– The Myth
They say the gods are eternal, their names carried by hymns and stone. Yet eternity is not as unshakable as mortals believe. A name can be gilded in temples for a thousand years—only to vanish in a single act of divine wrath.
So it was with Eurytos, the son of Apollo.
In the age when Olympus still reigned, Apollo's light blazed over mortals like a second dawn. He was the archer who felled monsters with a shaft of golden fire, the patron of healers and prophets, the voice that sang through the lyre. Gods desired him, mortals feared him, and all bent knee to his brilliance.
But even a god of light casts shadows.
Among mortals, there was a woman who did not burn beneath his radiance. A seeress of Delphi, mortal flesh but a soul woven with fate. Apollo courted her not with power, but with music. His songs lulled even the stars to silence, and beneath his golden gaze, she bore him a son.
This child, Eurytos, came into the world with eyes like twin embers, lit by the sun. Even as a boy, his arrows flew straighter than any king's champion. His voice carried prophecy, though no mortal taught him. To shepherds, he was a prodigy. To warriors, an omen.
As he grew, so too did his legend.
With a bow carved from cypress, Eurytos shot wolves from a mile away. With words alone, he foretold the rise and fall of kings. To mortals, he was a half-god savior. To Apollo, he was a mirror—too bright, too proud, too close.
And pride is the ruin of blood.
Eurytos was not content to be half of anything. "Why must I bow to Olympus?" he cried to the heavens. "If the blood of the sun burns in me, why should I kneel before the one who gave it?"
The earth trembled at his blasphemy. Mortals whispered of rebellion, of a demigod who might surpass his father. Even gods began to listen, wary of the boy whose arrows never missed.
And so Eurytos made his challenge.
One night, beneath a sky without stars, he loosed an arrow not at beast nor tyrant—but at the sun itself. It split the sky, a shaft of mortal defiance aimed at godhood.
For a heartbeat, even Apollo faltered. The heavens dimmed, as though the world itself waited to see if the son might eclipse the father.
Then the wrath came.
The golden god descended in fire, bow strung with the fury of a thousand suns. The clash was brief, terrible, and final. No mortal song remembers how Eurytos fell—only that Apollo struck him down, not with mercy, but with silence.
His name was erased from temple hymns. His deeds, burned from scrolls. His mother wept until her voice was stolen too, her line cursed with obscurity.
But blood remembers what stone forgets.
Though Olympus banished his name, though temples crumbled, though scribes wrote him out of history, Eurytos's flame did not die. It flickered in the veins of his children, thin and hidden, scattered through generations of mortals. Weak. Forgotten. Waiting.
Waiting for the day one heir would awaken the bow again.
The day the forgotten son would rise through his blood, and the sun's flame would burn anew.
– Present Day: Lucian
The tale of Eurytos ended in silence, but silence does not fill a belly, nor does it keep a roof from leaking.
Lucian Eurytos knew this better than anyone.
His surname was a relic few recognized, and fewer cared about. To most, "Eurytos" was just another echo in a world drowning in louder names—the Aurelian heirs of Zeus, the crimson warriors of Ares, the silver-eyed huntresses of Artemis. Bloodlines that traced back to gods still revered, gods whose temples had not been burned to dust.
But Lucian? He bore the name of a man who had been scrubbed from history. To carry it was less a mark of pride and more a brand of obscurity.
He stood that morning in the cracked courtyard of a forgotten neighborhood on the edge of Heliora, the mortal city where divine and common blood mixed uneasily. Children raced down the street chasing each other with sticks, pretending they were spears of war or bows of moonlight. The names they shouted were not his.
"Ares' sons never miss!" one boy boasted, hurling a rock.
"Artemis guides my aim!" a girl laughed, loosing her reed arrow.
Lucian leaned on his bundle of firewood and watched, a shadow among the noise. His bow—a plain hunting bow carved by his own hands—hung across his back, worn smooth by years of use. Not once had it flared with divine light. Not once had it proved his blood was more than dirt.
"Eurytos," one of the older boys muttered as Lucian passed. His lip curled. "Forgotten blood."
The words stung less than they once had. Lucian had learned to wear silence like armor. He pushed open the crooked door of his home and set the wood down by the hearth.
Inside, the single-room dwelling was dim. His grandmother sat at the low table, hands wrapped in cloth, eyes clouded but not yet blind. She looked up when he entered, her lined face breaking into a weary smile.
"You're late," she rasped.
"Market was crowded," Lucian said, kneeling to feed the fire. He lied easily. The truth was he'd lingered outside the temple of Ares, watching the crimson-armored youths train. Their spears moved with divine rhythm, their war cries shook the very stones. He had felt the weight of his useless bow pressing against his back the entire time.
His grandmother studied him. Even with failing eyes, she saw too much. "Still watching them, aren't you?"
Lucian didn't answer.
For a time, there was only the crackle of fire. Then, in the hush, his grandmother's voice drifted like wind through ruins.
"Our line is not broken."
He stilled. She had spoken these words before, in whispers, in fragments, but always with a certainty that unsettled him.
"Grandmother…" he began.
She reached for him, gnarled fingers brushing his sleeve. "You carry more than you know, Lucian. The blood remembers."
Lucian turned away, throat tight. He had no patience for old stories. Not when hunger gnawed and debt loomed. Whatever flame once burned in their line had long gone cold.
Outside, bells rang from the higher quarter of Heliora. A parade of divine heirs was beginning—descendants of gods displaying their powers before the temples. Lucian heard the cheers, the clash of spear against shield, the whistle of arrows trailing silver light.
He did not go. He had gone once, years ago, and come back hollow, a boy with calloused hands and no blessing.
Instead, he sat in the half-light of his home, staring at the fire until its glow blurred.
That night, the dream came again.
He was standing in a ruin of gold and stone, pillars broken, sunlight bleeding through cracks in the roof. At the heart of the ruin stood a pedestal, and upon it lay a bow. Not wood, not bronze—gold, bright as a sun held in mortal form.
A voice whispered, not in words, but in weight.
Blood remembers. Flame waits.
When Lucian woke, sweat clung to his skin. The night was heavy, his grandmother asleep, the city hushed. Yet the echo of that dream pressed on him until he could no longer stay still.
He rose, pulled his plain bow to his shoulder, and stepped out into the night. The streets of Heliora stretched ahead, silent, guiding him toward the hills where the ruins slept.
Toward the place where his forgotten bloodline would stir again.
– The Ruins of Apollo's Temple.
The hills above Heliora were ancient scars—stone ridges overgrown with thistle and pine, paths winding through forgotten graves and half-sunken pillars. Few climbed them anymore. The temples had long been abandoned, their gods swallowed by time or overshadowed by louder pantheons.
Lucian's boots crunched against loose gravel as he ascended, his breath misting in the cool night. The city shrank behind him, its lights glittering like a basin of stars. Ahead, darkness deepened, broken only by the pale thread of moonlight spilling over broken marble.
He stopped at the crest.
There it was: the ruin from his dreams.
The Temple of Apollo.
What remained of it was a skeleton—columns snapped and leaning, the roof a tangle of collapsed stone. Ivy crawled up the walls like veins of green fire. But even in decay, it held a quiet majesty, as though the ground itself still remembered the weight of worship.
Lucian stepped forward, his chest tight.
Inside, the air was different. Thicker. Each footfall echoed with more than sound, like a pulse thrumming just beneath the earth. He passed a fallen statue—its face eroded, its lyre shattered. Only the faint curve of a bow carved in marble remained, pointing toward the heart of the sanctuary.
And there it was.
The pedestal.
Just as in his dream, it stood alone in the ruined hall, cracked but upright, bathed in a shaft of moonlight cutting through the broken ceiling. Upon it lay a bow.
Golden.
No—not merely golden. The bow was light itself, shaped into form. It shimmered with a radiance that did not belong to this ruined world, as though the sun had been captured and caged in its curve. Even dulled by centuries of silence, it pulsed with restrained fire.
Lucian froze. His throat was dry, his hands trembling at his sides.
He shouldn't be here. This was madness. Gods and their relics did not linger for forgotten bloodlines. They belonged to those chosen by temples, blessed before crowds, crowned with laurel. Not to a boy scraping firewood and debts.
And yet—
The dream had led him.
His steps carried him closer, slow, unwilling, yet inevitable. The bow's glow deepened, threads of light bleeding outward, catching dust motes in a golden storm.
Lucian reached out. His fingers hovered an inch above the weapon, heat prickling his skin. The air thrummed, heavy with something older than language.
And then—
A voice.
Not from outside, but within. A resonance in his bones, in the marrow of his blood.
Eurytos.
The name crashed into him like thunder. His knees buckled, his vision spun. Images burst behind his eyes—battlefields drenched in light, arrows flying like falling stars, a man's face half-forgotten but burning with pride.
He saw the founder. The first Eurytos. The archer who had dared to draw a god's bow.
Blood remembers. Flame waits.
Lucian gasped, hand snapping back. The vision shattered, leaving him reeling, chest heaving. The bow still lay there, patient, radiant.
Waiting.
But when he tried again—when he wrapped his hand around the golden curve—searing pain exploded through his palm. He cried out, stumbling back, skin smoking as though burned.
The bow's light flared, then dimmed, returning to silence.
Denied.
Lucian dropped to his knees, clutching his hand. Shame and awe tangled in his chest. The weapon had recognized him—but not enough. He was of the blood, yes, but not yet worthy.
Not yet.
From the shadows of the ruin, a whisper stirred. Not the voice of Apollo, but something harsher, colder.
"So… a forgotten son still dares."
Lucian's head snapped up.
A figure stepped from behind a broken column. Cloaked, masked, eyes gleaming with the dull red of embers. His presence was wrong, like oil slicking over water. The air grew heavy, foul.
Lucian staggered to his feet, heart pounding. "Who are you?"
The figure tilted his head, gaze flicking to the golden bow. "That relic does not belong to you, boy. Nor does this temple. It belongs to the strong… to those chosen."
Lucian's fingers clenched around his plain wooden bow. His hand still throbbed with pain, but his blood boiled with something fiercer—a spark he had never felt before.
"I don't care who you are," he said, voice shaking but firm. "This temple isn't yours."
The masked man laughed, low and cruel. "Then prove it."
The ruin shuddered as his hand lifted, dark flame coiling into the shape of a spear.
For the first time in his life, Lucian lifted his bow not as a hunter, not as a forgotten name, but as the last descendant of Apollo.
And in the silence before battle, the golden weapon on the pedestal pulsed—once, faint, like a heartbeat answering his.
The dark flame spear hissed as it solidified, black smoke curling from its edges. The masked intruder twirled it once, the stone beneath his feet cracking from the force.
Lucian's wooden bow suddenly felt like a child's toy. Its string frayed, its limbs uneven. Against a weapon born of fire and shadow, it was nothing.
And yet—he nocked an arrow. His breath came short, hands trembling, but his eyes did not waver.
The intruder's voice was a low snarl. "Do you even know who you stand against, boy?"
"No," Lucian said, pulling the string back until it creaked. "And I don't care."
The spear cut the air.
Lucian loosed.
The arrow shot forward, whistling—then shattered against the shaft of flame. Sparks rained across the marble floor. The stranger advanced, each step echoing like a drumbeat of doom.
Lucian moved, fast, ducking behind a fallen column. Another arrow. Another release. The intruder swatted it aside like an insect.
"Pathetic." The spear stabbed forward. Stone splintered where Lucian had stood a moment before.
Dust clouded the air. Lucian rolled, lungs burning, fingers fumbling for another arrow. He was outmatched—utterly, completely. Every instinct screamed at him to run.
But the pedestal glowed behind the stranger. The golden bow pulsed, faint, as though watching. Judging.
Lucian clenched his jaw. If he turned his back now, if he fled, then the dream, the voice, his blood—it would mean nothing.
The intruder raised his spear overhead, shadows flaring. "End of the line, Eurytos."
Lucian loosed his last arrow.
It was swatted away—but in that heartbeat, Lucian sprinted straight into the attack. The spear came down, fire licking its edge. Lucian's wooden bow lifted, catching it—cracking under the force, splinters biting into his hand.
The impact sent him to one knee. His bow was breaking. His arm screamed with pain.
And then—
The pedestal blazed.
Light roared through the temple, golden and pure. The masked intruder flinched, raising his arm to shield his eyes.
Lucian felt it—the pull, the surge. The Golden Bow was calling, its light spilling toward him like a tide. His broken weapon dissolved into sparks, vanishing from his grip. In its place, weight and warmth blossomed.
He was holding it.
The Solaris Bow.
Golden, radiant, alive. Its string hummed under his touch, as if the sun itself had lent him its breath. His blood sang. His heartbeat matched the weapon's glow.
The intruder snarled. "Impossible!"
Lucian drew.
The bowstring bent, smooth and weightless, yet heavy with power. Light coalesced into an arrow—not wood, not steel, but flame and sun, burning in his grip.
He released.
The golden arrow streaked across the ruin, brighter than dawn. It slammed into the dark spear, shattering it into fragments of smoke and ash. The masked man staggered back, cloak torn, mask cracking.
For the first time, fear flickered in his ember-red eyes.
Lucian nocked again, the bow thrumming with fire. His hands steadied, his breath deepened. The light answered him as though it had waited centuries for this moment.
The intruder hissed, retreating toward the shadows. "This isn't over, Eurytos. The gods are stirring… and you will burn with them."
Before Lucian could fire, the figure vanished into darkness, leaving only the stink of scorched stone.
The temple fell silent again, save for the hum of the Solaris Bow in Lucian's grip. His chest heaved, sweat streaking his face. The light slowly dimmed, the weapon settling into silence, its glow now faint but present—like a heartbeat under skin.
Lucian sank to his knees.
He had fought. He had survived. And he had claimed the bow.
But his hand still trembled. Not from fear, not from weakness—but from the echo of the intruder's words.
The gods are stirring.
Somewhere far above, the stars shifted. Somewhere deep below, old chains groaned.
Lucian lifted his gaze to the ruined ceiling. The night sky stared back, vast and endless. For the first time in his life, he felt not forgotten… but hunted.
And the true story was only beginning.
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Thank you for reading! If you're enjoying Lucian's journey so far, I'd be grateful if you could add this novel to your collection. It helps more readers discover the story, and every little support keeps me motivated to keep updating.
And btw, I have another story ( romance with male pov!!) do check it out.(｡•̀ᴗ-)✧