Chrysanthe tiptoed toward the bodies laid out on the sand, their clothes ripped and stained with blood. She counted. Four, seven, twelve, fourteen … Over two dozen men had sailed with Agapetos.Her heart pounded in her chest as she walked the grim line of corpses. Some looked like statues, their faces etched with frozen — the crew that had dared to hunt Medusa. Others bore gruesome wounds, evidence of a violent struggle. The sight of mangled limbs and torn flesh made her stomach churn, but she pressed on, determined to find her brother.
She passed the corpse of a mercenary, his broad shoulders and faded cheek scar a grim testament to a life of battle. Daggers still sheathed in worn leather, hinted at a fight never joined — Medusa’s swift work. If this beast of a man had succumbed, what chance did her gentle brother have? The sound of her ragged breaths filled her ears, drowning out the cries of the fishermen and the crashing waves.
Then, she saw him. Or what remained of him.
Even though his form was frozen in stone, Chrysanthe immediately recognised him. The familiar contours of his face, the gentle curve of his jaw, and the tousled mop of hair — it was him. But his eyes, once filled with warmth and mischief, were now empty and lifeless. A single tear solidified on his cheek, marking his final moment of despair.
No. No. No.
Chrysanthe collapsed to her knees as the world around her disappeared. There was only her and the lump of rock that used to be her brother, her last connection to family. Motherless, fatherless, now brotherless.
Silent sobs wracked her body as she reached out a trembling hand, caressing his cold cheek as if to wipe away the tear, eternally etched on his face.
She was alone. Alone. Alone.
Chrysanthe rocked back and forth, her mind reeling. He had boarded this shipwreck to pay for her dowry. Agapetos may not have been a strong man, but he had loved fiercely. He would have given anything to create a better life for his sister. Now, he had paid the ultimate price. He was gone because of her.
No. She was not the one who had murdered her brother. Hatred seeped into her sorrow, reigniting the fire that had died in her chest. Medusa was responsible for taking Agapetos away from her. The tears on her cheeks dried as she slowly rose to her feet with steely determination.
Chrysanthe had no one left in this world. No one would care for her until the end of her sorrowful life. She only had one reason left to live. Clenching her fists, she let the burning hatred spread through her body. Anger made her blood hum, and she inhaled deeply, welcoming the overwhelming need forretribution that warmed her body. It was an ugly emotion that made her gut twist as she resisted the urge to break something. Yet, her rage felt infinitely better than the hollow emptiness that Agapetos had left behind. She closed her eyes, visualising the face of the monster that had taken him from her. Chrysanthe did not know how or when, but she vowed to avenge her beloved brother. One day, she would bury a knife inside Medusa’s heart, even if it was the last thing she ever did.
CHAPTER SIX
It was evening when Perseus arrived home. The sun dipped behind the house he had grown up in, casting the sky in amber hues. For a few heartbeats, he stood unmoving, taking in the sight of rolling foothills, distant pine trees and charred fields, and the lemon tree on the front porch. Smoke curled from the chimney, and the clatter from the kitchen told him his mother was preparing dinner. She had always been a messy cook, prone to spilling oil and covering the entire place in flour whenever she baked bread. He would miss cleaning up after Danae.
Dictys had kept his promise to stay with Danae. The weathered man with salt-and-pepper hair stood on the roof, muttering to himself as he struggled to secure the ever-loose clay tiles. Perseus sighed, pushing down his sentimental thoughts, and climbed the wooden ladder beside him.
“How many times have I told you, old man,” Perseus said, “that I don’t want you climbing around on my roof? You should leave this kind of work to me!”
Dictys did not lift his gaze, merely taking the hammer from Perseus’s hands. He muttered, his voice rough as always, “Well, now I’m already up here, so I might as well finish what I’ve started. If you help me, I’ll be down faster.”
Perseus knew it was no use arguing with him. Dictys was stubborn as a mule — a trait that probably ran in the family, even though they weren’t technically related. He grabbed a broken tile, fixing it with some clay. They worked side by side in silence, the minutes passing by as the sun sank further behind the horizon, the fiery orange of the sky turning violet. It was a comfortable silence; one they had shared many times during their years together. Dictys was a man of few words, often in thought, a slight frown on his face. Perseus suspected that in those moments, the old man drifted off into happier memories — back when his wife was still alive. He had never dared ask, though.
After what felt like an eternity, Dictys finally spoke, “So, how did it go with my brother? How will you have to compensate Polydectes?”
Perseus glanced at him, trying to read the old man’s emotions. He rarely referred to Polydectes as his brother. They weren’t close — not since Dictys had given up the throne after losing his queen and heir in a single night. Polydectes had been a little too eager to seize power.
“I have offered my services,” Perseus replied. His thoughts had been racing the entire way home, agonising over what he might tell his family. Some part of him wanted to confide in Dictys, but another part wanted to leave without saying goodbye — to spare them the heartache.
“I see”, Dictys said dryly, “so what exactly has the king asked you to do?”
Perseus gulped. “I have offered to slay the gorgon Medusa in his name. If I succeed, we will be absolved of our debt. If I don’t —”
He broke off, unable to finish the sentence.
Dictys looked at him, his eyes endless pools of swirling sorrow. He shook his head in disbelief. Without saying a word, Perseus understood his grief. He had just told him that he wouldlose another one of his children. That was how close they were. The weight of his gaze became unbearable, and Perseus almost wished that Dictys might scream at him in anger. It would be better than the sadness in his eyes. But Dictys never got angry.
Instead, he shook his head. “You fool … do you realise what you have done?”
“I do.”
He would not insult Dictys by denying that his actions had been stupid. He still didn’t fully understand what had driven him to offer Polydectes the gorgon’s head.
“No one who has ventured to defeat Medusa has returned, and Polydectes knows that! He has wanted you gone since you threatened him as a boy, and now he has gotten his wish.”
“I am fully aware of my chances of survival.”
“Then, why would you strike such a foolish bargain?”