closer…
The boar froze. Its massive head lifted from the ground. Small, intelligent, and utterly malicious black eyes scanned the tree line. They passed over Cyd's hiding spot, paused, and locked on.
Oh, no.
With a guttural, bone-chilling GRUNT, the boar dropped its head, pivoted with shocking speed, and launched itself not at Cyd, but at a nearby oak tree. Its charge was a thing of pure, terrifying physics. Eight hundred pounds of indignant pork hit the trunk dead-center.
The sound was a deafening CRACK-WHOOM that echoed through the forest. The tree, thicker than a man's thigh, shuddered violently. A web of fractures raced up its bark before, with a groan of surrendering wood, it snapped clean in two. The upper half teetered, leaves rustling in protest, then crashed down through the canopy in a shower of splinters and torn foliage, landing with an impact that shook the ground beneath Cyd's belly.
The boar stood amidst the wreckage, snorting vapor into the cool air, tusks gleaming. It pawed the ground once, as if challenging the entire forest.
Cyd's survival instincts, honed by fifteen years under the gaze of petrification-capable goddesses, screamed a single, unified command: ABORT.
"New plan," he breathed, his voice a faint squeak. "Plan B. The 'get the Hades out of here and find a rabbit' plan."
He backpedaled faster than he'd advanced, scrambling on all fours until he was a safe distance away, collapsing against a mossy log to catch his breath. His heart hammered against his ribs like a frantic bird. What in Tartarus was that?! Since when do boars perform deforestation as a warning shot?
Nearby, his white steed lifted its head from a patch of clover, jaws working slowly. It gave Cyd a look that seemed to blend curiosity with mild disappointment.
"Don't… don't judge me," Cyd panted, waving a dismissive hand. "You keep eating your… salad. It's fine."
If only I could digest grass, he thought miserably, watching the horse chew with apparent contentment. His stomach clenched again, a sharp pang of emptiness. He slumped against the log, pulling out his dagger and aimlessly scratching lines in the soft earth. His money pouch, looted from the bandits, bulged heavy and useless at his hip. Gold coins. A king's ransom for a starving man. He couldn't eat drachmas. He'd even considered, in a moment of true desperation, following the horse's example.
He glanced at the lush, green grass the steed was mowing down. It looked… oddly appealing. Plump. Juicy, even.
The horse, noticing his gaze, took a thoughtful step sideways, exposing a particularly verdant and tender-looking patch. It looked at Cyd, then meaningfully at the grass.
Is it… offering?
Cyd's pride warred with the ache in his gut. He was a modern soul (sort of) stranded in the Age of Gods. How low had he fallen? He licked dry lips. His hand, almost of its own volition, began to reach toward the emerald blades.
THWUMP-CRASH!
The sound was like a boulder being dropped from a cliff. Cyd yelped, snatching his hand back and spinning around, dagger held out in a white-knuckled grip. The horse merely lifted its head, ears twitching, and resumed chewing.
From the direction of the creek, a crashing, thrashing tumult erupted. The foliage parted like a green sea before a storm.
The boar was back.
But this was different. This wasn't a deliberate charge; it was a panicked, agonized, terminal sprint. Blood fountained in rhythmic gushes from its neck, painting the ferns and tree trunks a shocking crimson. Its eyes were wide with pain and terror. And protruding from just behind its jaw was the feathered shaft of an arrow, buried deep.
It was making a beeline—a dying, unstoppable beeline—straight for Cyd.
"OH, COME ON!" Cyd scrambled sideways, throwing himself into a clumsy roll just as the massive beast thundered past, the heat of its body and the coppery stench of its blood washing over him. It missed him by inches, crashing into the log he'd been leaning against and demolishing it into kindling.
Before the boar could gather itself for another blind rush, the white horse acted. It took two calm steps forward, almost casual, and brought one pristine forehoof down on the boar's skull.
CRUNCH.
It was the sound of a ceramic pot breaking under a stone. The boar's head was driven into the soft forest floor, its legs giving one final, spasmodic kick before going still. A low, wet gurgle escaped its snout, and then there was silence, broken only by the drip of blood onto leaves.
Cyd lay on his back, breathing hard, staring at the canopy. "Well," he gasped. "I didn't… catch it. But… point to the horse. Nicely done."
The steed shook its magnificent head, then with a contemptuous flick of its hind leg, punted the boar's carcass toward Cyd. It landed with a heavy thud at his feet, a gift wrapped in bristles and gore. The horse then returned to its clover patch, mission accomplished.
Cyd pushed himself up, eyeing the dead beast. Then his eyes caught on the arrow. It wasn't just any shot. It was a perfect kill-shot, straight into the carotid artery. A hunter's shot. A masterful hunter's shot.
The realization was a cold trickle down his spine. He wasn't alone.
He straightened up slowly, his grip tightening on his dagger. He scanned the dense, shadowy woods. "I know you're there," he called out, keeping his voice neutral, non-threatening. "This isn't my kill. I don't want trouble. Why don't you come out, and we can talk about salvage rights?" His eyes darted to a large, gnarled oak he deemed the most likely hiding spot.
"You are trouble," a voice answered. It was clear, firm, and deliberately low, coming from behind him.
Cyd tensed.
THWIP! THUD!
An arrow, identical to the one in the boar's neck, sank into the earth between his boots, the shaft quivering with the impact. A correction. A warning.
"I didn't kill it," Cyd said carefully, not turning around yet. He gestured with his dagger toward the unconcerned horse. "He did. You saw. I was just… in the way. Take it up with him."
A soft, frustrated tsk came from the trees behind him. "Then you have no claim to it. Step away from my prey."
"About that…" Cyd finally turned, a diplomatic smile ready on his face.
It faltered, then vanished completely.
The hunter stood at the edge of the clearing, half-hidden in shadow. She was young, perhaps a few years older than him, but her posture spoke of a lifetime of self-reliance. She wore simple, practical leathers, faded and scarred from use. A well-crafted bow of pale wood was held loosely but ready in one hand. Her hair was a wild, untamed mane of brown and chestnut, but a single, striking lock of vivid emerald green fell across her forehead. And her eyes… they were the color of aged amber, sharp and feral, assessing him with the unwavering focus of a wolf sizing up unfamiliar prey. They were currently narrowed in deep suspicion, having caught his initial, stunned reaction.
Cyd's brain, a repository of stolen lore from a past life and whispered Gorgon gossip, performed a rapid, terrifying calculation. Female hunter. In Greece. Preternaturally skilled with a bow. Feral, green-streaked hair. Associated with Artemis. Oh gods.
"I've… had a change of heart," Cyd said slowly, his mind racing.
"Then un-change it," she snapped, her free hand drifting to the quiver at her hip.
"No, no, a peaceful change!" He held up his free hand in a placating gesture. With the other, he unhooked the heavy money pouch from his belt and gave it a deliberate, jingling shake. The sound of gold on gold was unmistakable in the quiet glade. "I want to make a purchase."
Her expression didn't soften; it hardened into something cold and dangerous. The amber eyes flashed with contempt. She'd heard this before. Men with coin, thinking they could buy what wasn't for sale.
"Whoa, easy!" Cyd took a step back, sensing the lethal shift in the air. He pointed emphatically at the dead boar with his dagger. "The meat! I want to buy the meat! I'm hungry, you shot it, your property. I'm just a hungry guy with too much money and a horse that disapproves of my life choices. I'm not…" He gestured vaguely at her, "...in the market for anything else."
The huntress blinked. The cold fury in her eyes faltered, replaced by a flicker of confusion, then a faint, embarrassed pink tinged her high cheekbones. She looked from Cyd's earnest (and slightly desperate) face, to the boar, to the oblivious horse, and back again. She had misjudged. It was a novel experience.
"I… see," she said, the edge leaving her voice. She lowered her bow slightly. "My apologies. I am… accustomed to different propositions."
"I believe it," Cyd said, his tone now utterly, gravely serious. He sheathed his dagger and held up three fingers. "And let me be perfectly clear: I, Cyd, harbor zero romantic or… acquisitive… interest in you. None. Nada. Zilch. You are safe from me in that regard. I swear it on… on the River Styx." It was a reckless oath, but he needed her to believe him.
Her eyebrows shot up. A Styx oath was not given lightly, even for something seemingly trivial. She studied him anew. His snow-white hair and skin marked him as strange, possibly touched by the gods. His fear during the boar charge had been genuine, unheroic. And now this bizarre, emphatic declaration of disinterest. He was either the most cunning liar she'd ever met, or genuinely the strangest man in Greece.
Cyd's internal monologue was a frantic scroll of his personal survival code. Greek Survival Rule #3: AVOID BEAUTIFUL WOMEN. NO, AVOID BEAUTIFUL ANYTHING. He'd seen what happened to heroes who got tangled with pretty faces. Troy was burned for one. And more pressingly… this was the Nasuverse. The rules were weirder, the dangers more specific. A huntress of legendary skill with a green streak in her hair? That wasn't just a pretty face. That was a narrative vortex. That was Atalanta.
And Atalanta was trouble with a capital T. Devotee of Artemis. Ran faster than any man. Part of the Calydonian Boar hunt (which, thankfully, this was not). And, most importantly, catnip for divine attention. Being near her was like painting a target on his back that read: "Hey, Zeus! Drama Over Here!"
"So," he said, clapping his hands together, forcibly injecting a businesslike tone. "The meat. Name your price. A fair one, please. My equine friend here gets testy when I'm cheated."
He glanced at the white horse, which chose that moment to look up and give a slow, deliberate blink in the huntress's direction.
She followed his gaze, and a flicker of genuine wariness crossed her features. She recognized divine provenance when she saw it. This strange boy was under powerful protection.
"Very well," she said, her voice still cautious but losing its hostile edge. She nodded at the boar. "You can have the haunches and one shoulder. The rest is mine. For that… five drachma."
It was a pittance. A fraction of what the meat was worth, especially from a boar this size. She was testing him.
"Done." Cyd didn't hesitate. He fumbled with the pouch, pulled out a small, gleaming gold coin worth twenty times that, and tossed it to her. She caught it with a fluid motion. "Keep the change. And… thank you. For not shooting me."
She stared at the coin in her palm, then at him. A strange, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. It was gone in an instant. "Do you know how to butcher it?"
Cyd looked from the massive, bloody carcass to his little dagger. "I was… hoping to figure it out as I went?"
She sighed, a sound of long-suffering practicality. "Move aside. A proper kill deserves a proper dressing. I will show you once. Pay attention."
As she strode forward, drawing a sharp, efficient-looking skinning knife from her belt, Cyd felt a complex mix of relief and trepidation. He'd avoided one disaster, secured a meal, and somehow gotten a legendary heroine to give him a butchering lesson.
Just keep it transactional, he chanted to himself as he watched her kneel by the boar, her movements swift and precise. No names. No stories. Buy the meat, learn the lesson, get to the Caucasus. Do not get involved.
The horse, contentedly munching, watched them both with ancient, knowing eyes."Alright," Cyd whispered to himself, pressing his body flat against the cool, damp earth behind a thick tangle of ferns. "Current objective: acquire dinner."
Fifty yards ahead, a massive wild boar rooted in the soft soil near a creek bank. The beast was a hulking slab of muscle and rage covered in coarse, black bristles. Tusks the color of aged ivory, each as long as Cyd's forearm, curved wickedly from its snout. Its sides heaved with powerful breaths, and the smell of it—musky, feral, earthy—carried clearly on the evening breeze.
Cyd's own stomach gave a pathetic, empty gurgle in response. It had been three days since his dramatic, fish-assisted landing. The divine seafood starter pack was long gone. His old habits, forged in the crucible of Gorgon-induced survival, had reasserted themselves: he'd offered a portion of his last meal as a tribute to Hermes, god of travelers, before realizing he had no idea where his next meal was coming from. Now, he was paying for his piety with a gnawing, hollow hunger.
His only weapon was the bronze dagger, its edge still sharp from disuse. He'd hunted on the island, yes. But those were skittish rabbits and plump, slow-moving grouse. This… this was a living battering ram.
Just need to get close. One quick, deep stab to the artery in the neck. In and out. Like… like poking a very large, very angry pudding.
He began to crawl, his movements slow and deliberate, using the undergrowth for cover. Every rustle of a leaf, every crunch of a twig under his knee sounded like thunder in his ears. The boar, however, seemed preoccupied, snuffling and digging with intense focus.
Ten more yards. Just a bit closer…
The boar froze. Its massive head lifted from the ground. Small, intelligent, and utterly malicious black eyes scanned the tree line. They passed over Cyd's hiding spot, paused, and locked on.
Oh, no.
With a guttural, bone-chilling GRUNT, the boar dropped its head, pivoted with shocking speed, and launched itself not at Cyd, but at a nearby oak tree. Its charge was a thing of pure, terrifying physics. Eight hundred pounds of indignant pork hit the trunk dead-center.
The sound was a deafening CRACK-WHOOM that echoed through the forest. The tree, thicker than a man's thigh, shuddered violently. A web of fractures raced up its bark before, with a groan of surrendering wood, it snapped clean in two. The upper half teetered, leaves rustling in protest, then crashed down through the canopy in a shower of splinters and torn foliage, landing with an impact that shook the ground beneath Cyd's belly.
The boar stood amidst the wreckage, snorting vapor into the cool air, tusks gleaming. It pawed the ground once, as if challenging the entire forest.
Cyd's survival instincts, honed by fifteen years under the gaze of petrification-capable goddesses, screamed a single, unified command: ABORT.
"New plan," he breathed, his voice a faint squeak. "Plan B. The 'get the Hades out of here and find a rabbit' plan."
He backpedaled faster than he'd advanced, scrambling on all fours until he was a safe distance away, collapsing against a mossy log to catch his breath. His heart hammered against his ribs like a frantic bird. What in Tartarus was that?! Since when do boars perform deforestation as a warning shot?
Nearby, his white steed lifted its head from a patch of clover, jaws working slowly. It gave Cyd a look that seemed to blend curiosity with mild disappointment.
"Don't… don't judge me," Cyd panted, waving a dismissive hand. "You keep eating your… salad. It's fine."
If only I could digest grass, he thought miserably, watching the horse chew with apparent contentment. His stomach clenched again, a sharp pang of emptiness. He slumped against the log, pulling out his dagger and aimlessly scratching lines in the soft earth. His money pouch, looted from the bandits, bulged heavy and useless at his hip. Gold coins. A king's ransom for a starving man. He couldn't eat drachmas. He'd even considered, in a moment of true desperation, following the horse's example.
He glanced at the lush, green grass the steed was mowing down. It looked… oddly appealing. Plump. Juicy, even.
The horse, noticing his gaze, took a thoughtful step sideways, exposing a particularly verdant and tender-looking patch. It looked at Cyd, then meaningfully at the grass.
Is it… offering?
Cyd's pride warred with the ache in his gut. He was a modern soul (sort of) stranded in the Age of Gods. How low had he fallen? He licked dry lips. His hand, almost of its own volition, began to reach toward the emerald blades.
THWUMP-CRASH!
The sound was like a boulder being dropped from a cliff. Cyd yelped, snatching his hand back and spinning around, dagger held out in a white-knuckled grip. The horse merely lifted its head, ears twitching, and resumed chewing.
From the direction of the creek, a crashing, thrashing tumult erupted. The foliage parted like a green sea before a storm.
The boar was back.
But this was different. This wasn't a deliberate charge; it was a panicked, agonized, terminal sprint. Blood fountained in rhythmic gushes from its neck, painting the ferns and tree trunks a shocking crimson. Its eyes were wide with pain and terror. And protruding from just behind its jaw was the feathered shaft of an arrow, buried deep.
It was making a beeline—a dying, unstoppable beeline—straight for Cyd.
"OH, COME ON!" Cyd scrambled sideways, throwing himself into a clumsy roll just as the massive beast thundered past, the heat of its body and the coppery stench of its blood washing over him. It missed him by inches, crashing into the log he'd been leaning against and demolishing it into kindling.
Before the boar could gather itself for another blind rush, the white horse acted. It took two calm steps forward, almost casual, and brought one pristine forehoof down on the boar's skull.
CRUNCH.
It was the sound of a ceramic pot breaking under a stone. The boar's head was driven into the soft forest floor, its legs giving one final, spasmodic kick before going still. A low, wet gurgle escaped its snout, and then there was silence, broken only by the drip of blood onto leaves.
Cyd lay on his back, breathing hard, staring at the canopy. "Well," he gasped. "I didn't… catch it. But… point to the horse. Nicely done."
The steed shook its magnificent head, then with a contemptuous flick of its hind leg, punted the boar's carcass toward Cyd. It landed with a heavy thud at his feet, a gift wrapped in bristles and gore. The horse then returned to its clover patch, mission accomplished.
Cyd pushed himself up, eyeing the dead beast. Then his eyes caught on the arrow. It wasn't just any shot. It was a perfect kill-shot, straight into the carotid artery. A hunter's shot. A masterful hunter's shot.
The realization was a cold trickle down his spine. He wasn't alone.
He straightened up slowly, his grip tightening on his dagger. He scanned the dense, shadowy woods. "I know you're there," he called out, keeping his voice neutral, non-threatening. "This isn't my kill. I don't want trouble. Why don't you come out, and we can talk about salvage rights?" His eyes darted to a large, gnarled oak he deemed the most likely hiding spot.
"You are trouble," a voice answered. It was clear, firm, and deliberately low, coming from behind him.
Cyd tensed.
THWIP! THUD!
An arrow, identical to the one in the boar's neck, sank into the earth between his boots, the shaft quivering with the impact. A correction. A warning.
"I didn't kill it," Cyd said carefully, not turning around yet. He gestured with his dagger toward the unconcerned horse. "He did. You saw. I was just… in the way. Take it up with him."
A soft, frustrated tsk came from the trees behind him. "Then you have no claim to it. Step away from my prey."
"About that…" Cyd finally turned, a diplomatic smile ready on his face.
It faltered, then vanished completely.
The hunter stood at the edge of the clearing, half-hidden in shadow. She was young, perhaps a few years older than him, but her posture spoke of a lifetime of self-reliance. She wore simple, practical leathers, faded and scarred from use. A well-crafted bow of pale wood was held loosely but ready in one hand. Her hair was a wild, untamed mane of brown and chestnut, but a single, striking lock of vivid emerald green fell across her forehead. And her eyes… they were the color of aged amber, sharp and feral, assessing him with the unwavering focus of a wolf sizing up unfamiliar prey. They were currently narrowed in deep suspicion, having caught his initial, stunned reaction.
Cyd's brain, a repository of stolen lore from a past life and whispered Gorgon gossip, performed a rapid, terrifying calculation. Female hunter. In Greece. Preternaturally skilled with a bow. Feral, green-streaked hair. Associated with Artemis. Oh gods.
"I've… had a change of heart," Cyd said slowly, his mind racing.
"Then un-change it," she snapped, her free hand drifting to the quiver at her hip.
"No, no, a peaceful change!" He held up his free hand in a placating gesture. With the other, he unhooked the heavy money pouch from his belt and gave it a deliberate, jingling shake. The sound of gold on gold was unmistakable in the quiet glade. "I want to make a purchase."
Her expression didn't soften; it hardened into something cold and dangerous. The amber eyes flashed with contempt. She'd heard this before. Men with coin, thinking they could buy what wasn't for sale.
"Whoa, easy!" Cyd took a step back, sensing the lethal shift in the air. He pointed emphatically at the dead boar with his dagger. "The meat! I want to buy the meat! I'm hungry, you shot it, your property. I'm just a hungry guy with too much money and a horse that disapproves of my life choices. I'm not…" He gestured vaguely at her, "...in the market for anything else."
The huntress blinked. The cold fury in her eyes faltered, replaced by a flicker of confusion, then a faint, embarrassed pink tinged her high cheekbones. She looked from Cyd's earnest (and slightly desperate) face, to the boar, to the oblivious horse, and back again. She had misjudged. It was a novel experience.
"I… see," she said, the edge leaving her voice. She lowered her bow slightly. "My apologies. I am… accustomed to different propositions."
"I believe it," Cyd said, his tone now utterly, gravely serious. He sheathed his dagger and held up three fingers. "And let me be perfectly clear: I, Cyd, harbor zero romantic or… acquisitive… interest in you. None. Nada. Zilch. You are safe from me in that regard. I swear it on… on the River Styx." It was a reckless oath, but he needed her to believe him.
Her eyebrows shot up. A Styx oath was not given lightly, even for something seemingly trivial. She studied him anew. His snow-white hair and skin marked him as strange, possibly touched by the gods. His fear during the boar charge had been genuine, unheroic. And now this bizarre, emphatic declaration of disinterest. He was either the most cunning liar she'd ever met, or genuinely the strangest man in Greece.
Cyd's internal monologue was a frantic scroll of his personal survival code. Greek Survival Rule #3: AVOID BEAUTIFUL WOMEN. NO, AVOID BEAUTIFUL ANYTHING. He'd seen what happened to heroes who got tangled with pretty faces. Troy was burned for one. And more pressingly… this was the Nasuverse. The rules were weirder, the dangers more specific. A huntress of legendary skill with a green streak in her hair? That wasn't just a pretty face. That was a narrative vortex. That was Atalanta.
And Atalanta was trouble with a capital T. Devotee of Artemis. Ran faster than any man. Part of the Calydonian Boar hunt (which, thankfully, this was not). And, most importantly, catnip for divine attention. Being near her was like painting a target on his back that read: "Hey, Zeus! Drama Over Here!"
"So," he said, clapping his hands together, forcibly injecting a businesslike tone. "The meat. Name your price. A fair one, please. My equine friend here gets testy when I'm cheated."
He glanced at the white horse, which chose that moment to look up and give a slow, deliberate blink in the huntress's direction.
She followed his gaze, and a flicker of genuine wariness crossed her features. She recognized divine provenance when she saw it. This strange boy was under powerful protection.
"Very well," she said, her voice still cautious but losing its hostile edge. She nodded at the boar. "You can have the haunches and one shoulder. The rest is mine. For that… five drachma."
It was a pittance. A fraction of what the meat was worth, especially from a boar this size. She was testing him.
"Done." Cyd didn't hesitate. He fumbled with the pouch, pulled out a small, gleaming gold coin worth twenty times that, and tossed it to her. She caught it with a fluid motion. "Keep the change. And… thank you. For not shooting me."
She stared at the coin in her palm, then at him. A strange, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. It was gone in an instant. "Do you know how to butcher it?"
Cyd looked from the massive, bloody carcass to his little dagger. "I was… hoping to figure it out as I went?"
She sighed, a sound of long-suffering practicality. "Move aside. A proper kill deserves a proper dressing. I will show you once. Pay attention."
As she strode forward, drawing a sharp, efficient-looking skinning knife from her belt, Cyd felt a complex mix of relief and trepidation. He'd avoided one disaster, secured a meal, and somehow gotten a legendary heroine to give him a butchering lesson.
Just keep it transactional, he chanted to himself as he watched her kneel by the boar, her movements swift and precise. No names. No stories. Buy the meat, learn the lesson, get to the Caucasus. Do not get involved.
The horse, contentedly munching, watched them both with ancient, knowing eyes.