Footsteps echoed over polished stone.
The scent of myrrh and white flowers filled the air, and each column shimmered beneath the Greek sun as if the marble itself were breathing.
Éreon walked — yet felt no ground beneath him.
His mind still bound to cold, to pain, to death yet to come.
As though his soul had been torn from time and thrown here, among gods who laughed and ran.
The boy beside him spoke — and spoke without end.
"…and Perseus said I'm too small to fight the sea serpent. But I don't need to fight, right? If it obeys, nothing can touch me. Mother says mortals trust the arm… but we, children of the divine, carry power in our blood."
Éreon turned his face. And then he truly saw him.
Golden hair, blazing like liquid fire.
Sun-yellow eyes, deep as a newborn dawn.
Fair skin, radiant beneath the flesh, glowing with divine light.
Majestic features — impossibly perfect.
A young body — barely more than five and a half feet — yet already carrying the bearing of one born to be worshiped… or feared.
Éreon blinked slowly, as if pulling a name from another life, another timeline, from a scar that did not yet exist here.
And he whispered, almost unaware:
"Phoebrus…"
The boy stopped walking.
For an instant, all Olympus seemed to hold its breath.
Even the wind hesitated among the olive trees.
The boy smiled — but it was not a perfect, divine smile.
It was small.
Human.
Almost puzzled.
"Phoebrus?" he laughed, the light trembling in his chest. "Who's that?"
"Are you mocking me, Éreon?" The golden glow in his eyes flickered — impatient, like a wounded sun. "Have you forgotten who I am? I am Elyon."
The sound of that name, spoken so, made something tremble inside Éreon's chest.
He lowered his voice, reverent, as one who hears ancient winds:"I don't know… a whisper from time touched my soul, as if the Fates themselves spoke to me."
"Still, I like the name you uttered: Phoebrus.It sounds like the name of an immortal hero,—or of one who tears the fabric of destiny to weave a new path, brighter and more just."
The boy lifted his chin, pleased with himself, and then the smile returned — wide, radiant, almost blinding.
"One day, when we walk among thrones and myths, remember this: if they do not call me Elyon, I shall accept Phoebrus. For great names seek great men."
But not all looked kindly upon that budding bond…
Whispers slithered among the columns, soft but laden with awe and condemnation.
"Behold that child…" murmured a feminine voice, clear and severe as sacred stone beneath the sun. "Is it he, the one touched by the curse that defies fate?"
"Madness, that's what this act is called…" replied another, deep and sharp as divine steel. "To let the heir of the Primordial Earth walk beside that incarnate night? What arrogance dares unite immaculate light with what was born for ruin?"
The gazes cut through Éreon like invisible blades. Each whisper was a lash, each pointed finger a sentence.
His footsteps grew heavy, yet he kept his head high, shoulders tense, fighting to ignore their disdain.
But the child beside him — Elyon — would not be poisoned by the shadow surrounding him.
A smile bloomed on his lips, bright and defiant, and he walked beside Éreon with a confidence that seemed to set the marble ablaze.
A streak of light leapt from his finger, striking those who whispered. For an instant, the air quivered, and the gods above recoiled, disconcerted.
Elyon grasped Éreon's arm tightly, pulling him with sudden agility, and together they ran between the columns, leaving behind furious stares and murmured condemnation.
They found a secluded place, known only to the two of them.
A field suspended between light and shadow, where blue and white flowers swayed beneath a gentle breeze, reflecting the Greek sunlight like tiny stars scattered across the ground.
The sweet scent of flowers mingled with the aroma of distant pines, and the melody of the wind seemed to erase every cruel whisper that had followed them.
Elyon released Éreon, the mischievous smile still on his face, and spoke with that exaggerated solemnity only children of divine blood could carry:
"We have five cycles left before the sun of men… and then, under the eternal gaze of the gods, the true burden of learning shall begin."
His eyes gleamed with expectation — and far too much innocence to grasp the weight of the destiny awaiting them.
Éreon felt centuries resting on his shoulders, even in that distant childhood.
Every hostile gaze, every whisper of his supposed curse, pierced deep into his soul.
But Elyon was a beacon in the abyss — the only presence who reminded him there was still someone who saw him without fear, without hatred, simply as he was.
The contrast was cruel. All Olympus whispered of him, calling him accursed.
But Elyon smiled, ran, laughed, and held him tight.
And in that difference, Éreon felt — for the first time — what trust and true friendship were: a faint light kindling amid the darkness surrounding him.
The field of blue and white flowers swayed gently under the late afternoon breeze. Elyon lay down beside Éreon, still smiling, and said softly:
"Rest, brother. No shadow dares profane you within this guarded realm; here, not even evil can reach you."
The weariness of childhood and the weight of all that surrounded him finally sank upon Éreon.
His eyes closed slowly, and the world dissolved into dreams and pale light…
"Rise!" — a voice commanded, hard as steel. "If you wish to survive what awaits you, there is no rest, no mercy. Every motion of yours will be perfected — or destroyed!"
When he opened his eyes again, there were no flowers, no gentle breeze.
The sun stood high, and the scent of pine was gone — replaced by iron, leather, and the sweat of relentless effort.
The stone floor trembled beneath Érobo's steps. Sword firm in hand, he advanced with the precision of a divine predator.
Bronze-dark skin, features stern and beautiful.Eyes — pits of endless night.Long black hair where living shadows coiled.
The air between them was dense, charged with tension.
Éreon drew a deep breath, feeling every fiber of his body alert, muscles taut, violet eyes fixed on the blade that moved with lethal precision.
He had no sword; he trusted only his body, his reflexes, his reading of the master's vital points.
Érobo struck first. The master's sword sliced the air before the silence ended.
Éreon slipped aside, rolling, feeling the wind shear through his hair and the faint sting as the edge grazed his shoulder.
He rose without hesitation, driving a short punch toward the abdomen.
Érobo blocked with his blade, turning his body and slashing horizontally.
Éreon retreated fast — too late. A thin line of blood opened on his arm.
The master pressed on — swift, precise strikes, thrusting toward the chest.
Éreon dodged, the steel scraping his shoulder blade.
He breathed steadily. Advanced — elbow, knee, fist — short, precise blows seeking openings in Érobo's hardened frame.
The master countered, pressing him, each strike testing balance, strength, and speed.
"Faster!" shouted Érobo. "Every hesitation is death! Every doubt, defeat!"
Érobo's blade grazed and scored the skin, burning lightly but never wounding deep — it was training, yet deadly real.
Éreon moved forward, ignoring pain, each step measured, each strike targeting pressure points: shoulder, rib, thigh.
The next cut came from above.
Éreon ducked, the blade slicing his skin as it passed.
He countered with a knee to his father's thigh — solid, sharp impact, enough only to make the man shift his weight without faltering.
Érobo struck again — shoulder, torso, leg. Éreon dodged the first two, but the third split his thigh, pain searing through like fire.
Still, he advanced, ignoring blood and tremor, hitting shoulder and rib with enough force to make the master step back half a pace.
The sword fell again.
Éreon rolled, the blade marking his shoulder, and answered with three short blows to Érobo's torso, driving him back.
Silence fell like a blade.
"You've improved," said Érobo, breathing slow, crimson eyes piercing. "But do not mistake endurance for victory. Discipline still rules your essence."
Éreon wiped the blood from his arm and raised his violet gaze, still burning from the fight.
"O father…" — his voice faltered, weary, uncertain. "Why renounce the other paths? Why wield battle without the blade my arm longs for?"
Érobo walked toward him slowly. He stopped before his son, towering, his expression austere — yet something ancient and quiet lingered in his eyes. Then, a faint smile — rare, almost imperceptible — crossed his face.
"Fifteen cycles have passed, and your divine blood has been tested by fire, while your body was forged like bronze beneath the hammer of fate.
"And still, your hand finds no truth in the blades of mortals."
Silence fell — stern as a god's verdict.
"Thus, I teach you the legacy of the one who gave you life.
"For your flesh and your spirit are your blade; and when united, no sword equals you."
Éreon's face twisted — frustration, restrained pain.
His knees gave way.
He let himself fall to the ground — not in surrender, but in raw exhaustion.
Hands pressed to the stone floor, fingers trembling.
Then, slowly, he lay on his back, chest heaving.
He closed his eyes — a fragment of peace stolen by force.
As he felt his pulse throb where the cut opened and closed with his breath, he heard Érobo's footsteps fading — unhurried, steady, disciplined, as all things in him.
A fleeting silence stolen from steel and destiny.
A whisper pierced the veil of fatigue:
"É… reon… — Éreon…"
A soft breath touched his skin.
The scent of blue flowers — pure, sweet, eternal — enveloped his senses.
He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the gentle evening light.
All was field.
Sky.
Breeze.
No stone.
No pain.
Only the distant song of birds and the sigh of swaying blossoms.
He sat up, bewildered, his heart beating slow, as though time had softened around him.
Then he heard:
"For a moment I feared you'd gone. I called you so many times…"
The voice was serene — like water flowing over ancient marble.
Éreon lifted his gaze — and there she was.
Long hair, black as a young night, dancing in the wind.
Pale skin, translucent beneath the golden sun.
Eyes of fire — golden, deep, as though they held both dawns and eclipses within.
A dark garment traced with threads of gold and ancient sigils, alive as constellations stitched in motion.
A being of light in shadow.
Or shadow born to touch the light.
Éreon's lips tried to form words, but his voice came weak, broken, as though it had crossed centuries to reach the air:
"M… Medeia…"
She tilted her head, a soft smile curving her lips — not childish, but filled with quiet knowing.
"You are safe, Éreon," she said — gentle as promise, firm as fate. "Rest. The world has not yet claimed you."
The field breathed with them.
And her name lingered in the air, both prayer and wound:
Medeia.