Medusa hit the ground in an explosion of flying debris and dispersing aether. Biting back a groan, she remained in a locked position as waves of fading pain washed over her. What was this? Her fiftieth defeat? She had stopped counting after thirty-six.
A shadow fell over her, this one much taller and broad-shouldered. Wasn’t it awesome that the first time Ares came around to witness her spar was the exact moment Lysander was in one of her pound fest? The fiend in question cackled like a maniac in the background while Ares simply stared down at her, saying nothing. Unable to hold his gaze, Medusa looked away.
Lysander had to be invincible; that was the only explanation that made sense. In the week of back-to-back thrashing, nothing Medusa threw at the woman worked. And she had this annoying habit of gloating through each spar. She'd bray like a donkey all the while, saying nonsense about ‘triggers’ as she mocked Medusa’s every move. Ruffling her hair mid-fight, having the audacity to flick her ear in faint attacks, she even called her a baby warrior on several occasions.
I'm a joke to her, Medusa thought in solemn embarrassment.
“Are you in pain?” Ares asked after the dust settled.
She stared at the passing fluffy white clouds in the afternoon sky. It may rain later tonight, Medusa thought listlessly as she waited for her body to return to wholeness.
“She's fine,” Lysander answered, all teeth and twinkling eyes. “Heals like a hydra, that one.”
Pushing to her feet, Medusa scowled when her balance swayed. The bone-deep exhaustion that followed her blindfold training had managed to sneak into reality. Every muscle burned, and her hair, wet with sweat and unbound, stuck to her neck and face.
“Is your aim my death?” Medusa retrieved a flask from her domain and took several gulps. It tasted like apple-flavoured water with a chalky aftertaste. Four days ago, she had caved and accepted one of Clotho’s mixes. Not that her misgivings had vanished; it's just that lately, her decision leaned more on rationality. And rationality told her that if the Moirai wished to kill her, she’d have done so from the start.
The feeling of exhaustion quickly faded, and she was back in top form.
Lysander crossed muscular arms across her chest and huffed. “You think Athena’s contender wouldn’t aim to end your life? Be glad it’s me trying to kill you.”
“Athena’s contender wouldn’t be a damn deity,” Medusa muttered before putting the flask away. Yes, Lysander was a low deity, but it was still ridiculous how easily she trashed her. One would think that after getting a boost from Clotho and the Monolith’s vein, things would have changed, but she wasn’t that lucky. Her aether output had significantly improved, but her body was struggling to catch up, and it was showing. Without Clotho’s elixirs, the nosebleeds would occur, and she’d be forced to cut their spar short.
Three more weeks. The puff of anxiety that followed the thought was instantly snuffed out.
I’d be fine. She released a calming breath. I have to be fine.
“You should be gentler on yourself,” Ares said as he dismissed Lysander with a wave. After offering an exaggerated bow, she strolled away.
Staring after her, Ares continued, “Defeat at her hand is no shame. Lysander is battle-worn and far stronger than most low deities. Thinking to earn an upper hand within the span of a week is hubris.”
Dissatisfied nonetheless, Medusa said nothing as she patted dust off her uniform. The metal slats remained still and silent, each wrapped in aether. At least she was getting this one right.
“And you shouldn’t worry about Zeus.”
Medusa’s hand froze for a moment. The memory of Ares dramatically storming off with all the gods present returned. Easy for you to say.
“Come with me.” Steps unhurried, he headed for a line of dummies at the far end of the training ground. Not a hint of aura indicated he was a deity, and being dressed in the fashion of Athenian nobles didn't help matters. A red himation over an ankle-length white chiton, which was odd. Or was it? Not like she expected him to strut about in full armour, weapons brandished and red aura flaring.
“I have taken care of the issue of your origin.” As he spoke, he glanced around. Medusa did the same, looking out for what he may be looking for. The training ground was expansive, fenced and open-air, not a soul present.
Oh. Medusa’s brow rose when she noticed it. Though its impression was subtle and fleeting, she sensed the dome he had set up.
“Your previous identity was too vague,” he continued. “And given what happened at Drys Valon, that vagueness seems to have drawn the attention of my father.”
“But…”
“Go on.” He urged as he stopped next to one of the battered dummies and turned to face her.
“Wouldn't my actions draw negative attention to whoever it is you intend to tie my origin to?”
Ares waved. “Do not concern yourself with that. Act freely. During your training or at the games. Do whatever it is you must.”
You give assurance, yet it is my life and my family's lives on the line. Medusa nodded, but with the idea of making her own contingency plan.
There was a lull of silence as Ares observed her with a dry once-over. If he was disappointed or pleased with what he saw, she couldn’t tell. A week had passed, and there was nothing to show to justify the madness Lysander put her through. And it felt worse because her attempts to learn how to create a domain also yielded nothing.
According to Clotho, she had to create a domain first before learning portal travel. She also added the totally helpful detail that only five among the high deities could create a domain and how none of theirs could hold a candle to hers. Well, boast aside, Medusa could hardly refute her claim. Even her grief-addled mind had been present enough to notice the magnificence of Clotho’s domain.
“The uniform is doing its job, yes?” Ares asked as he shrugged off his himation and draped it over a dummy. Medusa blinked in surprise. Why was he undressing?
“What job?” If anything, the uniform was an annoying inconvenience. Not only was it ridiculously heavy, but it was fitted with thin metal plates that gave off a jarring, jingling sound at the slightest moment. For the past week, she had had to channel aether to maintain blissful silence while wearing the contraption. Even now, her senses hummed in the background as she kept the rotating stream of aether running.
Ares removed his chiton as well, revealing trousers in the fashion she saw at Tartarus. His arms and chest bore a scattering of faded runic tattoos. Now that she thought of it, she had seen similar markings across the dark goddess’ arms. Tucking away her curiosity, she made a mental note to ask Clotho about them later.
“The way you harvest aether, pulling it from the space around you while also having a reservoir is…” He tilted his head at a slight angle. “Unique. But your manner of use is inefficient. Wasteful even.”
“Oh.” Medusa recalled her clash with Arke. The girl had used aether in a precise but powerful manner that Medusa couldn’t figure out. “And the uniform helps, how?”
“It's called subconscious training,” Ares said as he tied away his hair with a strip of leather. “You've been channelling aether to stop its noise, maintaining the flow as you sparred with Lysander. Even now, you are at it. Quite impressive.”
Medusa frowned, not knowing what to do with the compliment. The jarring noise had been irritating, so her motivation stemmed from her own comfort rather than the need to train.
“In time, you will see improvements and be pleased.” As he spoke, the air around him grew sharper even though his arms were folded.
Another spar? Sighing on the inside, Medusa prepared herself. If Lysander nearly killed her, Ares may as well crush her to dust.
“Watch,” Ares said as he lifted his hand. The change began at his elbow, with red fur forming a gradient that deepened to the darkest crimson at his fingertips. Square nails morphed to black talons so sharp they caused a shiver.
When his gaze met hers, a wave of twisted aether crashed over her. For the first time since she returned to Cosmolith, she sensed an odd shift in her body; her curse stirred awake and pressed beneath the surface like a second skin. A horrifying possibility screeched a warning in the background.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
“What are you doing?” She asked, voice taking on a tremor she couldn't fight.
“You must have heard how all touched by the monolith are either blessed or cursed.”
Panic ballooned and exploded past the line that kept her emotions steady. Cold sweat misted her brow as she wrestled with the urge to turn and run. I can't show this man my back.
“Like you, I am also cursed,” he said, tone matter-of-fact as he stared at his morphed arm. “A fortunate coincidence for you.”
Pressing his fingers together, the air around his hand formed red mirages that swayed like smoke. Realisation hit then. When her father killed that bird, he manifested something similar, but it had been dark blue and outlined his entire body.
Ares lifted his eyes and met hers. “I promise to attack within the range of your current strength.”
“I—”
“But make no mistake, I will not stop until I see at least one change.” He raised a finger, its needle-sharp tip pointing to the sky. “Surely, you can manage one change.”
“You don't know the risk,” Medusa sputtered. What was this ambush? She had always known she'd need her eye of petrification when facing the gods, but it had been an unpleasant inevitability she had wilfully ignored, hoping things would work out in some other way. “My curse is different. I—”
He vanished in a puff of red smoke.
Flinching, Medusa pulled aether and formed layers of protective shield around—
The shield tore like flimsy gauze. His fingers, pressed tight, were a red dagger flashing for her neck. She stumbled in an attempt to evade his attack, but he moved as she moved, aim sure.
This bastard intends to slit my throat. The single thought scrambled her coordination as heat sizzled the skin of her neck, those lethal talons a mere hair's breadth away.
Pulling from her aether reservoir, she willed her body to move, the thought forming a mental image. And it worked. Like some miracle, she moved in a blur, seeming to vanish and reappear at the spot she imagined. Not giving her a second to celebrate her newly learned ability, Ares was before her again.
No manoeuvre was enough to avoid the attack. But instead of decapitation, he grabbed her by the neck and watched dispassionately as she kicked and wiggled for freedom.
“You’re terrified of attacks aimed at your neck and face,” he stated.
Medusa bared her teeth instead, half mad from the terror of being held by her neck. She didn’t know how he did it, but her airway was free enough to draw in air; other than that, she was trapped—a helpless prey waiting to be slayed.
“Know that I will continue attacking those areas,” he calmly said.
She scratched at his arm and shot useless beams of hate with her eyes. “Release me,” she hissed through gritted teeth.
Appearing unperturbed by her fury, a faint glow of curiosity brightened his otherwise bored gaze. Then he muttered something about the Moirai’s odd creation. “Again,” he said.
Before Medusa could catch his meaning, he tossed her. What came across as a casual motion sent her flying, her limbs flailing like those of a discarded doll.
No, not like this.
As the ground sped for her face, she drew in aether and screamed. The ground shuddered beneath the shockwaves as the rebound ricocheted her body upward. But Ares was waiting above. His fingers, bent like wicked hooks, raked across her face.
A terrified sob escaped before she could stop it. The attack was a near-miss, leaving four burning lines across her cheek. She let herself fall, begging her scattered thoughts to return to logic, refusing to let this rising fear steal her ability to defend herself. A small crater formed around her feet as she landed with the help of aether. His landing was much smoother and silent; he approached without a pause, each step sending pulsing dread through her veins.
“Try harder.” He drew nearer. “Your enemies will not give you a moment of reprieve.”
Medusa took several steps back, mind working in a frenzy.
“Remember, you are in control of this session.” When he stopped, Medusa’s gaze sought out his arm. Red moved around it like dim flames as his fingers twitched. “If you show me what I wish to see, we will end this now.”
That shift beneath her skin pushed more boldly. Perhaps, I should do as he says—The rejection was physical in its force. Nausea yanked her belly as her face twisted with a horrified grimace. I can't.
As if reading her mind, Ares sighed. “Again.”
When he shot at her, Medusa flashed several feet away and screamed. This time, chunks of earth joined in and condensed to a spinning, lethal point that sped at Ares. The attack, born of wild desperation, was more potent than anything she had attempted with Lysander.
A simple downward slash, and Ares parted it like nothing. Then he disappeared, only to reappear with a whoosh to her left. The heavy kick slammed against her raised arm, shattering the bones and sending her sailing once more.
What was that nonsense he said about reducing his power to her level? The animal planned to annihilate her. Using what she learned from her spar with Lysander, she wrapped herself in a ball of aether as she skidded across the earth.
Staggering to her feet as her momentum faltered, she drew in wheezing breaths while her shattered arm twisted back into place. Again, Ares silently returned. No moment of rest. Expression grim, he took measured steps in her direction.
“Running and defence.” He shook his head and tapped his temple. “Bad for the animal in my head. I will make this quick.”
When he came for her, there wasn’t a sliver of chance to escape or think. With a speed that defied logic, he slashed with those accursed talons and rendered useless the shield she instinctively summoned.
He ripped a line across her neck.
“Ugh.” The gurgled groan sounded distant in her ears. I am drowning in something warm. But what?
The memory of her first moment of death opened like the maws of a hungry monster and clamped over her mind. A chilling sideways swing of his sword. Rolling vision. Her vision always rolled when her head dropped.
What eagerly lurked beneath her skin finally pushed to the surface.
He cut my neck.
Medusa stumbled as trembling hands rose to her neck. Her fingers came back bloody. Suppressed fury swelled and erupted.
Ares actually cut my neck.
Red dyed her vision. There was a hissing around her. My hair is restless and heavy. It was an afterthought that scarcely mattered in the wake of the tectonic rage making a wreck of her ability to reason.
She glared at him, mind a buzzing hive of vengeful thoughts. How do I make him pay?
If Ares was horrified by her transformation, it didn’t show. “You have fulfilled your part. Let’s stop here.”
Medusa wasn’t listening. Summoning her dagger, she raised it to her hair. They were alive now. During her imprisonment on that island, she had named each serpent, boredom making her even love them. Gataki had the most potent venom.
“At least my feet are feet. And I feel taller.” Even her voice, more mature in her ears, now possessed a slight lisp. Medusa dragged her tongue across her teeth, confirming familiar fangs. Something was weeping on her inside, the part of her disgusted at this appearance, but that was moot at the moment.
She pointed with her laced dagger. “Red god, I will cut you.”
An amused smile touched his lips, breaking his usual solemn expression. “You don’t need to do this.”
“But I insist.”
“Very well.” His other arm morphed, both now covered with short crimson fur.
“So this is your real appearance.” His gaze lingered on her face. “You look like Phorcys… well, aside from the hair.” He began a lazy prowl, seeming to measure her up with each step.
As Medusa tracked his movement, she sensed her snakes do the same. Everything in her was coiled tight, waiting for an opportunity to strike. Her strength was nothing compared to his, but if she manages a nick, her most potent venom might cause some damage.
Logic shook its head at her reasoning. What's the use of a wound if it isn't inflicted where it hurts? Ares didn't seem like the type who’d be affected by physical pain. So a mental attack? But she had to know him to know where a jab would sting. Even more vindictive thoughts poured in, their burning acidity shocking to the gentler parts of herself.
“The Moirai hinted that your gorgon form is different from your sisters’.” Though his words came out conversational, there was a deadly trait to his focus. He hadn't stopped sizing her up. “She mentioned something interesting about your eyes.”
Medusa said nothing, only watching. It was apparent her eye of petrification wasn’t part of the package yet, and she found herself wishing it was. She wasn’t just angry, she was murderous. She wanted to make him pay for slitting her throat and forcing her to wear this skin.
“I plan to bring even that out. But not today.”
“I don't care about your stupid plan.”
Ares chuckled. “That's understandable. So,” he cocked his head, “again?”
Medusa shot forward, applying more of that flashing movement she had just learnt. This time, there was a glide to it with her joints moving more smoothly than they had previously. She slashed at his face.
When his arm came up in defence, her serpents snapped at it. But that red aura sent them retreating with a hiss of repulsion.
Medusa abandoned her modified dagger method and gave in to her instincts. She moved in coils and twists, scratching with flesh-coloured talons, feeding her serpents needles and sending them flying at Ares.
Break through. Just break through his damn shield.
A nonchalant backhand swept them aside. Not giving up, she looped around and aimed for the back of his neck with venom-laced claws.
Her hit landed, but that twisted aether surrounding his body rendered the attack useless.
“Do you see the futility? Let's end it here.” Grabbing her by the neck, he slammed her to the ground. “Stop.”
The word was a harsh command that grabbed her soul and demanded obedience. Medusa shoved it out.
“No.” Baring her fangs, she spat at his face. “Get your bloody hand off my neck!”
His eyes widened, as if surprised at her defiance. Pressing her fingers together like he did, she drew up every poisonous emotion cooking her inside, channelled them to the digits and slashed at his face with an enraged cry.
Delicious vindication washed over her when his head snapped to the side. A thin cut across his beard line blossomed with blood.
A satisfied chuckle escaped, but soon died on her lips when she saw it. Black slowly bled over the white of his eyes as his gaze snapped to hers. The excitement of victory soon fizzled to ash under the assault of his malevolent glare. Something terrible was clawing for freedom behind those eyes. And her body wouldn't move, either from fear or another force she couldn't fight off. Heart racing, she strained against the force to no avail.
As he turned to face her fully, the tiny cut closed after expelling a clear drop of venom. Black now completely replaced the white of his eyes, and the amber at its middle glowed with chilling murderous intent.
I'm in real danger. The single thought shoved her transformation back into the shadows as logic scrambled to take the reins.
Clotho! Medusa yelled in shameless panic. Ares is about to kill me.
Before the Moirai could answer, Ares shut his eyes and released a long, exhausted breath.
When he opened his eyes, they were tired but had returned to normal. “Consider this your win,” he said before making his way to the dummy holding his clothes.
Medusa remained on her back, too weak from relief to deeply consider the fact that she had taken on her gorgon form.
I need sleep. Hours of it while cuddling Rico. “And I hope it rains,” she whispered as the familiar crushing exhaustion returned.
Last week was so not my writing week, hence the late chapter.
And I'd appreciate some feedback. Crutch words and such (gaze gazing at me with an accusatory gaze??). Parts where the story lags. That kind of stuff.
Would be nice to have those in hand when re-editing after completing this story.
Snakes are cute 🐍
