I never asked to be feared.
Yet, the moment I walk into a room, conversations die. Eyes lower. Warriors—men who have slain monsters, who have battled Titans—refuse to meet my gaze. They whisper my name like a curse, an omen of misfortune.
Not because of what I have done. But because of who my mother is.
It should amuse me, but it doesn't. Instead, it reminds me of the life I had before—when no one looked at me at all.
In that life, I was invisible. Insignificant.
Here, in this life, I am seen. But not as a man. Not even as a warrior. I am Medusa's son. A legacy of fear wrapped in mortal skin.
I was content in the shadows, letting the world believe whatever it wanted about me. I had no quarrel with the gods, no desire to challenge Olympus. My mother asked nothing of me but to live, and I would have honored that wish.
But the gods? The gods will not allow me to exist in peace.
They whisper of prophecies, omens that spell their downfall. They see me as the first step toward Medusa's revenge—even though she seeks none. It is their paranoia, their fear, that has made me their target.
So they send their hunters.
The first came at night. I barely saw his face before my venom took hold—his body frozen mid-strike, his blade inches from my throat. His eyes, wide with horror, stayed locked on mine long after the fight was over. A champion of Athena, reduced to a prisoner in his own flesh.
I let him live. Maybe that was a mistake.
Because after him, more came. Ares' warriors. Apollo's assassins. Even Hermes' messengers, swift and cunning, tried their luck.
Each time, they failed. Each time, I sent them back—paralyzed, broken, but breathing.
But if pawns fail, kings will rise. And when they fall? The Olympians themselves will come.
I have spent my life trying to avoid this war. But the war has already found me.
So the question is no longer if I will fight. The question is: when. And more importantly…
Who will strike first?