Page 11 of Crown of Serpents

„This is the captain’s cabin,” Mikis said, “And we have another one next to it if Sir Kleos also wants his own room. The rest of us will sleep in the common area.”

Kleos clapped Mikis’s shoulder with a wink, his deep-blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “Thanks, lad, but I don’t mind bunking with the crew. You can tell your captain that he can have the other cabin.”

Perseus glared at his friend, suppressing a groan, as Mikis’s cheeks flushed crimson under Kleos’s gaze. The gangly boyalmost stumbled over his own feet as he scurried away. When they were out of earshot, Perseus shoved Kleos. “You don’t mind bunking with the crew? Then why did you tell Aetos that I’d take his cabin? These men are already risking their lives for me; I don’t need them to grovel at my feet, too.”

He did not bother chastising his friend for toying with the young sailor.

Kleos laughed, unfazed by Perseus’s anger. “It’s precisely because of the danger these men will face that you must command their respect. In less than two weeks, we’ll challenge the most vicious creature in the Aegean. When we fight the gorgon, they need to follow your orders without hesitation. If they doubt your leadership, it will be chaos, and more of them will die than necessary.”

“And you suppose I’ll earn their respect by sleeping in a secluded cabin like a coddled aristocrat.”

“No, you’ll earn their respect on the battlefield, but for now, you should set yourself apart as their superior.”

Perseus frowned. “I’m no one’s superior.”

“True, but you better make them believe you are.”

His friend gently nudged his shoulder at that, and Perseus sighed in exasperation. A wide grin split Kleos’s lips, knowing he had won the argument.

Kleos paused on the doorstep. “There is one thing I don’t understand, Perseus. You always said you didn’t want to be a hero. You’ve only laughed when I fantasised about the monsters we could slay together, the battles we could win … so, why did you tell Polydectes you’d kill the gorgon?”

Perseus frowned, not understanding what his friend was getting at. “To settle my debt …”

“But there would have been other ways to pay for the tithe. Why didn’t you come to me? I would have gladly given you the money.”

“Only it is not your money to give.”

“My father would not have even noticed the few missing drachmae!”

Perseus bit his tongue, ignoring the sting of his friend’s words.A few missing drachmae.He wouldn’t tell Kleos that sixtydrachmae was a small fortune to most citizens on Seriphos, nor that his father would have definitely noticed the missing coins. He would have likely had Kleos whipped for stealing or even disowned him. He had punished him countless times already when Kleos had overindulged with the lavish gifts for his lovers — whether they were pearls, fine-spun dresses, or heavily decorated swords. No, the old miser wouldn’t shed a tear for his son. But Perseus would never say that to Kleos.

Perseus’s head was pounding. He had been agonising over his decision to go after Medusa all evening. “I am tired, Kleos,” he sighed. “Please, leave me alone.”

“Just so you know, I took the money anyway,” Kleos retorted, a defiant edge to his voice. “I figured we'd need it for this journey, so not asking for my help changed nothing! Except maybe the mortal danger we're about to face.” Kleos scoffed, slamming the door behind him.

CHAPTER NINE

Medusa loathed festering towns like this one. The stench of piss and fermented fruit clung to the air. She winced at the unknown filth clinging to her sandals, knowing it would never fully come off. But most of all, she despised the shadows and the monsters lurking within them, brawling, pissing, and claiming whatever they desired.

Drunk men had always terrified her. That’s why she had rarely left the temple after sunset, declining invitations to revel with other priestesses despite her love for the sweeping rhythms and the intoxicatingly sweet melodies of the lyre. She’d feign illness or volunteer for kitchen duty, humming to herself as she spun through the empty kitchen while scrubbing pots and pans.

But that was before. Before she learned that the most dangerous creatures that weren’t drunk men. Running or fighting was useless once this type of monster set its sights on you. There was no escaping their powerful grip. No mortal stood a chance.

It was also before Medusa had become a monster herself. Now,shewas the one lurking in the shadows. She had heard the villagers’ stories about the woman who had offended the gods, her heart turned to stone, her teeth dripping venom, her nails sharp as daggers. Even her once-luscious hair was now a weapon, a nest of serpents feasting on the flesh of mortals to spite the gods. Medusa revelled in the gruesome details of those stories. They were right about her, for the most part. The only detail the villagers omitted was the reason why the gods had turned her into this wretched creature.

As the sun began to set, colouring the Aegean Sea in a vibrant red, Medusa made her way toward the bustling fishing village. She had been stranded on the beach a few days prior after the current had carried her ashore on a piece of driftwood. It had been an agonising few hours on the open water. Usually, Medusa would have never ventured so far away from shore, but she had lost control of the merchant ship after slaughtering its crew, and it had collided with the treacherous rocks that lurked beneath the surface of the Lesbos Strait. Having finally reached land, she was determined to stay on solid ground for a while. She had found refuge in a hidden cave deep within the surrounding forest and had chosen this unfortunate town as her hunting grounds.

Medusa donned a filthy cloak, pulling the hood over her emerald hair, and used a tree branch as a makeshift walking stick. She smeared dirt on her cheeks and feigned a limp as she approached the village. It was a simple disguise, yet no one spared the old hag a second glance as she stumbled through the narrow streets. Those who did quickly averted their gazes once she began begging for money. Unimpeded, Medusa took up her position in the back alley of the busiest tavern. There, she settled down and patiently waited for her prey.

In her past life as a mortal priestess, Medusa was often scolded by the head priestess for her impatience. It was a well-known fact in the temple that the food would be slightly undercooked when Medusa was on kitchen duty.

Now, however, she quietly observed the patrons entering the tavern. She did not twitch a single muscle — not while the firstbrute got kicked to the curb for starting a brawl or when some men pissed against the tavern’s back wall. They were not her quarry, and she would wait all night to sink her claws into the throat of her chosen victim. Her sharp nails clicked against the stone pebbles in anticipation.

…

The barmaid slipped out the side door, a bucket in hand. She was a delicate thing, her long braid a tangle of knots. Exhaustion etched lines into her hollowed cheeks and darkened the skin beneath her eyes. With a sigh, she dropped the bucket into the well and pumped the handle.

Bent over the well, she didn't hear the side door crash open. Three men stumbled out, their laughter sour with the stench of cheap wine. Medusa wrinkled her nose. The man in the middle, his beard wild and eyebrows bushy, let out a low whistle as he spotted the barmaid and elbowed his companions.

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