Far away, in the halls of Colchis, Medea sat alone, staring into the flames of her father's hearth.
She had heard whispers of the Argo, of the warriors who sought her father's treasure. A band of Greek heroes, led by a man named Jason.
She had heard his name before.
Her father, King Aeëtes, spoke of him with disdain. "A foolish boy, chasing things that are not his."
But Medea felt something else—something deeper. A stirring in her blood, a whisper in her bones.
She had always been an outsider, even in her own home. A daughter of sorcery, feared and watched. Her father's love was a cold thing, sharp as a knife.
"You are my blood," he often reminded her, "but you are also my weapon."
She hated him for that.
The palace was a prison, and her father its warden. The nobles of Colchis looked at her with thinly veiled suspicion, whispering of the things she could do, the spells she could weave.
She had no allies. No friends.
Her only company was the great serpent that coiled around the sacred tree where the Golden Fleece hung. A beast that did not judge, did not whisper, did not betray.
She sat by it often, running her fingers along its glistening scales, murmuring secrets into the dark.
"What would you do, great one, if you could leave this place?" she whispered one night.
The snake only watched her with golden eyes, unblinking, eternal.
And she wondered, when the Greeks arrived, would they be her salvation—or her doom?
That night, in Colchis, Medea dreamed.
She saw a man with golden hair, standing before her father's throne. He was bold, reckless, defiant.
She saw fire and blood, the city in flames, her father's voice a scream in the dark.
And she saw herself, standing beside this man, her hands stained red.
She woke with a gasp, her heart pounding.
The Argo was coming.
And fate was calling.