Sunlight spilled through the high windows of the royal chamber, warm and golden, illuminating the mess left behind.
A wedding dress—beautiful, ornate, worth a small kingdom—lay crumpled in the corner like an old rag. The woman who had worn it now stood at the edge of the bed, no longer a bride but something much sharper. Her figure, tall and lean, was once more wrapped in hunting leathers. Her quiver was slung over her back, bow strung and humming faintly, as though happy to be in her hands again.
It had been a long time since Atalanta touched this bow. She'd almost believed she never would again.
She tested the string with a clean twang. The tension was just right.
"Feels good," she muttered to herself, lips curving ever so slightly.
Clack.
She shoved open the bedroom door, striding down the spiral staircase like a storm wearing boots.
The palace maids scattered at the sight of her. Gasps followed her down the hallway like a trail of breadcrumbs.
They knew what had happened—or rather, what should have happened. Lord Cyd, the great white-haired hero, had vanished from the wedding feast early. And someone had found his shredded ceremonial robes in a hallway corner like he'd torn through them in desperation.
Their assumptions weren't just gossip.
Clearly, Cyd had dashed off into the night, desperate to get to his bride.
Which meant, surely, they'd spent the night doing exactly what men and women in those situations usually did.
But if that were true, then…
"How is she walking like that?" one younger maid whispered, scandalized.
"She's not even limping!"
"Isn't that supposed to, like, wreck you the first time?"
Another maid squinted. "No bruises either."
"She's not glowing," a fourth chimed in. "You always glow after."
"You guys are ridiculous," grumbled one older servant, her brows drawn together in confusion. "But… she really doesn't look different at all."
Another maid didn't wait—she bolted up the stairs and peeked into the wedding chamber.
And froze.
The room was… clean. No tangled sheets. No romantic aftermath. No broken furniture, torn curtains, scattered clothes—nothing. Just one very unused-looking bed and a wedding dress abandoned like an afterthought.
No smell of perfume. No wine stains. No… anything.
Only one thing out of place: Cyd was nowhere to be seen.
The maid went still for a beat—then ran.
News traveled fast in the palace.
Too fast.
By the time it reached King Iasos, he was halfway through a celebratory wine bath. The moment he heard the word "missing," his goblet dropped.
"…He what?"
"He's gone, my king!" the maid blurted out. "The Hero—he's vanished! No note! No goodbye!"
"Gone?!" Iasos blinked like a man just slapped with a fish. "What do you mean gone? Gone where? Why?!"
"He left during the night. Alone. No guards. No trail."
The king's face twitched like it was about to reset itself. Too much information. Too fast.
But one thing was clear.
Cyd had run.
And he hadn't even waited for the honeymoon.
"…Are we sure he's a man?" the king groaned.
Meanwhile, far from the castle, Cyd sneezed.
Then a tidal wave of fish smacked into his face.
Poseidon was apparently in one of those moods again.
"Bless your sacred tide-hugging everything—can't a guy fish in peace?" he spat, slapping a wriggling trout off his head.
Back in the palace, chaos was rising.
"Where's Atalanta?!" King Iasos barked. "Why didn't anyone stop her?!"
"She left early this morning," a maid squeaked. "With her bow and arrows. We thought… she was just going hunting."
King Iasos slumped into his throne like a collapsed tent. He rubbed his face with both hands and groaned.
"She is going hunting," he muttered. "But not for deer."
In the forest outside the city walls, Atalanta knelt beneath a tree, fingertips brushing the ground.
She didn't need any divine insight. The trail was obvious.
Cyd had walked this way. Not run. Not hidden. Just walked—straight and arrogant, leaving prints in the soil and strands of pale hair in the underbrush like breadcrumbs.
"Not even trying to mask your scent," she said quietly, plucking a white strand from the leaves. "Are you mocking me?"
She closed her fist around the hair.
No.
She wasn't going to cry again.
She had cried enough last night—for all the things he didn't say, for the way he didn't stay, for the fact that he made her want him to.
She had given him every chance to take her hand. Instead, he'd told her to hunt him.
And so she would.
Because, truth be told…
She was never better at anything else.
Elsewhere, Cyd suddenly shivered.
His eyes darted across the horizon, and he hugged his arms over his chest.
"Something's wrong," he whispered.
"What is it now?" Medusa asked, peering over at him with her ever-suspicious squint.
"I feel like I'm being watched," Cyd muttered. "Like… seriously watched. Predator-style. Back-of-the-neck hair rising, whole-body-tingle kind of watched."
"You're being dramatic."
"No, no, no. This is different," he said, scanning the skies. "You ever feel like someone just aimed a loaded promise at your soul?"
Medusa didn't answer. Just slowly pulled her hood up.
"It's her, isn't it?" she said.
Cyd gulped. "No way. Atalanta? Come on. I mean—sure, I may have… kind of shoved her onto a bed… then bailed on the wedding… and said something reckless like 'Come hunt me'…"
The silence that followed said everything.
Even under her hood, Cyd could feel Medusa staring.
Hard.
"Okay fine, yeah, maybe I deserve this."
"Maybe?" she echoed flatly.
"Definitely."
With a groan, Cyd dropped his half-cooked fish in the sand and stood up.
"We need to move. Now. She's out there. And she's serious."
Medusa blinked. "You're actually afraid?"
"I once saw her take down a minotaur with a spoon."
"…That's not a real story."
"She threw the spoon," he insisted, picking her up. "It ricocheted. Now shut up—we're going into the ocean."
Without waiting for permission, he charged straight into the sea with Medusa in his arms, vanishing under the waves.
Behind them, the wind shifted.
And somewhere deep in the woods, a huntress smiled.