Perseus stared at the glowing screen in the dim light of his study, the message from Medusa still flickering on his phone like an omen. His jaw clenched, a low, breathy exhale escaping his lips. The name—her name—still had power over him. Not the kind rooted in romance or nostalgia, but in something far older, deeper. A tangle of fate that could never be cleanly severed.
She wasn't supposed to live. He had been raised on that truth. Trained for it. Fed stories of monsters and glory, of righteous hunts and triumphant returns. A hero, they called him. Destined to strike down the Gorgon and bring her head to a king. But what they never said—what he learned too late—was that the tale was rigged from the start.
