Chapter Four: The Sliver-Haired Goddess
Atalanta had been raised among the beasts of the forest, taught from infancy that survival was the only law that truly mattered. In the wild, you took what you needed, fought for what you wanted, and never apologized for the blood on your hands. The strong devoured the weak; the quick outpaced the slow. It was simple. Brutal. Honest.
And yet, as she watched this strange, pale-haired boy carefully lay out his meager offerings before an improvised shrine of stacked stones, she found herself questioning her understanding of the world. He had just paid her a single gold coin—a gold coin—for a boar that wasn't even particularly large. And he hadn't even wanted the hide or the tusks, which were easily the most valuable parts. He had simply... given them to her.
"You do realize," she said, turning the coin over in her fingers, watching the light catch its edges, "that this is worth at least twenty times what that boar would fetch in the market. Are you certain you're not joking?"
Scythica dusted off his hands and straightened up, his eyes fixed on the small pile of offerings he had arranged—a few strips of dried meat, a handful of berries, a small clay cup filled with water. "The gods don't care about market value," he replied, bowing his head in prayer. "They care about sincerity. And I can't afford to be insincere with them. Not in this world."
Atalanta raised an eyebrow. "Most men I know prefer to offer their enemies' blood as tribute. They think the gods appreciate violence."
"Most men are idiots," Scythica said flatly. "The gods appreciate what they appreciate. Why waste time and energy on slaughter when you can just... offer something genuinely thoughtful?" He paused, then added with a wry smile: "Besides, I have a very strict policy about not making enemies. 'Don't start fights you can't win' is rule number two."
"What's rule number one?" Atalanta asked, genuinely curious now.
"Never involve yourself with beautiful women." He said it so matter-of-factly that she almost laughed. Almost. "Or anything beautiful, really. It's a terrible survival strategy."
Atalanta studied him with those sharp, amber eyes. He was strange—undeniably strange. His skin was whiter than fresh snow, his hair the color of moonlight, and he moved with none of the predatory grace she had come to expect from other travelers. He was soft. Weak. She could have killed him a dozen times over without breaking a sweat.
And yet, there was something about him that intrigued her. Something in the way he spoke, as if he had seen things no ordinary boy should have seen. Something in the cautious, measured way he moved through the world, as if he expected disaster at every turn.
"Fine," she said at last, slinging the boar hide over her shoulder. "If you have nothing else to say, I'll be on my way."
"Wait," Scythica called out. "That hide—how much is it worth?"
Atalanta stopped, looking over her shoulder with a skeptical frown. "Even if I told you, I wouldn't give it back. You made the exchange. It's mine now. If you want it, you'll have to take it by force—and we both know how that would end." She allowed a hint of a smile to play at her lips. "Weakling."
Scythica winced but pressed on. "What about a different arrangement?" He raised a single finger. "I need to reach the Caucasus Mountains. But as you've so kindly pointed out, I'm not exactly built for hunting. I'll starve before I get halfway there."
Atalanta stared at him as if he had just suggested she sprout wings. "Do you have any idea how far that is? The Caucasus Mountains are beyond the Black Sea, at the edge of the known world. The journey would take months. Even on horseback, you'd be crossing hostile territory, treacherous terrain, and—"
"Good thing I have this," Scythica said, patting the white stallion's neck. The horse raised its head proudly, nostrils flaring as if to say, Yes, I am magnificent. Thank you for noticing. "He's a gift from Lord Poseidon himself. He'll get me wherever I need to go."
Atalanta's eyes widened. For the first time, she looked at the horse with something approaching awe. "A divine mount? You—you actually have a divine mount? And you're using it to travel to the Caucasus?" She shook her head in disbelief. "You're either the luckiest fool I've ever met, or the most reckless one."
"Probably both," Scythica admitted with a sheepish grin. "But here's the thing: I don't need you to come with me. I just need you to go into town and buy me some supplies." He began ticking off items on his fingers. "Rope. A good quality sickle or scythe. If you can find a crossbow or a decent bow, that would be ideal. Maybe some dried rations, a waterskin—"
Atalanta cut him off. "Those aren't rare items. I have some of them in my own stash, actually. But why would I help you?"
Scythica jingled his coin purse, the sound of gold ringing through the clearing like a promise. "Because I'll pay you. Handsomely."
Atalanta eyed the purse, then his face, then the purse again. "And you'd trust me with that much gold? What's to stop me from taking it and leaving you here to starve?"
Scythica shrugged, his expression remarkably unconcerned. "Then I'd be in exactly the same position I was in before you showed up, except without the gold. Not a great outcome for me, but not the end of the world either." He tossed the purse to her without hesitation. "Besides, I like to think I'm a decent judge of character. You don't strike me as the type to cheat an honest fool."
Atalanta caught the bag, weighing it in her palm. It was heavy—heavier than she'd expected. A fortune, easily. Enough to keep her fed and armed for months. She looked from the gold to Scythica's open, trusting face, and felt something unfamiliar stir in her chest. Something she had almost forgotten.
He's naive. Reckless. Probably going to die within the week.
But... he's not cruel.
She tossed the bag back to him. "Keep it. I'll get your supplies, but I'll set the price when I return. And if I see anything I want, I'm taking it." She had already turned and was leaping into the nearest tree, her fingers finding holds that Scythica couldn't even see. She paused on a low branch, looking down at him with a slight smirk. "Wait here. I'll be back before sundown."
And then she was gone, a flash of autumn hair disappearing into the canopy with the silent grace of a hunting cat.
Scythica stared after her, then at the tree, then at his own scrawny arms. He attempted a small hop. His feet barely left the ground.
"Right. That's... that's fine. That's normal. I am a normal, non-superhuman person in a world of insane, god-touched warriors. This is fine."
The white stallion nudged his shoulder, as if to console him.
"You don't get it," Scythica muttered, slumping to the ground and pulling a blade of grass to chew on. "All I want is to find a quiet corner of the world and live out my life in peace. No heroes. No monsters. No gods descending from Olympus to mess with me. Just... peace. Is that too much to ask?"
The stallion snorted and resumed its grazing, clearly unconcerned with his existential crisis.
Scythica sighed, running his fingers through his white hair. "I've been here fifteen years. Fifteen years! And every day, I live in fear of attracting the attention of some vindictive deity or lunatic hero. Every day, I tiptoe around, offering prayers and sacrifices just to stay off their radar. And now—" He laughed bitterly. "Now I'm apparently the target of some cosmic joke. I'm being carried across Greece by a divine horse, having deals with legendary huntresses, and—"
A hand settled on his head.
Scythica froze.
The touch was impossibly gentle, fingers threading through his tangled locks with a tenderness that made his skin prickle. A voice, sweet as honey and warm as sunlight, spoke from directly behind him.
"Your hair was all messy, you know. I couldn't just leave it like that."
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
He didn't move. Didn't breathe. Every instinct he had—every carefully honed survival reflex—screamed at him to stay utterly still. The white stallion, his divine protector, was unconcernedly grazing alongside a golden-antlered deer in the middle of the clearing. As if nothing was wrong. As if a goddess wasn't standing directly behind him.
It's okay. It's fine. She's just a friendly traveler. She's not a god. There's no reason to—
"There," the voice said, satisfied. "All neat and proper now."
Scythica risked a glance at the stallion, desperately seeking reassurance. But the horse was too busy making friends with the deer to offer any help. You're a divine creature! he wanted to shout. Do something!
Ah, right. Greek mythology. Inter-species romances are practically a Tuesday around here.
His heart hammered against his ribs as he felt her lean closer. Her breath brushed against the back of his neck, soft and warm. Her perfume—if it could be called that—was something floral and ancient, like the first bloom of spring after a long winter.
"Your skin is so white," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "And your hair... like moonlight on snow." Her fingers brushed through his locks again, tracing the strands with reverent curiosity. "Oh—I see now. There's a blessing on you. Several blessings, actually. But..." She paused, tilting her head. "There's more than just blessing here. Something else. Something... hidden."
Scythica's blood turned to ice. A curse. Those two demonesses put a curse on me. A tracking curse. The thought made his stomach churn. No wonder Euryale and Stheno had seemed so unconcerned when he'd escaped. They had known they could find him at any time.
But the goddess behind him laughed—a light, tinkling sound like wind chimes. "Don't worry. I've removed the locator for you."
That's even worse! They were tracking me!
Scythica felt a wave of gratitude wash over him, tempered only by sheer terror. "Th-thank you," he stammered, turning to face his savior. "I don't know how to repay—"
He stopped. His jaw dropped. His brain short-circuited.
Before him stood a vision of impossible beauty. Her hair fell in waves of molten gold, cascading past her shoulders like liquid sunlight. Her eyes were the color of a summer sky, bright and clear and filled with an ancient, knowing mischief. She wore a chiton of pure white, so fine it seemed woven from clouds, and her smile—her smile was the kind of smile that launched wars and toppled kingdoms.
Oh no. Oh no.
That's a goddess.
That's a very, very beautiful goddess.
I am in so much trouble.
She was still leaning toward him, close enough that he could see the faint shimmer of her skin, the impossible perfection of her features. And then, because the universe apparently hated him, she laughed and pulled his head against her chest in an embrace that was far too casual for being between a mortal and a divine being.
"Heehee, that tickles!" she giggled, completely unbothered by his face pressed against the soft fabric of her garments.
Scythica's brain, which had been frantically screaming for him to run, hide, do anything but this, went mercifully blank. He couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't even breathe properly.
This is how I die. This is how I die, smothered by a goddess's bosom. At least it's a nice way to go.
Somewhere in the distance, the white stallion whickered in what might have been amusement. The golden-antlered deer stamped its hoof in agreement.
Traitors, Scythica thought miserably. All of them. Traitors.
And as he lay there, suspended in the warm embrace of a goddess who had apparently decided he was the most interesting mortal she'd encountered in centuries, he made a solemn vow:
From now on, absolutely no interacting with anyone remotely godlike. I will become a hermit. I will live in a cave. I will eat nothing but roots and berries and die of old age completely alone.
It will be great.
It has to be better than this.