There were two rules Cyd tried to live by:
Never get involved with pretty women.
Especially not the ones who also happened to be goddesses… or legendary huntresses.
And yet—here he was. Again.
He used to tell himself that running wasn't cowardice—it was strategy. That knowing your limits, and walking away from impossible odds, was just being rational. Sure, you could charge headfirst into disaster and call it bravery—but what did that get you? A gravestone with dramatic last words?
So, yeah. He ran.
From the island, where two dangerously charming goddesses were constantly plotting new ways to turn him into a chew toy. From the blood-drenched world beyond it, where monsters wore human faces and divine wrath fell like rain. From the stage the gods called Earth—because ever since he'd started "standing out," he'd been under their spotlight. And that… terrified him.
Blessings, as Hephaestus once told him, were just curses in prettier wrapping.
To the gods, mortals were props in their never-ending dramas. The moment you got too interesting—or too boring—they changed the script. You could be the hero one day, a tragedy the next. All it took was a flick of their mood.
Cyd didn't want that.
He wanted peace.
And to get that, he'd chosen the most absurd method possible: earn thirteen divine blessings, one for each of the oaths carved into the bracer on his arm. Only when he finished would the gods no longer have power over him. No more blessings. No more curses. Just freedom.
But some trials, you couldn't run from.
The Noon Trial.
A race under Apollo's sun.
Victory through speed. Or death.
Cyd stepped into the arena, the heat already rising around him like a furnace. The sand crunched beneath his boots. Across from him stood Atalanta, hands folded behind her back, her expression calm—but her eyes locked on him like twin green knives.
"So you're serious about this," he said, with a dry chuckle. "I mean, I always said I was unbeatable under the sun, but… you're actually going through with it?"
Atalanta tilted her head, a small smile curling her lips. "This'll be the last time."
And then—
"THE WHITE HERO!"
The crowd exploded into cheers. They'd waited for this—the return of the man who'd helped Atalanta slay the Calydonian Boar. The man whispered about in every tavern from Athens to Crete.
Cyd sighed. "Always with the titles…"
Iasos, Atalanta's father, practically leapt to his feet. "Then let the race—!"
"WAIT!" a voice cut through the noise, breathless and angry.
Hippomenes.
He came skidding into the arena, face red and chest heaving. "I registered first! This challenge belongs to me!"
Cyd raised an eyebrow. "Uh… who?"
"I entered this trial. Officially!" Hippomenes puffed out his chest like a peacock.
Technically… he wasn't wrong. Iasos rubbed his neck. The guy had submitted an offering.
"Alright," Atalanta said coolly, already reaching for the bow strapped to her back. "Then I'll kill you first."
"Whoa, hold on!" Cyd said, grinning now. He'd noticed the odd bulge on Hippomenes' belt—the one that definitely wasn't carrying water. "We're racing, right? Who says I can't tag along? One more runner won't hurt."
"I don't want anyone interfering," Atalanta muttered.
Cyd shrugged. "He'll just be a blur in the rearview. Come on."
"…Fine," she said.
"I object!" Hippomenes shouted. "This race is sacred! Under the gods! No interlopers!"
"Then by all means," Cyd said, pointing to the belt, "why don't you go ahead and show everyone what you're hiding in that pouch of yours?"
Hippomenes flinched.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You could bring a war god to this race and I'd still win," Atalanta muttered, arms crossed.
Hippomenes clenched his fists. He still had three golden apples, a gift from Aphrodite herself. Drop them during the race, and no one—no one—could resist chasing them. Even Atalanta.
No way he could lose.
"Alright then," he grumbled. "Let him join. Doesn't matter anyway."
Cyd smirked. "Quick question, Atalanta—do you mind if I toss something during the race?"
Hippomenes' eyes went wide. If she says yes—if she bans items—I'm screwed!
Atalanta blinked. "Do whatever you want."
Cyd nodded. "Perfect."
Hippomenes exhaled. Relief flooded him. Whatever Cyd had planned, it wasn't divine. Those apples? Still the ultimate trump card.
Iasos raised his arm high, grinning like a man watching history write itself. "Then let the race… begin!"
The air cracked.
Hippomenes exploded forward like a javelin. The crowd gasped as he kicked up sand behind him in a blur. Cyd? He yawned.
Atalanta? She hadn't moved an inch.
"Really?" she said.
"Give him a head start," Cyd shrugged. "I haven't tossed my 'item' yet."
She sighed. "Fine."
"THEY'RE MOCKING ME!" Hippomenes howled.
He wasn't used to this. Normally, the girl chased you. The whole plan was: let her close the gap, drop an apple, buy distance. Repeat.
But Atalanta just… stood there.
And the finish line was right ahead.
"This is it!" he grinned, heart racing. "She underestimated me! He's too slow! This victory is MINE!"
Then he saw it.
White.
Hair, cloak, calm stride—Cyd was already ahead of him.
"…What?" Hippomenes gasped.
Cyd's fist came from the side like a meteor.
CRACK.
Hippomenes spun through the air like a broken wheel, the force launching him across the arena. His pouch burst open. The golden apples flew skyward, twinkling in the sunlight before landing neatly in Cyd's hand.
"Well," Cyd said, turning toward the crowd, "that was anticlimactic."
He grabbed Hippomenes by the collar and casually flung him into the stands like a sack of flour.
The crowd roared. Iasos blinked. Is he dead? Probably not. But did it matter? He lost. And that meant—by the rules—he was as good as dead anyway.
But Iasos had bigger concerns.
Cyd stood only one step from the finish line. All he had to do was move forward. Just one step—and victory was his.
Atalanta stood still.
Waiting.
Not challenging.
Just… watching.
She didn't ask him to throw the race.
But she didn't have to.
Cyd looked at the line.
Then at her.
Then—he smiled.
With a flick of his hand, he tossed the golden apples to the dirt.
Then he walked, slowly, past the finish line.
Not to win.
But to stand at her side.
"No one's getting in the way of our promise," he said softly, meeting her eyes.
And for once…
Cyd didn't run.