Atalanta, princess of Arcadia, hero of the hunt, and legend in her own right… was staring down her father like she was about to launch an arrow through his skull.
"Just think about it, Atalanta," said King Iasos, oozing smugness like spoiled wine. "You're not getting any younger. It's time to settle down. Get married. Be a proper daughter."
The same man who once abandoned her in the woods as a baby now dared to play doting father. It was honestly impressive—if shamelessness was a divine power, he'd be the god of it.
Atalanta folded her arms. Her emerald eyes narrowed to slits. "Funny," she said coldly, "you weren't so enthusiastic about fatherhood when you left me to die."
That should've ended the conversation. But Iasos wasn't one to be deterred by things like "shame" or "basic decency."
"You've made a name for yourself. People sing your praises from Argos to Olympus. You even sailed with the Argonauts and helped slay the Calydonian Boar!" He clapped his hands together like this was all a glowing recommendation on her marriage resume. "If you just agreed to—"
"I already have," Atalanta cut in, tone sharp as steel.
Iasos blinked. "What?"
"I agreed. On one condition."
She turned toward the open window and leaned against its stone edge, sunlight brushing across her wild, green-blonde hair.
"I'll only marry the man who can beat me in a footrace," she said. "At high noon. Under Apollo's witness. If he loses, he dies."
The king's lips parted, and for once, no smug retort came out. Just a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Noon. No shadows. No mercy.
To him, though, it sounded like opportunity.
He wasn't thinking about her pride or freedom. He was thinking about all the powerful suitors this challenge would attract. About how the winner—if there ever was one—would owe him, and how their heroic bloodline could be tied to his.
But there was one name he cared more about than any other.
"The white hero," Iasos said slowly, eyes gleaming. "The one who fought the boar with you. The one they call 'the pure-hearted champion.' He'll come for you, won't he?"
Atalanta didn't answer right away. She kept her gaze fixed on the distant treetops, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of him.
"He has a name," she said softly. "It's Cyd."
Cyd—the hero in white. Slayer of beasts. Claimer of the Golden Fleece. The only one the common folk loved more than Heracles, and with none of his arrogance. Where Heracles conquered for glory, Cyd walked quietly, helped strangers, and then vanished before the bards could even finish their first verse.
Iasos only cared about whether the man would come.
"So? Do you think Cyd will accept the challenge?"
"I don't know." Atalanta turned her head, her voice unreadable.
Iasos frowned. "That's… unhelpful."
"He's not like the others." She sat down on the windowsill, hugging one knee to her chest. "Power, fame, riches… even love. They don't move him. He's… different."
"So he won't come?" Iasos asked, hopeful and annoyed in equal measure.
"I said I don't know," she repeated.
Even as she said it, she felt the confusion twist deeper in her chest.
Would she be angry if Cyd didn't show?
Would she be happy if he did?
How could someone be both desperate to win and terrified of the outcome?
Lady Artemis… what do I do?
It was the first time in her life Atalanta looked to the sky and didn't have an answer.
Iasos, frustrated with the lack of useful prophecy, huffed and left.
Once the door shut, Atalanta closed her eyes.
"Cyd… what are you going to do?"
The race began.
Just as predicted, dozens of warriors came.
And one by one, they died.
Atalanta didn't hesitate. Her arrows were swift. Her speed, untouchable. Her beauty may have drawn them in, but her wrath reminded them she was a daughter of the wild, not some prize to be claimed.
For every fool who tried to outpace her, there was a fresh corpse hurled into the stands—usually still bleeding.
By the fifth challenger, the crowd had stopped cheering.
By the eighth, they started praying.
And yet, still, someone watched her with hungry eyes—Hippomenes.
He didn't try to race. Not yet. But the look in his gaze wasn't admiration. It was strategy. He wasn't planning to be faster. He was planning to cheat.
And Atalanta could feel it. Like a predator sensing another predator nearby.
Still… no sign of him.
Far away, in a sun-drenched grove that shimmered with late afternoon heat, Cyd found himself staring at a familiar face.
"Artemis," he said, startled. "You, uh, need something?"
Normally, she'd be grinning, bouncing on her heels, probably trying to shove a mooncake into his mouth.
Not this time.
"I need your help," she said. Her tone was solemn. Serious. Her light blue eyes—usually so airy and sweet—were dark with worry.
Cyd blinked. "Alright. That's a new look."
"It's Atalanta. She's… going to be married."
"…What?"
"She's letting herself be married off in a challenge race," Artemis said, stepping closer. "If she loses, she has to marry whoever beats her. If they lose… they die."
Cyd rubbed his chest. "Next time, give me a full sentence before you drop bombs like that. Mortal heart, remember?"
"You don't want her to marry some idiot, right?" she asked, voice softening.
"I mean…" Cyd scratched the back of his neck. "If she's happy, I'll support her. That's what friends do."
"What if she's not?" Artemis whispered, now barely inches from his face.
Cyd's eyes dropped to hers, and for a second the whole forest felt too still.
"Then I help her," he said quietly. "No matter what."
Artemis smiled. "Then go."
She placed a hand over his shoulder. "Atalanta's pride won't let her ask for help. But her challengers? They're already turning to gods for favors. If this keeps up… she's going to lose. Eventually. It's only a matter of time."
"Then I'll run," Cyd said