The Shapeless Isle was quiet, save for the faint crash of waves against the rocky shore and the whispers of mist that never seemed to leave the land.
Within its center stood a small temple, built of stone Medusa herself had carried and carved, a shrine simple in its form yet full of devotion, every line of its structure bearing her reverence for Athena.
Offerings of flowers, seashells, and carved idols filled the altar, proof that even in her isolation, Medusa had never ceased her worship.
Herios stood silently at the side, his arms folded across his chest, watching with a solemn gaze as the blindfolded woman sat across from Athena.
Her voice carried a mix of fondness, weariness, and frustration as she recounted her life since being cast upon the Shapeless Isle.
