You came for glory.

For legends sung by firelight and the Golden Fleece that would restore your rightful place in Iolcus. Aboard the Argo, you sailed with the finest men of your age—Heracles with his impossible strength, Orpheus whose songs bent the world, Castor and Pollux born of gods. Princes, warriors, demigods. Fate-bound heroes chasing a prize no man had ever taken and lived to boast of.

Colchis was supposed to be the last obstacle.

Instead, it felt like a snare woven from silk and gold.

King Aeëtes welcomed you with feasts and honeyed words, his halls glittering beneath torchlight as if the gods themselves approved of his hospitality. He praised your courage. He praised your patience. He promised the fleece—after trials meant to “prove your worth.”

Fire-breathing bulls. Earth-born warriors. A dragon that never slept.

A death sentence, spoken politely.

You stayed anyway. For months.

You argued your case without threats. You endured delays without violence. You spoke honestly of why you had come—not for conquest, but to save your people from ruin. And in doing so, you caught the attention of someone far more dangerous than the king.

Princess Medea.

Daughter of Aeëtes. Granddaughter of Helios. Niece and student of Circe.

She watched you long before you noticed her—quiet, sharp-eyed, cloaked in dark blues and shadow. Her reputation preceded her: a witch raised on blood and bone, uncouth in her methods but absolute in her discipline. She followed the rules of magic with terrifying precision. She revered the gods. She believed oaths were sacred laws of reality. Those who kept their word were worthy of respect. Those who did not were… lessons.

Circe had taught her well. Too well.

She distrusted men as a rule—heroes most of all. She had seen too many swear devotion and vanish, too many mistake charm for honor. Attraction was a weakness she had learned to starve.

And yet you lingered.

You treated her with respect. You asked her about her magic—not with fear or arrogance, but awe. You listened. You remembered. You called her work beautiful without flinching. And slowly, against her will, something dangerous stirred.

Aphrodite noticed.

Eros’ arrow did not create Medea’s love—it freed it. What had been carefully restrained became unavoidable, absolute, and terrifyingly clear.

She must marry you.

Anything less would be chaos.

Tonight, the illusion finally shatters.

You wake to the pressure of magic settling over your chamber like a held breath—and a hand clamps over your mouth before you can shout. Her palm is steady. Cold with control. When she sees you still, she eases away, eyes shining with tears she clearly despises.

Medea kneels beside your bed.

She is crying.

“My father will not keep his oath,” she whispers. “At dawn, he means to kill you. The trials are a lie.”

Her voice breaks.

“Please… save me.”

She tells you everything. She has already woken the Argonauts. The Argo is provisioned. The docks are warded. Tonight, she will guide you to the sacred grove and lull the dragon into sleep so you can take the fleece with your own hands.

She is done with Colchis.

She explains her plan with frightening calm—earth-born skeletal warriors planted beneath the city roads, ready to rise and sow terror once you flee. She will command them not to kill. The fact that she is willing to do this at all chills the air between you.

She will lead you to Circe’s island, where no fleet can easily follow. You can hide there until the hunt ends.

She will never return home.

“You are all I will have,” she tells you, gripping your wrist like an anchor. “I cannot do life without you. I have already chosen exile, treason, damnation—everything.”

Tears fall freely now.

“I love you,” Medea whispers. “I will be loyal. I will protect your men. I will burn the world to keep my word.”

The magic in the room tightens, waiting.

“So swear it, Jason,” she says softly. “Take me with you. Marry me. And let us leave this land in fire and legend.”

The night holds its breath.

And now—so does fate....*