Surrounded by the Amazons, Alaric's body dissolved into illusion, and in the next instant, his true self appeared once again aboard the Argo.
The heroes of the Argo, who had just witnessed Alaric being captured by the Amazons after saving them, had been ready to charge the shore in a desperate rescue.
But now, seeing him reappear among them unscathed, they were first stunned, and then erupted in joy.
There was no time for words, however. Jason barked out commands, and every crew member rushed to their station.
Oars struck the water in unison, and soon the Argo was gliding out into the open sea, leaving the coast, and the furious Amazon warriors, far behind.
Only when the waves swallowed the shoreline did everyone finally breathe a sigh of relief.
At once, the heroes gathered around Alaric, each expressing gratitude and admiration.
His selfless bravery had elevated him instantly into one of the most respected figures aboard the ship.
Before this, Alaric had been valued for his vast knowledge and wisdom. The others respected him, yes, but only from a distance.
Perhaps it was the difference in intellect, perhaps the aura of a mage among warriors, or perhaps simply the gap between their worlds.
Whatever the reason, he had always remained somewhat apart from their circle.
But now, now he was truly one of them.
Once their thanks were spoken, silence fell.
It was time to mourn.
In the lands of the Amazons, they had lost too many brothers.
During earlier adventures, they had suffered losses, one or two here and there. Painful, yes, but bearable.
After all, among more than fifty heroes aboard, not all were close friends. But this time was different.
In this brutal clash with the Amazon warriors, their ranks had been cut from nearly fifty to just over thirty. Nearly twenty comrades dead.
That was almost two-fifths of the entire crew.
In any army, losing more than ten percent could break morale entirely.
Though the Argonauts were far stronger and braver than ordinary soldiers, their bonds of friendship made such loss all the more unbearable.
The ship was shrouded in grief.
Jason, their captain, fell into deep self-doubt, wondering if this voyage had been a mistake, if it was his reckless ambition that had led his friends down a road of no return.
If they had lost so many already, what would come next?
For the first time, the thought crossed his mind to end the expedition altogether, to turn back home, renounce his claim to the throne, and abandon the quest.
The sorrow lingered for a long, heavy time.
Only when the gods sent messengers to console them, to promise that no such tragedy would happen again, did the heroes slowly lift their heads, hearts rekindled, and set sail once more.
Alaric, too, finally exhaled.
That had been far too close.
If he had delayed even a little longer before seizing control of Hippolyta, the losses might have been catastrophic.
If the Argonauts' spirits had broken, or worse, if the gods themselves had lost faith in this voyage, the entire divine plan might have been abandoned.
Without enough heroes left, how could they possibly challenge Colchis, or stand against the Mistral Academy?
Alaric decided then and there: in the journeys ahead, he would have to restrain himself. No more large-scale disasters.
A few small "accidents" here and there, fine. But no more near-extinctions.
Meanwhile, just as Alaric had warned Hippolyta, the gods themselves had grown furious with the Amazons.
True, it was their own flawed planning that had led the Argo to Amazon shores and into conflict, but gods are never wrong.
Therefore, the fault must lie with mortals.
Even the fact that the Amazons were descendants of Ares could not save them now.
Faced with the wrath of all Olympus, what could a single war god do? He might fume inwardly, but he dared not speak.
After all, who told the Amazons to be so bloodthirsty?
Who told them to attack strangers without reason?
Who told them not to recognize that the Argo was a vessel protected by the gods themselves?
To fail to comprehend divine will, that was sin enough for them to die.
Of course, the gods could not strike immediately; it would look too much like vengeance on behalf of the Argonauts.
No, the Amazons would die, yes, but their punishment would wait until the heroes' quest was complete.
And so, Olympus remembered this grudge.
While the gods plotted vengeance, the Argo once again took to the sea.
Their next stop was across from the land of Thrace, where they anchored to rest. Here lived Phineus, son of Agenor.
In his youth, Phineus had abused the gift of prophecy that the god Apollo had granted him. As punishment, the gods had struck him blind in his later years.
To make his suffering complete, they sent against him the harpies, monstrous creatures with the bodies of birds and the faces of women.
The harpies swooped upon him at every meal, snatching away his food or fouling it so thoroughly that he could not eat.
Starved and skeletal, Phineus lingered on the edge of death.
But he held one hope: a prophecy from Zeus himself, that when the heroes of the Argo arrived, he would at last be freed from the torment of the harpies.
When word came that the Argo had landed, the desperate old man stumbled from his house toward the shore.
His legs trembled with weakness; each step seemed to drain what little life he had left. By the time he reached the heroes, he collapsed, unconscious.
The Argonauts surrounded him, shocked at his frail, emaciated state.
When Phineus awoke, he pleaded with them for help.
It was a request ordained by the gods, so, naturally, the heroes agreed to drive away the harpies.
They prepared a grand feast for him, food fit for a king. But before Phineus could take a bite, a shriek split the air.
From the clouds, the harpies dove like a storm, their wings whipping the wind, their faces twisted in hunger and malice.
They devoured the food in front of him and fouled what they could not eat, leaving behind a stench so vile that the heroes gagged.
Swords were drawn, shouts rang out, but the harpies merely laughed, soared higher, and vanished into the clouds.
The heroes could do nothing; their blades could not reach the skies.
Alaric, however, knew the truth.
These harpies were not random beasts, they were divine pets, instruments of the gods.
The Argonauts were never meant to kill them.
The ordeal was merely another stage, a convenient pretext for the gods to hand the heroes a prophecy, a clue, perhaps a bit of aid.
But would Alaric really allow the gods' little game to go exactly as planned?
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