Lucas was sitting in a theatre, watching a play. On stage two individuals fought...Well one tried to fight, the other cloaked in magenta was playing with them; like a cat toying with a mouse.
It was the battle between Lucas and Medea.
Lucas was confused at what was happening, his connection with the mist and his own powers non-existent, that put him off guard.
And then when the Lucas on-stage was defeated, about to be killed just to be saved by Circe's shield, a booming laughter echoed from a private booth.
Lucasd looked up, seeing an individual clapping in hysterics over the battle.
Seemingly sensing the gaze, the figure turned allowing Lucas to see it was wearing a mask.
One half was carved into a face of radiant joy. The other, quiet sorrow.
It raised a finger to its lips, and Lucas vanished.
"Soon, child. Soon we will meet and finally I shall be free."
Following Lucas' disappearance, the theatre vanished revealing endless corridors, endless doors. The entity let out a chuckle, half sad, half relieved.
"Soon"
...
Lucas woke slowly in a quiet chamber, a faint sea breeze drifting in through an open window.
Sunlight filtered softly through gauze curtains. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the murmur of waves and the hum of cicadas. His limbs ached, not from bruises, but from something deeper.
He lay still for a time, staring at the ceiling. Memories came back, not clearly, but in flashes. Magenta light. Crushed stone. Medea's voice, sharp and precise like a blade forged from contempt. His own magic: ineffective, broken, drowned beneath her will.
She hadn't fought him, merely toyed with him, before stepping down like she claimed Olympus would one day do to all who resisted. It hadn't been a contest. It had been a message.
And then there was the theatre. The strangeness of the situation, the masked man.
Lucas exhaled, slow and deliberate, and sat up. The room was richly decorated, washed in gold and purple, with beautiful works of art adorning the walls: classical murals, enchanted tapestries, woven depictions of forgotten myths. A decanter of water rested on the table beside his bed. He drank from it gratefully, then swung his legs over the edge of the mattress.
He dressed quietly and stepped out into the sunlight. The garden was calm. Bees drifted lazily between blossoms. The scent of lavender and warm earth filled the air. At the far edge, beyond a low archway, he saw Circe seated beside the reflecting pool, her bare feet in the water, arms resting loosely on her knees.
She looked over her shoulder before he could announce himself. "You're awake."
Lucas stopped just inside the arch. "Barely."
She smiled faintly, but didn't rise. "You held up longer than I expected."
Lucas approached, lowering himself to sit across from her. "I didn't land a single real blow."
"No," she agreed. "But you learned more in ten minutes than most do in ten years, and I believe just surviving Medea counts as a win."
He glanced at the water. "I hadn't expected someone could be that powerful without becoming a god."
Circe's gaze darkened slightly. "Medea is unique. Born of the sun. Helios' blood runs through her. Raised by me, tempered by Hecate. She was a prodigy even among witches, one of a kind."
She turned toward Lucas, eyes thoughtful. "She was destined for greatness. Not merely from her power or talent, but in will. Cold, ambitious, methodical. She loved magic in its purest form. She gave everything to it. Even her heart."
Lucas was quiet for a long time. Then: "Can I ever match that?"
"No," Circe said simply. "Medea was one of a kind. Even I pale in comparison to her talent. But that's just for witchcraft and magic, while I don't understand the origin of some of your powers; that is the path for you. Your talent in magic will allow you to surpass most but it will never lead you to stand on the same level as Medea."
"You say she is greater than you, yet guessing from me being able to live; she must be weary of your power, right?"
"That is because I am a goddess. That changes everything. Immortality is only one part of what separates gods from mortals. Our power is altered; enhanced, imbued with divine essence. It isn't just stronger. It's different. Even Medea would hesitate to challenge me in earnest without sufficient preparation and some support from others."
Lucas brows furrowed, "I remember there being stories of demigods fighting gods and winning, what of them?"
"Of course a demigod can still defeat a god, it just requires far greater effort, time, luck and a strong lineage. That is why in history it is mostly children of Zeus you hear defeating the gods, Medea is similar in essence, but unlike a demigod like Hercules, she must prepare beforehand for the fight."
Circe rose smoothly, water dripping from her feet, and offered him a hand. "Come. Let me show you the difference."
He took it.
They walked in silence back to the courtyard. It had been repaired, though the scars of the duel still lingered in small ways, the newness of the stones, the faint scorch marks where fire had kissed the walls.
Circe stepped into the center and faced him.
Lucas rolled his shoulders, inhaled deeply, and nodded.